Chapter 64: Election results
The living room was a cave of amber light and deep, velvet shadows. Late afternoon sun, thick as honey, streamed through the sheer linen curtains, painting long, luminous rectangles across the distressed oak floor. It caught the swirling motes of dust in the air, particles that danced and spun in the silent currents of the house’s breathing. The hum of the large flat-screen television was a low, synthetic heartbeat, a news anchor’s polished, concern-tinted voice detailing voter turnout anomalies in three key swing states.
Selene knelt on the oversized, dove-grey sectional, her body a study in perfect, pliant offering. The cushions, worn soft from years of use and recent, vigorous activity, cradled her knees. Her back was arched, head lowered, her gaze not on the political pundits dissecting maps on screen, but on the dark, reflective void of the television’s glass when the image momentarily switched to a commercial. In that black mirror, she could see the blurred, rhythmic motion behind her.
Julian moved within her with the steady, metronomic patience of a tide.There was no frantic sprint toward a finish line he would not yet cross. This was a statement, a continuous affirmation of possession that matched the incremental crawl of election results. His hands, large and capable, spanned the generous flare of her hips, his thumbs digging into the dimples at the base of her spine. Each forward push of his pelvis was a deliberate, deep colonization, a slow burn that stretched her tender ring of muscle to its limit before surrendering to an even slower, deliciously cruel withdrawal.
“The Montana numbers are tightening,” Julian said, his voice relaxed, conversational, as if discussing the weather. His eyes were fixed on the screen, absorbing data, patterns, the subtle tells of the anchors trying to mask their surprise. His body, however, was fully, primally engaged with the woman before him. He watched the way her skin flushed a deeper rose where he gripped her, the way the sleek, shaved skin of her asshole clung to his retreating girth before accepting him back inside.
Selene moaned, a low, wanton sound that vibrated through her torso and into his. “Mmm… good,” she slurred, her mind split between the profound fullness in her core and the flickering images.“Riggs’s ad buys there… were smart. We nudged… the right PACs.” Her words hitched, broke, as he seated himself particularly deep, the broad crown of his cock applying a sweet, distant pressure to something deep in her belly.Her nails scrabbled against the velvety fabric of the couch.
“Nudged is a gentle word, mother,” Julian chuckled, the sound rich and dark. He released one of her hips, his hand sliding around her side, over the dramatic curve of her waist, to cup the heavy, pendulous weight of her breast. He took it in his hand, a possessive, tender kneading that made her cry out. His thumb brushed over the puckered, aching peak of her nipple, back and forth with a hypnotic rhythm that matched his strokes. “We redirected a river. We just let it look like nature.”
He increased his pace by a single, devastating degree. Not enough to shatter her composure, but enough to make her breath catch, to make the slick, rhythmic slap of their joining become a more pronounced counterpoint to the anchor’s drone. The television showed a graph, blue and red bars seesawing. Selene’s eyes, glazed with pleasure, watched their reflection in the screen—the powerful lines of his torso over her submission, his hand mauling her breast, the obscene joining hidden just below the frame. It was a more compelling image than any poll.
“They’re… they’re calling Virginia,” she panted, her head rolling back. Her blonde hair, usually perfect, was a tangled cascade over her shoulders.“Early.For him. That’s… oh, son, right there… that’s a bellwether.”
“It is,” Julian agreed, his voice tight with a focus that was both carnal and cerebral. He watched the county-level results flood in on the map, a splash of their candidate’s color spreading like a stain. His own internal map was of her body, of the heat and the tight, clenching resistance that was slowly, beautifully yielding to a smoother, wetter glide. The pre-coat from their lakeside ritual had long since been replaced by her own natural lubricant and the persistent, seeped evidence of his prior dominance. “The networks are cautious.But the trend is there. See how Fairfax is breaking?”
Selene didn’t see. Her vision was blurring at the edges, the political calculus melting into a simpler, more urgent arithmetic of thrust and reception. “All I see is you,” she whispered, the words a raw confession.“Using me.On the couch. While the world… shifts.” She pushed back against him, a demand for more, a plea for the same relentless, ownership. “Fuck your mother’s brains out, baby. Make her your stupid, fucking slut while you make a president.”
A dark smile touched Julian’s lips. He obliged, his hips pistoning now with more intent, the deep, rolling rhythm gaining a purposeful, driving force. The sound filled the room—the wet, rhythmic impact, her sharp, gulping cries, the rustle of the couch fabric protesting. He never took his eyes off the television, even as his body worked a brutal, loving punishment on hers. The duality was absolute: the strategist coldly assessing electoral votes, the demon in full command of his vessel.
“Florida’s still too close,” he muttered, his breath starting to come heavier. His hand on her breast tightened, his fingers leaving pale divots in her flushed skin.“They’re recounting Dade. They’re scared.”
“Screw them,” Selene gasped, her own political analysis reduced to its essence.“Let them be scared. You’re not scared. You’re here… deep in my ass… owning everything.” She reached one hand back, blindly grasping for his thigh, her fingers digging into the hard muscle. “Are you scared, Jules?”
“No, mother,” he said, and the word was a command, a title, and a caress all at once. He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her sweaty back, his mouth close to her ear. His thrusts became slower again, deeper, more probing, each one a deliberate exploration to the very root of her. “I have the only thing that matters.The rest is just… influence.”
For an hour, the dance continued. The sun completed its descent, the amber light fading to twilight, then to the cool blue glow of the television and a single Tiffany lamp Julian had switched on with a mental flick of will. The room was warm, humid with their exertion, smelling of sex, clean skin, and the faint, ozone-like crackle of their latent power.Empty glasses of water sat on coasters. A discarded sheaf of printed demographic data lay on the floor, kicked there in an earlier, more frenzied moment.
They changed positions only once. Julian pulled her back onto his lap on the couch, her back to his chest, his arms locked around her middle. He entered her from below, a slow, upward impalement that made her shriek and claw at his forearms. In this position, they both watched the screen, her head lolling on his shoulder, his chin resting on her crown. He could feel the frantic hammer of her heart against his encircling arm. He rocked up into her, a gentle, persistent rise and fall, while his hands splayed over the soft, quivering expanse of her belly, feeling the shape of himself moving inside her.
“Ohio,” he whispered into her hair as the map on the screen suddenly flooded with a definitive, unexpected crimson. “They just called Ohio.”
Selene trembled, a full-body shudder that clenched around him exquisitely. It wasn’t an orgasm, but a spasm of pure, dark triumph. “That’s it,” she breathed, her voice ragged.“That’s the ball game, son. They just don’t know it yet.”
The next forty minutes were a slow, inevitable coronation, both on screen and in the warm nest of the couch.Julian’s movements never ceased. He fucked her with a calm, celebratory assuredness, a victor claiming his spoils long before the formal announcement. The analysts’ voices climbed in pitch, confusion giving way to dawning shock. The graphics grew more frantic. The candidate’s rival, a man with a face like a clenched fist, was shown arriving at his headquarters, the smile on his lips not reaching his eyes.
Selene alternated between filthy, joyful praise and soft, loving murmurs. “Yes, my brilliant boy… you did it… fucking me and forging an empire… deeper, please… I want to feel you in my throat from the inside… your cock is a kingmaker, Jules…”
He would grunt in response, a wordless sound of agreement and exertion, his hands forever on her, mapping the territory of her body as the maps on screen solidified into a new political reality. His stamina was a well that did not run dry, a geyser of controlled power. He felt the massive, pressurized build of his release, a subterranean lake held in check by sheer will.He would not let it go. Not yet.This was the vigil, the sustained rite of their victory.
Then, at 11:37 PM Eastern, the major networks cut away simultaneously. The familiar seal of the election consortium filled the screen, followed by the grave, excited face of the senior anchor.
“We are now prepared to project,” the man said, the words weighty, historic, “that the winner of the presidential election, and the next President of the United States, will be Senator Charles Riggs.”
The room erupted. On screen, confetti exploded.Crowds roared. A jubilant, relieved Riggs appeared on a stage somewhere, his family beside him, his eyes scanning the crowd with a wonder that seemed genuine.
In the living room, there was only the sound of skin on skin, of ragged breathing.
Julian stopped moving.He was buried to the hilt inside Selene, a permanent claim. He held her there, impossibly full, utterly conquered, as the cheers from the television washed over them. He turned his head, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“Listen to that, mother,” he said, his voice a low rumble of absolute authority. “That’s our doing.”
Selene was crying, silent tears of profound, twisted joy tracing through her mascara. She nodded against his cheek, unable to speak.He withdrew from her in one long, slow, devastating slide. She whimpered at the loss, the sudden, aching emptiness. Before the sound had fully left her lips, he was moving, his hands on her, turning her in his lap. He guided her onto her back across the wide arm of the sectional, her head hanging slightly off the edge, her throat a long, pale column offered to the ceiling. Her violet eyes, bleary with tears and desire, looked up at him upside-down.
He stood from the couch, looking down at her displayed face, her gasping mouth, her tears tracing backward towards her hairline. The blue light of the victory broadcast played over her features.He didn’t say a word.He didn’t need to. The command was implicit in the set of his shoulders, in the dark fire in his eyes, in the thick, glistening length of his cock that stood at full, triumphant attention, curving slightly towards his navel.Selene understood. A fresh, different wave of submission crashed over her, mingling with the pride and the ache.The celebration would not be champagne and confetti.It would be this. The first raw sacrament of their new influence.
She opened her mouth, her tongue darting out to wet her lips, her eyes never leaving his.An invitation.A plea.
Julian took a step forward, his hand closing in her hair, not gently, positioning her head just so. On the television, President-elect Riggs began his victory speech, his voice soaring with hope and promises.
Julian Hartwell guided himself into his mother’s waiting mouth, and the speech became a distant, meaningless murmur, drowned out by the first deep, gag-less glide of a different kind of power taking its due.