Mr. Jefferson's Party's Party

Sylvia felt the vibrations of the music rise through the wooden dance floor. The huge—and really very good—Big Band moved smoothly into what she realized was the last tune of the set, "Moon River." In fact, it was the last dance of the evening. She was glad she'd persuaded the band manager to show her his handwritten copy of his program and memorized the song order. The sound engulfed her.

Then she felt the long slender prick push against her. She reached down and used her two fingertips to open her pussy lips for him. She saw, as if detached from her body, her fingertips, glistening with red nail polish, guide the stiff red organ into her entrance. Tim groaned lustily. Sylvia felt him move into her vestibule, then hesitate. Then he shoved his cock deep into her without even a show of hesitation or gentleness. But it was fine. She was wet for him. It felt deep and good. He was irresistible, implacable, inevitable.

She looked into his penetrating, intoxicating green eyes. She opened up to him, pulling her legs back and open. She felt him move up on her. She considered how his eyes matched the tablecloth. Almost; not exactly. Her arms went up around his bony shoulders. She looked down and saw his cock pushing in and out of her, hiding then suddenly reappearing from her lush, wet, dark bush. She noticed how the blue veins stood out against the tight skin of his tanned rod. And how that contrasted with the white crotch of her panties. The panties he had pulled aside just a few minutes before.

Red, white and blue, she thought. The right colors for this election campaign. Candidate Stanton's predictably patriotic colors.

She liked the sight of Tim's skinny body and how it came to a tight V shape where his cock was fastened and sprang from his coiled black pubic hair. It glistened with sparkling beads of her love-dew. His long hair hung over her, making a kind of dark tent, occasionally tickling her face, her shoulders.

Tim was thrusting faster now. Her pussy responded, opening and lubricating. It was incongruous how the rhythm of his primal thrusts jarred with the romantic strains of the orchestra. After the first wave of lust, Sylvia was open, liquid and relaxing, and Tim was moving easily—too easily, seeking stimulating friction by riding higher, plunging deeper. Her excitement was increasing; but she knew orgasm was a long way off.

Instinctively, she moved her bottom up to meet his thrusts. Sylvia started groaning—he was so deep and hard. The tip of his prick touched the very end of her womb. It was immensely exciting. No one had ever gone in that far, not since she'd been doing this with John. No wonder the rumor of Tim's endowment had spread like wildfire among women in the music world. And from there, to the female circles of the Democratic Party. John was a big contributor. Now she was contributing her bit.

She moaned out loud and suddenly found Tim's hard hand, calloused from years of guitar practice, first with the Hi Jinx and now and more, successfully under John's direction, with the RatTaillz, pressing down over her mouth. She quieted. She contented herself with moving with his impatient thrusts and nibbling on his fingers.

A glitter of light from the ballroom chandelier made her look to one side. There was a narrow strip of brightness between the seam of the green tablecloth and the golden dance floor. Spots of light glittered briefly past her. Polished male dress shoes and dark suit trouser cuffs were gliding by. Suddenly, between thrusts, Sylvia caught site of her husband's Guccis sliding by. Mere inches away. As they came spinning by, she saw a pair of astonishingly red, astonishingly tall high heels entwined with his.

Now she grasped why it was an additional pleasure that she was fucking Tim! If John could make Tim the record label's biggest star, she could show John that she could get fucked by him. She looked down at her body. Yes, she once had once been John's trophy wife. Now, she thought, she had another role. But she didn't look so bad for 45 years old, two kids. No, not bad at all.

Tim mounted her higher, pushing his cock against the floor of her vagina. His breath came short and sharp now. She caught him staring at her bouncing, full, flowing breasts beneath her black lace bra. Then he looked back premeditatedly into her eyes. Thrusting. He was clearly getting excited. His eyes never left hers. It was a trick, she knew, many women fell for. Occasionally his curved prick rubbed against her clitoris. But it was so infrequent and so slippery wet that Sylvia's only stimulation was mental. And that was certainly enough. She gloried in the power she held over this man.

She heard his breathing speed up. She felt drops of his sweat fall on to her chest like jewels of fire. But she also heard the final measures of the song. She was running out of time! Her husband might not look for her right away. But he might. And she couldn't get caught here when the bellboys stripped the table. There was only one thing she could do.

A great number of things happened, in staccato. The final, drawn out strains of the sentimental song flew through the air. The romantically inclined squeezed their dance partners one more time. The last note faded. The well-heeled audience of corporate executives, lobbyists and governmental officials broke into noblesse oblige applause.

Sylvia wet her hand with her lips, then reached under Tim's crotch, and found his balls with her fingertips. She pressed his million-dollar spot as hard with her moistened fingers. Then she raised her other hand as high as the table bottom allowed. Down, down! She slapped Tim's gyrating ass as hard as she could. Simultaneously, she clamped down hard on his cock with her vaginal muscles—those strong, thick muscles she'd been training for so many long months. Tim's face contorted; his eyes inflated in surprise. The skinny male screamed with the sudden pleasure and the abrupt pain. He ejaculated ferociously, hard and deep in her. His head threw itself up in a reflex of ecstasy, astonishment and pain—and smashed it hard into the underside of the table. He collapsed on her.

Tim's weight was suffocating her. She felt warm wetness--blood was pouring from his scalp. She looked up to see redness dripping from a sharp metal bracket where the table's folding legs were stored. It reminded her of every ironing board she'd pinched her fingers on closing, especially in those early New York walk-up apartment days with John. For a fleeting moment she thought about filing a lawsuit against Acme Folding Tables for selling an unsafe product. New label warning: "Not to be used for fucking. Do not screw on or under this product." But then, she realized, she really had no cause of action. She wasn't hurt; Tim was. And he was in no condition to sue anybody right now.

Instantly Sylvia felt used, dirty and degraded. Tim's come was pooling in her vagina. This was how she imagined a real slut would feel. A tide of disgust overtook her. But Tim didn't care. He was motionless. Sylvia thought: nothing like three shots of whiskey, a line of white powder (only his was real), a sudden orgasm and a sharp bang on the head to put a rock freak out of business. Maybe rutting like a pig under a table made her a slut. She didn't know.

Still, she realized she was enjoying having a victory John couldn't match. And she had enjoyed the attention, not to mention the prick, of a younger man. A man who could fuck any eighteen year-old in the country—and did. "The 18-25 year old market segment," she thought wryly. "The one they love so much."

Sylvia pried Tim's legs from between her own and pushed the half-naked body off her. It moaned faintly. But Tim's eyelids remained classically closed. She pried open his mouth and slipped the pill under his tongue, then touched his lips with a finger as a mother might shush a naughty child.

Except for the terrible wrinkles in her skirt and blouse, there really wasn't much tidying up to do. She didn't even have to fumble with her bra. Tim hadn't bothered to unfasten it. In fact, he hadn't given her breasts much attention at all. Maybe he wasn't a breast man. Or perhaps he was so confident that she would give him her pussy without attention to them. Maybe that's way it was with all the girls. Nor had he needed to unzip her skirt. He'd simply pushed it up to her thighs, just far enough to reveal her panties and ascertain that he didn't have to deal with pantyhose. And his fingers, she remembered, had slipped aside her panty-crotch with a finger movement that had been all too deft, all too practiced.

Never mind. She found her purse, brushed her hair. She felt nauseous. Scrunching low under the table, she pulled out a lighted compact, touched up her lipstick. She knew she looked like she'd been through a dishwasher. Then she peeked out the wall side of the table. No one there. She grabbed the green dress jacket she'd recently used for a pillow and made her stealthy way through the "Stanton for President" streamers and balloons to the ladies' room.

No toilet paper left! Damned if it wasn't always like this at these kinds of parties! And no Tampax in the dispenser—even at the bathroom robbery of 50 cents a slug! Oh, well.

Minutes later she was walking through the thinning but still chatting, half-intoxicated crowd. They all wore red, white and blue "Stanford for President" buttons on jackets, lapels and hats.

She angled pertly up to John's side. He was talking earnestly with a middle-aged, very self-possessed Asian man. She remembered her marriage to John twenty years ago. His dark features were the same. Then, his hair had been jet black. He had looked, she remembered thinking, young and expensive. Now his head was sprinkled with grey. She examined his blue-black, four thousand dollar suit. It fit perfectly. Her eyes found a piece of lint, but she resisted plucking it from his lapel. Now, she decided, he looked old and expensive. But not less handsome.

The short Asian man was saying something, slightly accented, picking his words carefully. "…. once these rock guys drop on the far side—how do you American say it--of the power curve—yes, in the sales, the charts, there's no point in throwing money…" He shrugged pointedly.

"Yes, Hirono-san," replied John in silky-smooth agreement. "There's just no point. Throwing good money after bad—good promotion money we could be spending on new talent… growing the market and…" then he saw Sylvia.

"Oh Sylvia, I've missed you! "Here," he said, taking her politician-like, by the elbow. "Here, let me introduce my wife, Hirono-san," John said. "Hirono-san, this is my wife Sylvia. She's my secret weapon," he smiled, without a trace of condescension or irony.

She felt sticky wetness oozing out from her panties and begin a liquid trail down her leg. She pressed her legs even closer together.

"Sylvia, this is Kurybashi Hirono, my dear friend and partner." That was John-speak for 'a big customer'. "He is president of Progressive Music Division at Sony Entertainment." She looked down at the stocky, smiling, bespectacled Japanese. Also expensive, she thought. She wondered if twenty-five year-old Japanese women found him irresistible. Maybe short men gave better head. Tough guy, she thought. Probably a bit of a sadist in the sack. Maybe gay, like a lot of them. Of course, he could make a secretary into a star, as John had made a construction laborer named Bartholomew Timothy Smoleovitch a star…so…

"Mrs. Thompson," Hirono responded, "it is indeed…."

"Oh, please go on with your conversation, Mr. Hirono. As you know, I love the music business as much as John. You were saying something about…about…Sony needing new talent?" It was a bit intrusive to Japanese ears for a woman, she knew, but screw it, Sylvia thought. I've had as much to do with John's success as John himself, super agent or no super agent.

"Ah, yes, Miss Thompson," Hirono purred. Sylvia noticed the incorrect honorific and wondered if Hirono was trying to flatter her. In any event, it worked. Hirono looked back at John with steady, predatory eyes. "…New talent is always in demand in our business. The young audiences are a fickle lot!"

John was nodding sagely. "Fickle isn't the word!" said John.

Hirono smiled. Sylvia saw the flash of gold teeth on one side. "Don't you think these new lifetime contracts make it even harder for record labels to make money?"

John smiled back. Both of them knew John had pioneered lifetime contracts of labels with rock artists. It was one reason his client list was so long. "Fortunately," he said soothingly, putting his arm 'round the Japanese man's shoulders, "…or unfortunately, not many live to what you might call normal retirement age."

Hirono laughed. "Ha, ha! Mr. Thompson! I would be very interested in seeing the numbers on…that. Yes, the cost of life insurance for these folks certainly keeps climb…"

"Mommy! Mommy!" There was a scream.

"Mommy! Mommy!" There was another scream, even higher pitched.

Heads turned. But no head turned more quickly than Sylvia's. She instantly recognized her little boy Tanner, in little-boy lederhosen huge "Stanton For Kyds" button bouncing, running toward her. His face was white with terror. Close behind him was her little girl Jill, her bony legs pumping furiously under her red, white and blue party dress.

Sylvia collapsed to her knees, her arms outstretched. "What, what!" she cried. Tanner flung himself into her arms. Jill threw arms around John's pants leg. They were hysterical.

"It's a dead man! There's a dead man under that table!" He started crying wildly and clutching her ferociously, burying his head in her breasts.

"It's Tim Stone! Tim Stone!" shrieked Jill. A girl didn't have to be sixteen to have a poster of Tim Stone tacked to her bedroom wall.

"No, darling, I'm sure he's only sleeping," said Sylvia. In a rush she realized she'd nearly given herself away. She looked up reflexively.

But John and Hirono's attention was with the crowd that was surging nearer and nearer the green-covered table. Chaos reigned. Three portly hotel security guards imitated running toward the scene. Their reluctance to get involved in any policing was obvious.

Soon sirens shrieked, red police lights flashed and politicians scattered, not wanting to be associated with dead rock stars. "We left the fund-raiser early," they would want to say to reporters. "We're deeply saddened by the death of such a fine and popular artist."

John looked at Sylvia, then jerked his head toward the door. The stampede of glitterati was already starting. John grabbed Jill up in his powerful arms. Sylvia gripped Tanner by the wrist. By some miracle their black Town Car was waiting. John bolted in, crammed next to Julie, in her tight black dress and red shoes. He thrust Jill onto Julie's lap and scrunched over, cramming her against the far door. Sylvia piled in, a wailing Tanner, clutching at her.

* * *

Looking from her bed, past the drapes and through her hotel balcony window, Sylvia could see John dozing on a lounge chair by the pool. A two-month-old copy of Variety was folded over his face, shading him from the hot January sun. The headline was so huge Sylvia could read it easily: "Big Demo Win Means $$ 4 H'Wood." Men and women of various stages of age and beauty and various stages of dress and undress littered the pool deck. They looked bronze, languid and hot. Julie Stanton was there on a lounge chair, reading. Belly's not as flat as mine, thought Sylvia. Somebody should really tell her that she and bikini bottoms don't mix.

Sylvia was glad her room was air conditioned—not as easy to find in this part of the world as you might expect, even at these rates. She would make sure, she thought, that their new house would have working air conditioning—must talk to the general contractor about that. And a nice big vault for the checks. And Sony contracts.

Luiz' abrupt movement brought an end to that train of thought. God, did all these Latin guys have such fat cocks? He was bent over her back, his strong tan arms on either side of her. He was whispering something endearing in Portuguese into her ear. She felt her asshole tighten, then relax. Luiz pushed a bit further in. She groaned and buried her face down into her pillow. Luiz thrust a huge hotel pillow under her hips and bent even further forward over her. Sylvia felt his silver crucifix slap her backbone

Sylvia felt as if her lower body was about to explode. She was so relieved when he withdrew slightly. She knew he would come in again. Her ass was both begging for it and afraid of it. Hopefully he would use some… "Lubricato, lubricato," she whispered in pig-Portuguese.

She felt Luiz hesitate. Then she felt his cock release and her asshole close. She felt the cool liquid run into her. She hugged her pillow tighter to her head. She waited for his thick hot cock to enter her and start fucking her the way she liked it.

Then there was a burning sensation in her ass. She screamed. She looked up and back. Luiz was grinning. The whiskey glass in his hand was empty. The booze was running into her! In a flash she was utterly drunk. She gyrated wildly as the alcohol instantly hit her nervous system and brain. Her ass thrashed and twisted.

Luiz pumped hard. He started slapping her on the ass, both sides. She groaned and screamed. Fast images of herself in a kilt-patterned school uniform skirt flew through her whirling head. With astonishing clarity she saw herself on the green couch in her parents game room. It was the day she got even—no, outdid—her smarter, prettier, older sister. The day the basketball jock fucked her while the Doris Day rerun played. He'd held her crucifix necklace in his teeth while he did her. Blood on the couch. Blood on the carpet.

Then Luiz was bending over her, his two thick hands pulling on her swinging tits, massaging her nipples, hard. No, he was pinching them.

He slapped her again. She screamed and groaned. She thought, "What a bad girl I've been! I deserve to be spanked! I deserve it! I deserved to be fucked in the ass! So naughty-naughty-naughty-naughty!" Her brain spun her into an ecstasy of self-hatred. It built and built inside her alcohol-fogged completely uninhibited mind. "Harder!" she yelled. She deserved more pain and wanted more fucking. "Harder!" She hated herself even more. The harder Luiz thrust and the more it hurt, the more she liked it and the more she hated herself.

Faintly she perceived Luiz stiffening. Her nipples hurt wonderfully. Her body was all-consumed with his massive possession. He was going to come in her ass. And that was what she deserved. She looked back and saw his chest heaving and the end of his cock going into her. She felt a hand release her tit and saw it rise to slap her again. The sight of what was about to happen was exactly what she needed to put her over the orgasmic edge. "Aaahhhhhhhhhh," she screamed. Her vagina tightened and her ass gripped as she came for the fourth time that afternoon. "Ahhhhhhh! God! AHHHHHHHHH…….Yes, bad, bad, bad…Ohhhhhhohhhhhh. Lord God, have I been bad!" "God, I'll do anything you want, God! Ahhhhhhhhh!"

She collapsed shaking on the bed. Orange parrot and tropical flower motifs. It had been hard to come again. But it had been worth it.

Sylvia woke alone sometime later. She was alone. A breeze swept through the room from the balcony. A green bank receipt for twelve million dollars made out to JT Agents, P.C. in Arial Bold 12- point in the name of The Carolina Insurance Companies, Inc. fluttered onto the carpet.

It would pay for a lot of Luizes.