Page 2 of The Senator

I cut Blaire off. “I’m not telling anyone, are you? Look, we won’t travel together. I’ll fly out on Saturday, and you can join me on Sunday. I’ll text all the details from my personal phone and make sure there’s a car to pick you up at the airport. I’m looking forward to this, Blaire, so please, make it work on your end. I’ve missed the fuck out of you.” It was my last-ditch effort to talk him into the trip.

I hoped to hell I was being convincing because I really wanted to see him. I wasn’t in love with Blaire Conner, but I was sure I could find myself there eventually if we continued to see each other as we had been.

“Okay, fine. I’ll do my best. Call me tomorrow. Be safe. Bye.” Blaire ended the call. Mario was standing to the side, holding off a few senators who wanted a piece of my ass for voting for/against their spending bill—which hadn’t gone according to their plan. Fool me once—fuck you.

I’d agreed to vote in favor of a joint resolution some members of the Senate had introduced regarding funding for an infrastructure project along the district boundaries on both the Virginia and Maryland sides. It would have improved the commute for many of my constituents who worked in the downtown area, and the Memorial, Key, Fourteenth Street, Purple Heart, and Wilson Bridges were all long overdue for an overhaul, which would have been included under the spending bill.

I was on board with it, even though it included a lot of pork—namely, an assload of money for a highway improvements project through the state capital of Georgia. I was backing it, even though I wasn’t keen after Senator Turner put his label on it, but there was still a lot of the bill worth passing, and I’d been rallying my fellow senators on the blue side of the aisle to support it as well.

All was going well until I saw a news clip where the senator from Georgia made some nasty comments about one of the out members of the House, calling him a “limp-wristed fruit fly” because the younger man had contributed to a competing bill in the House that would also include laptops and hot spot devices for children in the low-income parts of DC.

The House bill was a solid piece of legislation, and it would do a lot for education in and around the district while only siphoning off a small percentage of the infrastructure funds to underwrite it—namely, some of the money that would go to Georgia for its bloated highway spending project. All things considered, I had no problem supporting the House bill when it came over to the Senate, and I’d pulled my support from the Senate bill, much to the disappointment of a few Senators—and that was putting it mildly.

Once I slid my phone into my pocket, it was game on. Senator Frank Turner, Republican from Georgia, raced over, his face as red as his tie. We’d worked across the aisle on a few pieces of legislation dealing with the federal tax rates on capital gains and income equality. For being a staunch conservative, the man had a few liberal tendencies I could respect, and I found myself liking him most days. That particular day was not to be one of them.

“Senator Brady, I thought you and I had struck a deal on that bill. I’ve always known you to be a man of your word,” Turner snapped, his anger on full display.

The corridor outside the chamber was suddenly quiet, and I imagined every Gossipy Gertie taking careful notes about the interaction. I glanced to my right to see Mario with his usual worried expression, so for his sake alone, I vowed to keep my temper in check.

I was running for re-election, so I’d been on my best behavior and minded my manners, but when I’d seen the sound bite of Turner and his comment about the new junior representative from North Carolina, Benjamin Hoffman, I lost my shit.

Maybe it was because I was so deep in the closet that I couldn’t find my way out with Alexa and Siri’s help, but the young guy was recently elected because the senior congressman had left under somewhat dubious circumstances. Congressman Benjamin Hoffman handily beat his opponent in a special election, and he was a fellow Democrat, who had an impressive record in a mostly conservative North Carolina.

Congressman Hoffman had spearheaded a pushback of North Carolina’s infamous “Bathroom Bill,” which banned trans persons from using the restroom of their current gender, forcing them to use the restroom assigned at birth. I might have been lying about who I really was, but I was still supportive of my fellow members of the LGBTQ+ community.

Ben’s ability to effectively serve North Carolina in the U.S. House of Representatives had nothing to do with being married to a man. From everything I’d heard, Raleigh Wallace worked in DC for a New York security company, Golden Elite Associates, and the man was effective at his job. Turner would be smart to steer clear of Mr. Wallace. I’d seen the man at a Fourth of July function once, and he was the size of a brick shithouse.

“Yes, Senator Turner, we had a deal. That was, until I saw you on television, bad-mouthing one of the junior congressmen for supporting competing legislation instead of pushing your bill in the House. Derisive language against anyone is reprehensible, but against a fellow member of Congress, who is still learning the ropes and looking out for the underprivileged, is bullying at its worst.

“If he’d have backed your bill, you’d be telling everyone what a breath of fresh air Congressman Hoffman is in the House, and how much you look forward to watching his career grow. Instead, you’re putting another nail in the wall between our parties.”

The more I spoke, the redder his face turned. I hoped to hell the old blowhard didn’t have a stroke right there. That wouldn’t be a good look for me any way you framed it.

I wasn’t done talking, though. “And to think, I believed you to be one of the standouts who supported bipartisanship when it came to legislation benefitting the citizens of our great nation. Now, I stand corrected.” It felt good to get it off my chest.

Turner was the epitome of a pompous southern politician, what with his potbelly that hung over his belt and a cigar in the pocket of his shirt. The way he rode roughshod over his staff was legendary in the Russell Office Building. I’d heard the stories myself for the two terms I’d been in office. Thankfully, my staff seemed to like me and worked hard to promote our agenda, not just use me to pad their resumes.

“That snot-nosed little bastard has no business in Congress. I’d have blackballed him if he was a member of my party. No faggot should ever…” Turner trailed off as I turned and walked away.

I wasn’t about to listen to his bullshit. I had a vacation to plan with a guy I enjoyed spending time with, and no bigoted asshole was going to spout venom to taint it.

“Come on, Spence. The beach is private. Nobody will see us.” Blaire demanded as we made our way outside the villa I’d rented and onto the private beach. Blaire wanted to fuck outside, and I was so dick whipped by him, I complied without a second thought.

We were at Jumby Bay Island, a beautiful private resort community in Antigua, and our accommodations happened to have a hammock strung between two curved palms near the shoreline. Blaire said he wanted to ride me in the hammock, and while I was worried about the laws of gravity, seeing the beautiful look of pleasure on his face made the decision for me— as perilous as it might be.

I pulled my shorts down enough to release my hard prick, but the way the hammock was strung between the trees, there was no way one of us wasn’t going to fall off and break his neck, or something more important.

When Blaire started to climb on, I stopped him. “Babe, we’re about one swing away from an ambulance ride. How about you lie crossways, sex swing style, with that gorgeous asshole in the air, and I’ll keep my feet on the ground.” He stepped back so I could haul myself out of the swinging death trap.

Once I was up, I helped him on, and I knelt, burying my face in his delectable ass. He’d arrived midafternoon, but he had a few reports to file before he was officially off the clock, so I worked in the study to give him space and privacy. It wouldn’t do for anyone to recognize me lurking in the background while he had Zoom meetings with his colleagues back in DC.

As I spread his cheeks, I spit in his crack, and that pink star lured me in. Without hesitation, I swirled my tongue around his hole, enjoying the sounds he made as they echoed off the water.

I reached into the pocket of my shorts for the lube and condom I’d grabbed on the way outside, and in my haste to bury myself in his ass, my swim shorts fell around my ankles. Thankfully, it was a private beach, so nobody would see my forty-five-year-old white ass. The sun burned overhead, but I was looking forward to a weeklong fuck-a-thon, and I couldn’t wait to get started.

Blaire had been away on assignment, reporting on recovery efforts from a category-two hurricane, Stanislav, which had made landfall in Newport News, Virginia, in mid-July. We’d seen each other there briefly when I’d toured the damage with the Governor and my fellow senator from Virginia, John Buford, another card-carrying bigoted southerner. Due to the fact it was a day trip, I didn’t even get to speak to Blaire, so I was eager to reconnect.

“I’m ready.” Blaire’s breathy voice was my signal to pounce. I slid the condom down my cock and slicked his hole and then myself. I pulled his hips forward so his legs were hanging off the hammock, and I pushed my way inside until I was fully seated, both of us gasping at the feeling of being together again. I slowly slid out halfway and pushed back in, beginning a steady pace in pursuit of bliss for both of us.

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