Dexter the Photographer

TO THE READER: this story includes several characters from the series of Jason Garrett stories; however, this story is not part of that series.

Hi there. My name is Dexter Malcolm. I take pictures for a living.

I used to ruin - or sometimes improve - people's careers for a living. I would take photographs of them in particularly compromising positions, and then, when the time was right, release them to the general public. My biggest success - or failure, depending on how you choose to look at it - came in December of 2005, when I had only been doing this for a little over a year.

That summer, I had been in Malibu. It's a great place to go during the summer when you really want to screw people over. Anyway, one night at sunset, I had been walking down a fairly deserted part of the beach, and there, lo and behold, were Jennifer Garner and Ben Affleck, fucking like rabbits. Ever the opportunist, I hid myself pretty well, got out my digital camera with its amazing macro zoom, and started taking pictures. I took over 200 pictures of the two of them, ending with a spectacular cumshot on Jennifer's tits.

Larry Flynt, the original Sultan of Smut, paid me $100,000 for those pictures, and although Ben and Jennifer were both mighty pissed, since it took place on public property, there was nothing that they could really do - especially since I, the photographer, remained very anonymous. Not that it was necessarily a bad thing for them. Shortly thereafter, Jennifer Garner began commanding a good five million dollars per movie she did, when her highest paying film to date before that had beenElektra.

And my life has continued like that for the last fifteen years. I have a real job - I'm a photographer for USA Today. But I still like to do the photographs of people. I've made just over two million dollars in the last fifteen years doing this. It has allowed me to maintain a very comfortable lifestyle. Now, I'm not ostentatious about it - I drive a 1968 Mustang Shelby GT500, which while definitely an upscale car - and at 52 years old, a definite collectors item - is also definitely not a Ferrari 575. I maintain a very nice bachelor's pad in Hollywood - although, again, nothing too unbelievable. On top of that, I have managed to build a very sizable 401K.

It's now the year 2020, and we're embroiled in the midst of yet another presidential election. The Republican candidate is Ralph McLellan a preacher from Tennessee, and the Democratic candidate is Tara Martinson, congresswoman from California and chair of the House Oversight committee. At 35, she is the youngest member of the House to ever hold the chair of the Oversight committee, to which all the intelligence agencies report. She is also the youngest member in history of California's congressional delegation.

Tara Martinson is also a very popular politician. She had garnered endorsements from former presidents Bill Clinton and John McCain - presidents on both sides of the aisle. Rudolph Giuliani, former mayor of New York, had served as president since 2017, but health problems had brought him to the decision to not run for reelection.

Come September of 2020, I was racking my brains. Tara Martinson looked unbelievably familiar, and yet I could not place her face. Now granted, she was a congresswoman from my state, but I felt that I had seen her elsewhere, when she was much younger. Unfortunately, no matter how much I searched, I couldn't find anything about her that would make me understand that.

And then, one night, it hit me like a freight train.

I couldn't sleep late one Friday night in September, and so I pulled out my very first album of "incriminating photos". I opened it up to the first page -

And the visage of Tara Martinson stared back at me.

That's when it hit me. Tara Martinson had been the first person I had photographed, except, according to the photo, she was Tara Zelino at the time.

The pictures were labeled November 21^st, 2004. The photographs were of a massive orgy, of which Tara Martinson, neé Zelino, was the center. The other participants were listed as Kyle Czinowski, Anna Davis, Tyler Jacobsen, Jacob Martinson (of course, Tara's husband), Kevin Michaels, Faith O'Hare, Lee Troy, and Michelle Youngman.

The circumstances surrounding these photos had been phenomenal. Walking home from a nighttime class, I had walked past the apartment of an acquaintance of mine, Lee Troy, when I had heard noises that were definitely the sounds of sex coming from the apartment. The curtains to the front window were closed, but the back curtains were wide open. Vaulting the fence, I positioned myself underneath a bush behind his back door - it was the sliding glass type - that gave me and my digital camera a perfect view of what was going on inside. Unfortunately, most of my memory card was full, which left me with a limit of about fifty photos.

I used them wisely, catching the best of the action, including a double penetration, an almost bukkake-style group cumshot on Tara, and then the three females cleaning all the cum off of her with their tongues. And now, here were fifty pictures of the Democratic candidate for President of the United States in a massive orgy. Granted, she had only been nineteen at the time, but it was definitely her, and I knew that these pictures, if released to the public, would definitely turn the tide of popular opinion away from her... or, perhaps she'd be willing to have them go away forever.

Either way, I knew that I was going to get a shitload of money. There was a possibility that this would outdo the Garner-Affleck thing.

Going to congress.gov, I pulled up the "e-mail your member of Congress" form. Thinking about my options, I very carefully formulated my letter.

TO: xxx@ca.congress.gov

FROM: xxx@gmail.com

DATE: 9/27/20

SUBJECT: Important information regarding your election

BODY:

Congresswoman Martinson,

My name is Dexter Malcolm. You may recognize my name as a photographer for USA Today. What you may not know is that I was at Fresno State at the same time that you were. Bearing that in mind, I want you to think very carefully about the events of November 21^st, 2004. I want you to consider the impact that photographs of those events might have. Please call me at (714) 555-4092.

Sincerely,

Dexter Malcolm

Two days went by, then three. Then, on October 1^st, my phone rang, the display saying, "Caller unidentified."

I answered it. "Dexter Malcolm, USA Today."

"Mr. Malcolm," a voice came from the other end. "This is Tara Martinson. Yes, I definitely remember quite vividly the events of November 21^st, 2004. If there are photographs of said events, I would be most interested in making them disappear."

"There would definitely be a price," I replied.

"That can be negotiated," she said. "Once I see how many pictures there are, I can decide just how much they're worth to me. Do you know where the Warner Center Marriott is?"

"Woodland Hills," I replied. "Just north of the 101."

"Correct," she said. "I maintain a suite there at all times. Next Friday, October 9^th, come to room 1738 at 2:00 PM. Bring ALL the photos, and any negatives you may have. Do NOT be late."

Then she disconnected.

Hmmm, she was willing to negotiate. Negotiate, huh? Just the thought made my cock jump. Ever since seeing that orgy, I had wanted to fuck Tara Zelino like a drunk monkey, but had never been able to get close to her. Her boyfriend, the massive electrical engineer to whom she was now married, had always been around her, and I didn't dare mess with him - I was about half his size. Now, though, I might have a chance.

At 2:00 PM the following Friday, I stood outside the Bel Air Suite of the Warner Center Marriott and rang the doorbell. My briefcase was in my right hand, holding what might be worth a WHOLE lot.

A Secret Service agent answered the door. "Open the briefcase," he said. I complied. He ran a device over the contents, and then said, "Alright, it's clear. Please come in."

I entered. There, on a couch in the middle of the living area, was Congresswoman Tara Martinson. Yeah, she was sixteen years older than she had been in the pictures, but at 35 years of age, she was still an absolute knockout. On top of that, having two kids hadn't made her body sag at all - on the contrary, she was, simply put, a Super-MILF.

"Agent Woods," she said, "I'd appreciate it if you'd stay outside."

Without a word, the Secret Service agent stepped outside, shutting the door behind him.

"Mr. Malcolm," Tara said without preamble, "I think that this is a truly sleazy thing that you're doing. I find it repulsive that you would try to use something that I did in college, sixteen years ago, to derail my bid for the Presidency. Nonetheless, I don't see that I have a choice in the matter."

Pointing to my briefcase, she asked, "Are those the photos?"

"Yeah," I replied. I laid the briefcase on the table and opened it. I pulled out a folder, removed the photos, and spread them out on the table.

"Negatives?" she asked.

"There were none," I replied. "I used a digital camera."

She examined the photos. "Well, there would be no playing these off if they went public," she said crossly. "That's DEFINITELY me."

Turning to look at me, she asked, "How did you get these, anyway?"

"Lee Troy's back door," I replied. "The curtains were wide open, and I was able to get a great vantage point."

"You truly are a bastard," she said. "Is this something you do on a regular basis?"

"You remember the Jennifer Garner - Ben Affleck sex pics?" I asked.

Shaking her head, she turned away from me.

"Alright," she said. "How much do you want?"

"Um, well..." I said. How was I going to say this? "I always thought you were hot in school, and..."

"You have GOT to be kidding," she snapped, turning to face me. "You want to fuck me, don't you?"

"Uh..."

"Christ," she said resignedly. "Fourteen years ago, when Jacob and I got married, we decided to turn our relationship into a monogamous one. Since our wedding night, Jacob is the only man I've had sex with, and now I'm going to have to throw that out the window if I want to win the election next month."

I couldn't believe it. She was actually going to do this.

"Well, if we're going to do this, let's go," she said. "I have a four o'clock appointment in Thousand Oaks."

With that, she pulled off her top, followed by her skirt, and within twenty seconds, she was standing in the middle of the room, wearing only a black lace bra and a black thong.

"Wow," I said. "I've never even thought of a member of Congress wearing a thong."

"Well, don't be too surprised," she replied. "Rick Santorum - you remember him? - he was a closet crossdresser. Always had a pink thong on underneath his suit."

"Oh, that's disturbing," I replied. "I did not need to know that."

"Enough talking," she said. "If we're going to do this, let's do it."

Crossing to me, she undid my belt, jerked down my pants, and whipped out my cock. "Hmm," she said. "After sixteen years of Jacob and his ten inch cock, it looks a little small."

Okay, that was fucked up. I admit, at six and a half inches erect, I'm not exactly Thunder the Wonder Horse. Hell, I'm not even Thunder the Shetland Pony. Nonetheless, I've never had any complaints about it before. "Thanks," I said sarcastically. "Got any other bitchy comments?"

"Hey, let's not forget whose idea this was," she replied, equally caustic. "Now, I'm going to suck your cock, so this conversation is over."

With that, she took my entire length into her mouth. Oooh, that felt good. I all of a sudden stopped caring about the comment she had just made. Looking down, I watched her head of blonde hair bob up and down on my cock. At thirty-five, she was beginning to gray a little, and had a very small, but very sexy streak of white across the front of her hair. It looked great moving back and forth as my cock disappeared into and reappeared from her mouth.

Without warning, she stood up. Dropping her thong to the floor, she stepped out of it. "Okay," she said. "I'm done sucking your cock. Now, do what you came to do, and make it quick."

Well, I didn't need any more invitation than that. Turning her around, I bent her over the table in the middle of the room, and thrust my cock into her with one swift motion. Oh God, she felt good. Even after sixteen years of getting fucked by a ten inch cock, she was still tight, wet, and warm. And then...

What the fuck was that?! She had done some sort of ripple thing with her muscles. OH GOD. That felt amazing. With force, I began fucking her as hard as I could - in and out, in and out. She kept rippling her pussy up and down the length of my cock as I fucked her. It didn't take very long. "Oh God," I gasped. "I'm... I'm cumming!"

As I thrust into her, she suddenly gripped the base of my cock with her pussy muscles. They were more developed than I thought! I froze, and the pressure kept me from cumming. She continued doing the ripple, saying, "You are not cumming without me having cum!"

The pressure on my cock kept building up, but fortunately it wasn't long before she said, "Oh... oh, I'm cumming!"

She started to writhe, her pussy spasming. The pressure on the base of my cock was released, and I exploded. It felt like a grenade had exploded inside my scrotum and was now firing liquid shrapnel out the tip of my cock. I had never cum with such unbelievable force before, and there was so much of it that it started to leak out of her pussy around my cock.

Completely spent, I pulled out of her, and staggered back. She stood up, turned around and faced me. My cum ran out of her pussy, down her leg. Oh damn, but that was sexy. The next President of the United States, standing in front of me, bare ass naked, with my cum running out of her pussy.

"I believe our business here is done," she said. "But just to ENSURE that there is NEVER any talk of this..."

She removed the folder of pictures from my briefcase, and replaced it with a similar looking folder. "There is $80,000 in that folder," she said, shutting the briefcase. "The pictures are mine, and you will never speak of this incident. To anybody."

I had no problem with that. I had gotten to fuck Tara Martinson, and I was getting $80,000 as well! I dressed quickly. By the time I was ready to go, she had cleaned herself up a bit and was wearing a hotel bathrobe.

"You can leave now," she said. "I don't ever want to hear from you again."

I picked up my briefcase and walked out the door. As I walked past Agent Woods, though, he suddenly grabbed my arm, and with his free hand, slapped something cold and wet over my nose and mouth. I smelled something sweet... and then darkness.

Six hours later

My name is Dexter Malcolm. I just woke up in my apartment, and I have no idea how I got here. The last thing I remember, I was in Woodland Hills, but I don't remember why. My car is here, so I know that I wasn't in an accident. There's a problem, though. My memory seems to be incomplete - there are holes in my memory of the last couple of weeks. There's also a hole in my memory from about sixteen years ago - something happened when I was at Fresno State that I now do not remember.

The strangest thing is that about fifty pictures are missing from the front of my very first album. On top of that, there's $80,000 cash in my briefcase. I don't know how either of those things came to be. All I can assume is that I had pictures of somebody very powerful, and they were willing to pay me to make them go away, but at the same time, wanted me to have no memory of it. They would've had to be very, very powerful to do something like that... like, Presidential powerful.

But I had never seen President Giuliani in person before - that I remembered. As it was, everybody knew about his indiscretions - what difference would it make if I had pictures?

I guess I'll never know.