Page 92 of Tips and Trysts

She twists and her eyes find mine.

“I love every hole on your body,” I tell her. And then I list them: a full accounting of all eighteen of her beautiful piercings. I know them like I know my own body, and when I finish with, “I love your wet pussy and your tight little asshole,” she comes around my hand.

Her comedown is slow and easy. She practically melts, resting her head against my shoulder.

I never get to do aftercare, but tonight I wash her hair. I condition it. I soap her skin, taking my time on her asshole because I used it. I touch every part of her, even the spaces between her toes, and she’s heavy and sleepy in my arms the entire time.

When I put her into bed later, she asks again, “Will you fuck me, Everett?”

“Not tonight.”

Her disappointment comes out as a softhumph. “At least warm your cock in me while we sleep,” she urges before yawning.

So, I slide inside of her, wishing I could make love to her, but I’m content nevertheless: Cora Flores has let me in—literally and figuratively. I never, ever want to leave.

But as I’m drifting off to sleep, buried snugly inside her inimitable heat, I find myself stroking her damp hair and whispering three words that have been on my mind since the day she asked me not to lie:

Who hurt you?

Thirty

EVERETT

Cora and I areboth high achievers and the product of helicopter parents, so when we set out to do something, we do it. We do it spectacularly, without peer, in a way most people would deem unattainable.

Carrying on a forbidden relationship is no exception.

There’s no ramp up. There’s barely a learning curve. Really, it’s simple. I text her precise geo coordinate pins and times. No words—ever. Words are evidence. Words bear intent. Pins and times? Open to interpretation. Could be a slip of the thumb—software malfunction even—if our phone records were ever subpoenaed.

Cora and I both know their intent, however, and nothing is open to interpretation. When she receives a text, she meets me. No objections.

She deep throats me in a hotel bathroom near the White House. I eat her ass in the empty parking lot behind the Jefferson Memorial. She sits on my face on the floor of my old office at the EPA. And one day, when I’m feeling especially smugabout how good I am at avoiding a classic DC sex scandal, I book a room at the Watergate and make her come four times using a remote-controlled vibrator during my lunch hour.

I used to fuck like I did everything else: perfectly. My partners came, I came, and there wasn’t much to complain about. Fucking Cora is imperfectly perfect. It’s rough and unpredictable. Neither of us can anticipate what filth the other is going to say, and our hands often roam to the places they’ve never traveled before—and we go with it.

I call her a slut. A whore. My plaything. A hole for my cum. The degradation makes her—and me—come that much harder. Afterwards, I hold her. I lick the cum dripping from her nipples and out of her fucked pussy. I clean her before I send her back to the world. I tell her she’s perfect.

And every time, Cora gets a tip. The cash and jewelry always put this self-satisfied, wry smile on her face—like she knows how tightly I’m wrapped around her finger.

When we can’t meet for a secret tryst, I tell her to spend my money.Spend more, I text her most days.At this point, a whore like you should know what to do with money.

One day, she calls me after I text her (You can do better than two grand, princess), and before I can even say hello, she says: “I literally don’t know how to spend more. Do you want me to buy a plane ticket?”

I give her a resounding yes, so she calls my bluff and buys two tickets to Manila. I have a new set of luggage delivered to her condo the next day.

Spend more.

“What is your threshold for enough?” she asks after she shows me her new laptop (which prompted me to say,Surely you could have bought a faster processor, to which she responded,Surely you could save some audacity for the rest of us).

“When we’ve depleted my trust fund,” I answer honestly before I resume editing the pictures I took of me railing her in the Lyndon B. Johnson Memorial Grove on the Potomac.

The next day, she donates ten thousand dollars to a women’s shelter.

I match it.

And while she’s spending the money generations of Logans passed on to me, I’m still campaigning. After months spent poring over voter data, canvassing door to door, and hemorrhaging ad dollars, it’s abundantly, undeniably clear: I’m going to win.

Something unprecedented (maybe catastrophic) would have to happen for me to lose this election. The gravity of that realization hasn’t fully dawned on me yet.

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