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Tuesday, November 15, 2016

Something I've been working on...

Here's the original story, for those interested in how it turns out without having to wait for me to finish:

Posted by Menagerie on July 10, 2004 at 08:52:21:
HAIL TO THE CHIEF
The governor blinked his eyes. “How much?” he asked, his voice cracking.
“Twenty-five million dollars,” repeated the handsome young aide. “Two hundred
fifty contributors…a hundred thousand dollars a plate.”
The governor swallowed, looked nervous. “I don’t know, Dave…isn’t there a
campaign law against that, or something?” The two of them were alone in the
spacious Presidential Suite of the downtown Hilton. Over an overstuffed sofa, a
huge picture window looked out over a teeming metropolis; skyscrapers plunged
like needles into the gray late-winter sky.
“We’re covered, sir,” the aide responded confidently. “Each contributor will
have one hundred checks, each one made out to the PAC in the sum of one thousand
dollars.”
The governor thought about it. That damn senator and the publishing heir were
pushing him to the wall; his big early lead had evaporated and the primaries had
turned into a real horse race. All the talk about his wild early days, the
revelations over how he’d gotten into grad school and how he’d stayed out of the
war. And twenty-five million dollars…“Will the press be invited?”
“Absolutely not,” Dave assured him; then, adding with a wink, “Except for a few
close friends.”
The governor shook his head. “And you think all of these people will pay a
hundred thousand dollars apiece, just to have dinner with me? The food had
better be something special.”
“Oh, it will be, sir,” grinned the aide, “and so will the entertainment.”
Deb gasped. “The governor’s reception? Us?”
The three sorority girls, campus volunteers for the campaign, were in the
governor’s state headquarters. The eyes of blonde, big-titted Sue widened as she
clasped her hands over her mouth. Gorgeous, shapely Sandy couldn’t talk, could
only make a high-pitched “eeeeee” sound as her apple cheeks popped out, framing
a silly grin. Deb, the president of the governor’s campus support club, stayed
down to earth. “What will we have to do, Dave?” she asked the slim young man
behind the desk.
“You’ll get your directions when you arrive,” said the governor’s aide. “Wear
something appealing,” he went on, winking at the three young women. “There’ll be
a lot of older guys there, leaders of business and industry, who really want the
Party to elect the next President, but aren’t sold on the governor, not yet; we
want to convince them.”
“Do we have to do something slutty?” Sue pouted; Dave eyed her jugs as they
danced under Sue’s fuzzy pink sweater. “No, no, not at all,” he said, his
attention still riveted on those tantalizing teats. “The point is, we’re trying
to convince them that the governor has the backing of wholesome young people
like yourselves. This campaign is all about character, after all.”
“Will we get to meet him?” asked Sandy breathlessly.
“You bet,” he said, smiling. “Up close and personal.”
The sophomore clenched both fists, closed her eyes and grinned. “Yes yes yes yes
yessss!” she exclaimed. The other girls groaned; Sandy had a lifesize picture of
the governor in her room at the House. “He’s such a hunk!” she babbled on.
“Meet me at the entrance to the hotel ballroom at 5:30, ladies; you’ll get your
assignments then,” said Dave, standing as a cue for them to vamoose; they
clambered out of the rented office chairs, still exhilarated at the news. “Deb,”
he added, “could you stay a moment, please? I want to discuss the campus
recruiting drive…”
The “discussion,” a few minutes after Sue and Sandy had left, was one-sided; Deb
was on her knees, her mouth full of Dave’s cock. “I figured you’d like this
news,” grunted the governor’s right-hand man, as the pretty, freckled junior
massaged his organ with her tongue and took him in further, repeatedly sucking
and then relaxing, her lips firm around him. Christ, she thought, what I do for
my political future.
“Haven’t been to one of these in many a moon, Fred,” said the aerospace company
CEO, waiting at the elevator. “Thought they’d gone out of style.”
“Not since ’88,” agreed the shipbuilding magnate. “Now, that was a blowout! Know
anything about the entertainment?”
The CEO put his hands in his pockets, rocked back and forth. “Heard it’s local.”
“Hummph,” said Fred. “Too bad. Remember the rock star?”
He did. “She sure could scream. Evening, ladies.”
The three sorority girls had arrived, dressed in a way that would elicit
wolf-whistles from aging businessmen. The CEO eyed Sue’s plunging neckline; Fred
examined Sandy’s nylon-sheathed legs, bared by her mid-thigh skirt. “Headed for
the reception?” Fred asked.
“Yes, sir!” smiled Deb; these were probably some of the rich guys Dave had been
talking about. “Mr. Williams told us we’ll have special duties with the
governor’s team tonight.”
“Special, eh?” said the CEO, a slow smile spreading across his heavy jowls. “Did
he tell you what they were?”
“Not yet,” said Sandy as the elevator arrived. The men didn’t move; the girls
hesitated, looked at them.
“Now, you just go on ahead of us,” Fred said politely, waving his hand. “We’ll
catch up.”
The threesome nodded, smiling, and piled into the elevator; they turned and
waved as the doors closed. “Bye-bye!” Sandy said cheerily.
They were gone; the men looked at each other, and started laughing.
“‘Bye-bye!’” the CEO choked out between guffaws. “Well, I do believe old Dave
Williams knows his stuff...”
“You’re late!” Williams cried anxiously as the girls spilled out into the
hallway. “It’s a quarter to six!” Middle-aged men were trickling in, pausing to
leave envelopes stuffed with checks with an officious-looking matron seated at a
table by the door.
“What should we do?” asked Deb.
“Nothing, for now,” the aide answered. “Just stand there and look pretty.” Some
of the men had stopped in the hallway to ogle the young women; they giggled and
smiled, while Dave pumped hands: “Good to see you, Tom!…All the way from
Seattle…Well, the governor appreciates it…Yes, they’re the ones,” pointing to
the women. Deb was getting worried. “Are we supposed to put out for these guys?”
she whispered to Sandy, who shrugged, the cute smile still plastered on her
face.
The event was slated for seven, sharp; the traffic had slowed to a trickle by
6:30. “Time to get down to business,” said Dave. “You,” gesturing to Sue, “you
head in there and tell them you’re Number One. You’re Number Two,” he continued
to Sandy as Sue scurried through the ballroom’s double doors, “You go around
that way,” pointing to the left, “and into the kitchen. Deb, stay with me,”
striding off to the right as Sandy headed around the opposite corner. Deb
followed, bewildered; her heels clickety-clacked as they rushed down the
hallway. “In here,” he commanded, holding open a door. “Right away.”
The door was to a closet. “Try not to get it on my dress, okay?” the coed
pleaded, sinking to her knees as Dave unzipped. “It’s brand new.”
“Don’t worry,” said the governor’s aide. “Just swallow every drop.”
She did as she was told; when he was done and she had thoroughly cleaned his
cock with her tongue, the aide straightened himself up and went for the door.
“Stay right here,” he ordered.
Deb was puzzled. “Here?”
“I want you to meet somebody special,” he said over his shoulder as he left the
small closet. “He’ll give you your instructions for the evening.”
The door slammed; Deb stood, frowning. She smoothed out the dress, stood
impatiently facing the door, never heard the man rise up out of the shadows and
come up behind her, put a hand over her mouth, a handkerchief over her
nose—couldn’t breathe—
Fred and the CEO found themselves at the same table with a couple of newbies—a
foreign-born media czar, and a retired Army general who’d made a fortune on his
autobiography and on the speaking circuit. “Never been to one of these,” the
general admitted. “Will the governor be here?”
“No way,” said Fred. “Miles and miles away. They don’t tell him what’s really
going on,” he started to shout, his voice straining to be heard over the screams
of the girl on the stage.
It was Sue. Her low-cut dress was gone; so were the rest of her clothes. She was
strapped to a steel chair; attached to it were all sorts of devices—wires,
skewers, pincers. Her huge breasts, alligator clips clamped onto the nipples,
jiggled with each full-throated screech; she struggled against the leather bonds
that held her fast, her honey-blonde thatch visible between her full, heavy
thighs.
At the mike was the M.C. for the evening, a famous comedian with a half-century
in showbiz. He stood next to a control panel; “Isn’t she great, ladies and
gentlemen?” he begged the crowd, which applauded excitedly. Sue’s eyes were
wild, her hair askew. “Somebody!” she shrieked, the words faint against the boom
of the P.A. and the approval of the audience. “Please!—Help me!”
“Well, I wonder what this button does?” said the M.C. innocently, twisting a
dial on the panel. Electricity shot through Sue’s nip clips, and her screams
took on an hysterical tone, the hoarse yelping of an animal in agony; she
elevated slightly, the straps cutting into her wrists, ankles and belly, the
heavy steel of the chair grinding on the parquet floor of the stage. The
contributors laughed and cheered.
“We did that,” said the general. “‘Nam.” He swallowed a forkful of salad.
The M.C. switched off the juice; Sue collapsed back into the chair, panting and
sobbing. He reached over, grabbed her golden locks, pulled her head off her
chest; the sorority girl was bleary eyed and drooling. “The governor is our next
president, right?” he teased, and rocked her head back and forth as if she were
nodding; the audience roared.
“She’s a sharp gal,” he said, turning to the crowd. “And speaking of sharp—!”
Another dial, and two gleaming steel needles emerged from either side of the
chair, hovered perpendicular to her chest for a moment, then plunged through
both tits. Sue made a fish face, eyes bulging, too startled to scream; sputum
flew from her mouth as she groped for sound. Blood streamed from the punctures,
down her flanks, splashing on her hips. She finally let loose a whimper...
As the M.C. was guiding a robotic arm with a white-hot tip toward the helpless
girl, her eyes locked on it in fascinated horror and her plush body trying to
shrink away, the hired help cleared away the empty salad plates. “Wonder where
the main course is?” said Fred.
His answer came shortly. As Sue cried out in pain, the device searing her most
sensitive flesh, two waiters rolled a huge covered tray out through the doors
leading to the kitchen. They maneuvered it to a spot in front of the bar, in the
center of the floor, and one of them whipped off the huge, burnished silver lid
with a flourish.
On the platter was Sandy, nude as well, and roasted to a deep brown. Her legs
splayed out and curled up under her, an apple locked in her mouth, her luscious
body surrounded by fresh, green produce. Steam wisped up from the cooked flesh.
The audience whooped as a man in a chef’s hat bustled out of the kitchen,
carving knife and two-tined fork in hand, and started paring off slices from the
young woman’s butt and flank; the waiters collected them on plates already laid
out with side dishes, and hurriedly trucked trays laden with the sweet flesh
around the room.
“What did you get from the rock star?” the CEO wanted to know. On the stage, Sue
screamed again; the hot iron had found her clit.
“Arm,” said Fred, chewing on a breadstick with his eyes still riveted on the
roasted carcass of the unfortunate young woman. “When I saw that one, I made
sure that I sat at a ‘leg’ table.”
“Surely they can’t feed all of us from that one girl, mate?” exclaimed the media
boss.
“More coming,” said the CEO; a dish had just been placed in front of him, a dish
holding a steaming slice of Sandy’s thigh, oozing red, fat-dappled juices. He
talked around a mouthful of meat. “There were three, remember?”
On stage, the M.C. temporarily halted Sue’s torment. “We’ll return to this
evening’s entertainment shortly, folks,” he proclaimed as the tortured girl
sagged, weeping, into the cold steel chair, “but I know a lot of you are hungry;
one of the dishes is already being served, and for the rest of you—!” And as he
dramatically raised his arm, a curtain parted on the other side of the stage.
A portable barbecue, smoke rising from the lava rocks set into the base. Blue
gas flames licked above the pseudorock, sputtering as grease dripped onto them.
Sturdy iron arms held a steel skewer. The skewer held a bare, and brown, Deb.
It had been rammed between her butt cheeks, and out her mouth. Her wrists and
ankles were bound to its ends; more twine held her elbows and knees to the spit.
Her belly had been split open and eviscerated; the flaps of flesh hung over the
fire between her smallish breasts, the nipples pointing straight down, and wide,
womanly hips. Lean, firm thighs and calves were a golden brown and shone with
the grease her body had exuded as she had roasted over the rocks. Her clothes
were piled off to one side, the smart heels laying forlornly on top of the
conservative, navy dress.
“Not as meaty as the other one,” Fred commented; he sawed off a liberal chunk of
Sandy’s thigh, popped it into his mouth, chewed voraciously. A second chef had
appeared on stage; two more waiters, wearing heavy gloves, lifted the impaled
college girl from the uprights and plopped her face down onto another big
platter. The well-done meat on Deb’s petite frame shuddered as it struck the
tray; the chef inserted a fork into the middle of the coed’s back, started
cutting out loin chops. Again, the meat was deposited on plates, and quickly
distributed around the room
Sue watched wildly, her eyes switching back and forth desperately between her
two butchered sorority sisters as the tender flesh was cut from their naked
bodies. In turn, the diners were watching Sue. “Cook her, too?” asked the
general between mouthfuls of Sandy.
“I doubt it,” said the CEO. “No time. Oh, here they go!”
Two burly men in dark suits were unclasping Sue’s straps; they held the wobbly
blonde up by the elbows as her torture chair was pushed off stage. “Hasn’t she
been a sport, folks?” cried the M.C. “Give her a hand!” And the applause was
warm as the haggard, nude young woman was propped up before the campaign donors,
tears trickling down her cheeks.
“However,” the speaker continued, “all good things must come to an end; you
folks have those 25-hour days to get back to, and we’ve got to wrap it up here.
You know politics can be a jungle,” and here his voice reached a dramatic shout,
“and what better way to demonstrate that…?” And with that, the floor opened up
behind them; a large steel cage rose from beneath the stage, and within it…
Sue started twisting in the grip of the suits. “No! No, please!” the naked girl
stammered.
“We’ve promised that the governor is going to be a tiger in this fight,” the MC
went on, and the eight-foot long beast in the cage let loose a growl, baleful
yellow eyes turned toward the oohing and aahing crowd, orange and black striped
tail switching menacingly back and forth. And the suits unceremoniously opened
the cage, flung the protesting blonde into it, and closed the door behind her.
The beast roared, a deep, bone-chilling sound; he postured as if stalking prey,
one paw out, his rear end raised. Sue crouched, eyes wide and locked on the
tiger’s, hands in front of her; then, her nerve broke and she ran to the cage
door, banged on it, screamed, “Let me out! Let me out!”
She heard the growl behind her, quickly glanced over a soft, rounded shoulder;
ducked as a mammoth paw swept over her head, claws extended. The contributors
were roaring with laughter as she sped to the other side of the cage, hopping in
pain as the crossbarred floor dug into her bare feet. The beast pounced again,
grazed her; she spilled to the floor, blood leaking from her side where the
claws had raked an inch deep. Huddled on the floor, one hand helplessly raised
over her head, full, thick legs folded beneath her, Sue awaited the blow…
The tiger was gorging himself on one of the voluptuous coed’s breasts; the
carcasses of the other two girls, picked clean of meat, were being wheeled back
through the maze of tables to the kitchen. Meanwhile, the leg table was
finishing off a crème de menthe dessert. Fred felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Enjoy the show?” asked Dave Williams.
Fred nodded vigorously. “You can bet Amalgamated Shipworks is with the governor,
Dave. What was the take?”
“Even better than we expected,” the young aide admitted; near the front of the
stage, a couple of businessmen who had paid for the right were picking over
Deb’s clothes for souvenirs. “But we need every bit of it,” Dave said, “for the
image campaign we’re planning ahead of Super Tuesday.” He paused, watched the
jungle beast on stage tear the quadriceps from Sue’s thigh. “After all,” he
noted, “this campaign is all about character.”





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