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Political Biography


The relief I felt when he repositioned himself on top of me was short lived, as I gasped and grabbed onto the log bar of the double bed's headboard in the cabin when he thrust inside me again, hard, thick, deep, and resumed the slow, rhythmic mining of my channel. I'd never been done in reverse like this before, me stretched out on my belly, raised slightly on my knees, my hands curled under the log above my head, while, his buttocks to mine, grasping my ankles in his fists, and leveraging his feet off the same log headboard, he did pushups on my ass. I took him deep, gasping at each thrust. Most men would have had trouble achieving depth in this position. Not this cowboy.

The man had to be twice my age, but he was tall, muscular, and solidly built in keeping with what must be a taxing life as a rancher fifty miles west into the tumbleweed from Cheyenne, Wyoming. Once he'd changed to this position, coming after we'd sucked each other erect, I'd ridden his cock the first time as he sat in a chair, and he'd missionary fucked me on his bed, he made quick work of coming. I'd already shot my wad earlier, but I managed to come weakly with him at his initial climax.

How had he known that I could so easily lay down for him?

Cameron Olson climbed off me, rolling the spent condom off his dick and pivoting slightly to make a three-point toss of it into a trash can on the other side of the nightstand, patted me on the buttocks with a "Good job" comment, and sauntered off to the bathroom attached to the single bedroom of the log cabin he called the ranch house.

"Stay there. I'm gonna spike you again," he tossed over his shoulder. Just like he knew I was so submissive that I'd just lie here and wait for him to mount me again. I turned over onto my back on the bed and opened and spread my legs, ready for him when he came back.

Panting slightly and looking down the full length of my naked body, I watched him go, 240 pounds of six-foot-four hard muscle, veins popping out on sinewy arms, torso, and legs, as there was no layer of fat in which they could hide. The nut brown tan of his torso stood out in stark contrast to the whiteness of his pelvis and legs and accentuated that he was hung. He obviously worked outside shirtless a lot. By my calculations, he had to be in his early fifties, but one would not have known that from how well he was built. Maybe there was gray to be seen salting his reddish chest hair, but the buzz cut on his head made it hard to discern there. His bush and pits showed the reddish-auburn of his earlier life, when he was a jet pilot. Cattle ranching had obviously been good for his body, though. It had favored his libido too. The thrust had been strong, the stamina that of a much younger man. He still was half hard as I watched him move to the bathroom.

I moaned and reached for my cock, shaking it, the mere thought of his domination and self-confidence, of him inside me, making it go hard again.

The mystery was how he'd gotten my legs open and his cock inside me as easily as he had. I wasn't exactly promiscuous—at least that I showed to the world. I didn't dress gay or anything or have that mincing walk. I didn't have piercings or wear any signaling jewelry or anything. I hid my preferences well—or so I thought. But he had come on to me from the beginning. Now that I thought about it, he was playing me even when I called him, first from Washington, D.C., and more recently from Cheyenne, to set up this interview. It was as if he'd known I could be had. I'd had to send him my photo so he knew it was me when I arrived. He must have liked what he saw.

I was here because I had sensed some reticence in General Stowell's willingness to talk about the Air Force Academy years of his life, and I thought this man, Cameron Olson, could provide some background and color. Before I knew it, though, it wasn't him revealing much to me, but, rather, me revealing to him that I would take cock.

It had come out of the blue when I wasn't expecting it. "You look like you want it bad. You're gonna love my cock," he had said. He had put his coffee cup down, risen from his chair, and brought me up from mine. He then immediately went to town on me. And he'd been right. I loved his cock. I lay there on the bed, listening to the sounds from the bathroom, impatient for him to return to me.

I was working at calming my breathing as he came out of the bathroom, still naked, now standing full frontal to me and causing me to moan at the mature beauty of his powerful body. Just a few minutes earlier, I'd had that cock inside me. How had I managed it? With great pleasure-pain, I had to admit. It had been some time since I'd been covered by a man as strong, filling, self-confident, inventive, and experienced as he was. With no small amount of guilt, I wondered if he had been putting me on for his own amusement—to make clear how much he dominated me. I wondered if he really would come back to bed and do me again. He was still half erect.

"Coffee will be ready in ten," he said, showing a gleaming white-toothed smile in a craggy, but ruggedly handsome tanned and wind-etched face. "Black or ruined?"

"Black will be fine," I answered with a groan, still sore from the workout he'd given me, not wanting to show my disappointment that he wasn't climbing back onto the bed and on top of me.

"I'll be in the kitchen." He laughed. I got the joke. Other than this bedroom and a bathroom, the entire cabin was one large living-dining-kitchen area. "Bring your notebook and recorder with you," he said, as he shoved off from where he'd been leaning against the bathroom doorframe. "I'll dish the dirt on Bobbie there." He sauntered out of the bedroom, fully in command—certainly fully in control of me. He still was naked.

I groaned as I sat up on the side of the bed. I reached over to the nightstand for support as I stood up. My hand brushed the small pile of condom packets there. I felt the chill of the thrill of thinking he'd do me again. I wanted him to do me again. But then I shook the thought out of my head. I was here to interview him—to pull background information out of him that would help me in my writing, that would help me in understanding the man, General Robert Stowell, secretary of Homeland Security, and maybe a candidate in the next presidential election, that would help me write his political biography in time for that campaign.

This interview wasn't about me. My instincts had told me that there would be something significant in the general's years at the Air Force Academy that would give me a hook in writing about his character and the influences on his life. Stowell hadn't asked me to come here. I'd decided myself that I needed to make this trip. The general had only mentioned Olson in passing. I hadn't had any idea what to expect. Finding a Zeus-like hunk who was sexy as hell, randy, and sure of himself with me wasn't what I imagined I'd find at this ranch outside Cheyenne.

But, fuck, I wanted Olson to do me again. I pulled my trousers on and stumbled for the bathroom. God, my channel was sore—but in a good way. A highly memorable way. And gaping open; I didn't remember having ever been this opened—and still throbbing—before.

"Are you sure?" He said, standing at the kitchen counter, with a coffee pot in his hand—and looking oh so sexy and capable.

"Sure of what?" That I want you to fuck me again? Fuck, yes. But I didn't say that last part out loud. I sat in a chair at his kitchen table, turning it sideways to the table top so that I could face him directly where he stood leaning his butt into the kitchen counter. My hand went down beside where I'd put my notebook, recorder, and pen, and I felt a small stack of condom packets. God, did he salt them around everywhere in the cabin for convenience sake? I felt myself going hard again.

"That you take it black?"

Take it black? I thought. Why did the image of Robert Stowell rear up in my head? Because the general was black and appeared to be as built at this rancher? And they knew each other? I was going giddy. But there was reason in the back of that—why I here, the rumors I'd heard about these two at the Air Force Academy.

"Your coffee. You're sure you take it black?" Olson repeated. He was giving me a little grin. He knew he had me off center. He'd known, for some reason, that he had me as soon as I had entered his cabin—probably as soon as I talked to him on the phone and was all pleading and such to get him to agree to the interview. Everything he'd done and said from that point had been focused on getting me into his bed and his dick inside me. And I'd given in to him, passively, submissively. And I wanted him to spike me again.

"Yes, that's fine," I answered. I cleared my throat as he poured the coffee, coming close enough to me, in his nakedness, for me to tremble. "I understand that you knew General Stowell at the Air Force Academy—that you were on the football team there with him. That the team did well in those years." I reached over to turn on my recorder, but his hand covered mine and moved it to beside the recorder—to lay on top of the condom packets. He was standing close to me, his half-hard dick touching my cheek.

"Yes, we were on the same football team. We also were roommates for the last two years. I've got a lot to tell you, if you want to hear it. But you don't want to turn on the recorder yet."

"I don't?" I asked dumbly.

"No, you want me to fuck you again first." He put the coffee pot down on a pad on the table, took his cock in his hand, and rubbed the shaft against my cheek, I instinctively turned my head and took his cock into my mouth.

He made me slit the condom packet open and roll the rubber on his shaft. He crouched down in front of me, sliding his thighs under mine so that he was sitting on the chair too, facing me, and I was in his lap. The chair legs did a staccato beat on the bare wooden floor as we ground our bodies together in the fuck. His arms went around me, his fists clasping at the back of the chair, and he buried his face in my neck and sucked on my throbbing vein there as he humped me.

Eventually, he pulled me up, pushed me belly to kitchen table top and grasped my wrists, forcing my arms over my head, my palms pressed to the table, while he pounded my ass into glorious submission. I lifted my head and focused my eyes across the room to the fire he already had going in the fireplace. My jaw was slack, my panting heavy, my head bobbing up and down in consort with his deep thrusts up into my channel. I was in ninth heaven, every nerve in my body concentrated on the friction of the hard, latex-sheathed rod sliding in and out of my ass.

He let loose of my wrists, and I grasped the far edge of the table top to hold myself in place, while his hands went everywhere on my torso and ended up grasping my waist and pulling my hips hard toward him with each strong thrust inside me. From his repeated mutterings of "Fuck, yes," "Give it to me," and "Tight and sweat; just how I like it," I knew that he was dancing on the clouds too. That made it all the more pleasurable for me—made the hugeness and cruelty of his cock all the easier to take, more the center of worship.

I took up the cry of "Give it to me! Punish me! Shaft me! Put me to the sword!" He laughed and complied.

I had to take a wide stance to handle the thickness of him; my eyes were watering and I was babbling from the length of him. My legs felt like rubber and I would have sunk to the floor, if I hadn't been held in place by the solid bulk of him, my chest rubbing on the rough kitchen table top from the relentless powerful thrusts of him. I was sobbing from his strength, stamina, and expert swordsmanship.

"This is what you want," he growled. It was a statement. "This is what you came for."

"Yes, this is what I want," I whimpered. I'd had no idea that this was what I'd come for, but I would not complain that this was what I got. He had worked me into position expertly and was taking skillful care of all the wants I hadn't admitted to myself that I had. "Yes . . . this is . . . what I want," I repeated, stuttering it out in rhythm to his thrusts.

When I left the cabin the next morning to fly back to Washington, I was hobbling and humming. I also was filled to the brim with "color" for my biography, although there was very little that I could use in the book. I also understood why General Stowell had played down the Air Force Academy part of his life.

* * * *

"You weren't answering your phone last week, Kevin," the general said, turning to me in the backseat of the black Escalade and giving me a piercing look from underneath his bushy eyebrows. It was as if he could look right into me and know everything I knew.

I didn't want him to know everything I now knew about him.

We were gliding down a dirt track, the trees meeting over our heads, a black Escalade in front of us and another one in back of us. The men in both of those SUVs were armed, submachine guns butted into their thighs, the barrels pointing to the ceilings of the vehicles, their eyes darting everywhere, ready for anything. Two men were in the front seat of this vehicle. A driver and Jacks, Stowell's burly personal bodyguard, the most macho of all of them—built like a tank; a Marine buzz cut; young, not much older than I was; Army recruiting film handsome; and clearly devoted to the general. He too had a submachine gun at the ready.

We had entered the Marine training base at Parris Island, South Carolina, and were still driving through the thick forest, toward, I assumed, the seafront. Stowell had told me to bring a swim suit—"and bring all of your notes thus far," he had added. "You only have the one set of notes, don't you, as I instructed," he tacked on.

"Yes sir, just the one set of notes," I squeaked back at him.

He'd also told me not to tell anyone else where I was going—not that I knew where I was going—or that I would be with him. That was something long drilled into me. The biography was to be a surprise. That Stowell would be running for office at all was to be a surprise. My part in this was to be totally nonexistent. I understood that from the beginning.

"I can make you disappear altogether," he said, "without a trace left behind." I believed him. He was the head of Homeland Security.

"I was doing some research on the book," I said. "Just getting a feel for the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs—nothing too deep." I didn't want to straight out lie to him. He could check on my airplane tickets. He was the fuckin' head of Homeland Security, for God's sake. I didn't think he'd check as far as the rental car I drove up into Wyoming from there.

I saw the armored Escalade in front of us veer off into a turnoff and come to a standstill. The men had bailed out of it before we'd gotten past it. The men already were deploying into the surrounding forest. I turned and looked behind us. The other Escalade had stopped too and the men were getting out of it. The vehicle we were in kept moving forward. It was just the four of us in one vehicle now. The trees weren't as dense. I was getting glimpses of the water edge of the base, open water beyond.

"Did you enjoy the attentions of Cam?" the general asked. I turned my head toward him. The thin smile on his lips was more of a sneer than a smile.

"Excuse me?" I said, a chill going up my spine.

"Cameron Olson. I assume he fucked you good."

He knew where I'd gone.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, General," I said, trying not to have it come out as a squeak. "I was just trying to fill in some information from your years at the Air Force Academy. I didn't want to bother you with details down in the weeds like that. Just background. Nothing need be—"

"So he told you how we hazed the new cadets—between us. How we fucked them like he fucked you. And how they begged for it and lay there and took it from us. The two of us doing them together. And never spoke of it after that. Because we told them not to. Because we were football stars. Because nobody with believe them over us."

"As I said, nothing needs be—" I was sweating. How did he know? Did he have eyes everywhere, even in Wyoming? Yes, of course he did. Yes, of course he did. He and Olson had coordinated on this before I went to Wyoming. That's why Olson was ready for me.

"No matter. I don't mind that you found out. I hope you enjoyed him. Cam told me he enjoyed you. I picked you out for him, you know. I knew you'd go there. I knew you'd easily submit to him. It's lonely on that ranch of his. I send him a gift of young tail now and then. It keeps him happy and quiet. Ah, here we are at the guest house."

He knew about me. I wondered before how he'd picked me to write his biography. I'd been at the Barnes and Noble in Tyson's Corner, signing books on my biography of Senator Paxton after a book talk and everything had gone quiet. I looked up and there he was—with his squad of goons around him. His smile had been more friendly then. He'd invited me for a drink after the signing, saying he had a proposition for me.

I was to write a political biography on him. He was thinking of taking a run for the White House and he needed a biography. He'd liked what I'd done for Senator Paxton. Would I be interested? Of course I was interested. If so, I'd have to do it in secret. I'd have to devote my time to him for a couple of months. I couldn't let anyone know what I was doing, who I was doing it for. Was I still interested?

Yes, God help me, I still was interested. And now, after seven weeks, he was telling me that he'd picked me because I'd let Senator Paxton fuck me? Not just fuck me, but dominate me. I'd worn a slip and lace panties for him. I'd let him bind me and whip me. And I'd let him plow me again and again. And I was stupid enough not to realize that the head of Homeland Security wouldn't have known that—not because of me certainly. I was a nobody. But he'd have been keeping tabs on Paxton.

The surprise was that he'd want something like that too.

I looked around in panic. I was isolated, on a Marine base, just me the general, his devoted bodyguard, and a driver. Jacks and the driver knew the general fucked men. He'd just openly talked about it with them sitting right there in the SUV, and they hadn't flinched. I'd get no help from either of them.

Up ahead of us was a wood farmhouse, sitting close to the water line. White with dark green shutters. Benign and inviting. The land jutted out into the cove, with water on three sides. There was land across the water in all directions, but it wasn't close. Buoys bobbed in a semicircle a couple of hundred yards out in the water. I was sure they were connected with nets that would signal any breach. There were ten men from the other two SUVs spread out, on watch, somewhere behind us in the forest. And we were on a closed fuckin' Marine base.

"Listen, general. If what you want . . . if you want me to—"

"I know I can. Whenever I want, and what I want." It was said with a low growl, but then his voice turned friendly. "Come, we have time for a swim before dinner," he said, as he and Jacks opened their doors and climbed out the Escalade. The driver stayed put. I hesitated as well.

"Come on up to the house, Kevin," Stowell said in a voice not to be ignored.

With a shudder and a sigh, I opened my door and climbed out. As soon as I was out of the vehicle, it moved off, back in the direction we came from. Now it was just me, the general, and the devoted bodyguard.

Stowell beckoned to me and I moved to beside him. A beefy hand went to my butt cheek, and he guided me forward, toward the house, with it. Jacks was carrying all of the luggage—three suitcases and my computer case and the briefcase with all of my book notes—and he was hefting it all without effort.

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