Scott Nicholson - Chronic fear

She purred and pressed his head forward, and he fought her for only a moment before yielding and letting his lips tug the soft folds into his mouth, where he alternately nibbled and licked until his chin was soaked with her juice. Her clitoris was swollen and he ran his tongue underneath it, lifting up hard before easing the pressure and taunting the tiny bud of sensitive flesh with delicate nudges.

Again he felt a compulsion to hurt her, to squeeze the tender flesh and hear her squeal in pain. But he recognized the urge and was able to beat it, backing off enough to vary his motion, silently cursing the contamination in his brain that had screwed up his thoughts until he barely knew love from hate. And he loved her. Loved her.

He repeated until she came, the fluids gushing in the sudden deluge that always caught him by surprise, though her trembling had heralded it. She moaned as the second release came, and he realized he’d have to change the sheets. But he’d promised her that he’d gladly change the sheets every day if he had to and never complain about such a wondrous gift as female ejaculation, even if it had only entered their sex lives after the Monkey House.

Seethe had opened something inside of her as well, an untapped reservoir, and he tried not to think about it. It was bad for his ego, and made him wonder what else she had bottled up.

Every four hours or else.

The e-mail swam before him and he fought off the memory, wanting nothing to distract him from one of his favorite moments, the feel of his wife’s powerless and uninhibited pulsing.

Fuck you, whoever you are. You’re not allowed in here. This is private.

Taking advantage of her spread legs, he wiggled up and ran his erection along her leg, annoyed that he’d softened a little at the memory of the message. He wasn’t David Underwood. He was Roland Doyle, and he was married to Wendy Leng, the woman he was about to penetrate or die trying.

Wendy had other ideas, though, and she shoved him hard on the shoulder, pushing until he rolled and she had him pinned on his back. She leaned over and gave him a breast and he took it as she rubbed her slick bottom against him. With the weak moon coming through the curtains, he could only see her dim outline, but her face was as clear to him as anything in this life.

And her dark eyes were full of love, sacrifice, vulnerability, exposure, surrender, and conquest as she reached down with one hand and guided him inside.

“Ah, yesssss,” she said as he hit home, and she slid along the turgid length until he was almost buried inside. She pulled up agonizingly slowly and then repeated the descent, squeezing her vaginal muscles to massage him as she made the mad ride back down. When she was close to bottoming out, she wriggled and quivered until she took the last inch, releasing another gush that wet his testicles.

I’m going to have to wash the comforter, too. Awesome.

He was momentarily distracted by the image of blood gushing out of her, binding them where their flesh met, the ultimate proof of love. He pushed the vision away. Because he still loved her.

Don’t I?

She worked up and down, then swayed side to side to make sure he touched every secret part of her, the tips of her hair feathering against his face. He grabbed her hips as the need took him, and he thrust as he shoved down on her waist. A wet slapping filled the bedroom Sebastian Briggs fucking her in the Monkey House His jealousy and rage made a perverse transition into sexual energy, and he felt himself swell even more.

“Yes,” she urged. “Drill me hard.”

Which was odd, since she was the one driving the train, but who was he to argue with such a command? He assisted her frantic pummeling, the friction increasing. And then the change occurred, the one recurring hiccup to his innocent desire.

The lust merged into fear and rage and he clutched her hair, not hard enough to hurt, not yet-he still loved her-though he wanted badly to yank until her neck snapped back.

The madness came back as strongly as it had in the Monkey House, when he’d killed Sebastian Briggs. He’d told himself it was self-defense, an involuntary reaction, but honesty was a hard, hot edge of a knife that pressed against the thin fabric of every deception.

He’d killed Briggs because Briggs had seduced Wendy.

Even though she had no recollection of her surrender-however involuntary-he couldn’t bury it, and the only way he could defeat it each time was to become a little like the monster Briggs had wanted him to be.

As he plunged upward, his hips slapping against her moist bottom, he curled his hand into a claw and grabbed the back of her neck, forcing her shoulders down.

And she responded with her own inner sickness, exploding yet again, and this time he joined her, the fervid volcano of his demented passion driving deep into her soft and hidden self.

As they relaxed, grinding together to squeeze out the last drops of joy and shame, Roland couldn’t help but feel that Briggs was getting the last laugh from the safe comfort of the grave.

“I thought we’d buried them,” Senator Daniel Burchfield said. He adjusted his tie in the mirror, brushing some of the powder from his cheek. “Goddamned makeup. I want to look smooth, not like the corpse of a French mime.”

Wallace Forsyth looked around the small dressing room. He didn’t trust these cable news outlets. They were in the business of catching people with their pants down, looking for the gaffes that would feed the cycle until the next natural disaster, shooting spree, or Lindsay Lohan arrest.

“Is the room clean?” Forsyth asked.

“Abernethy went over it himself. But you don’t need a bug to eavesdrop, Wallace. We’ve got stuff that can pick up a conversation through the carpet if necessary.”

Forsyth looked down at the floor, which was covered in shiny vinyl. The tip of one leather Oxford was scuffed and he rubbed it against his pants leg. “You say ‘we’ like you know who is on whose side.”

“Everybody’s on my side,” Burchfield said. “Some of them just don’t know it yet.”

Satisfied with his reflection, Burchfield turned to face Forsyth. “We did everything we promised,” he said. “We leveled the Monkey House, sold that ‘limited contamination’ story in the press, hid the bodies, and pretty much let everybody else go on with their lives.”

“Even though they might snitch you out?”

“You’ve been reading too many spy novels, Wallace. Most people aren’t looking for intrigue or danger. Most people are scared as crap that they’re going to be noticed. Then they’d have to act like their job is vital, that they don’t cheat on their taxes, and that they know all the words to the Pledge of Allegiance.”

“Have you ever considered, Daniel, that you’re far too cynical to be the president of the United States of America?”

“Yes, I’ve considered it. But they say if you scratch a cynic, you find a frustrated idealist. And, I confess, I am idealistic. I love this country. I still think we’re the best in the world, and that we have a sacred duty to shape the future.”

“‘Sacred duty’? Sounds like you’re starting to cater to my crowd.” Forsyth smiled inwardly.

“Don’t worry, Wallace. Federal support of religious non-profit groups is a done deal. And it won’t even be a fight. I’ve already got a nod from the House leader.”

“You’re assuming the Republicans will control the House next year?”

“Change is in the air. Change is always in the air during troubled times.”

“Some would say your actions have helped make them troubled.” Forsyth knew the devil’s hand was involved, but Burchfield wasn’t as true of a believer as he played it in public.