Excerpt for Heidi The Blackmailer by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

This page may contain adult content. If you are under age 18, or you arrived by accident, please do not read further.


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters are 18 or older.

No part of this e-book may be republished or used without the written consent of the author or publisher.

Heidi LeFleur Publishing © 2017

Heidi The Blackmailer

"Hey Jack, you see we got the fiery dyke back again for another week," I heard the voice behind me and knew without looking it was the sweaty guy from the local paper with the big gut and the comb over. I could just sense the way he was sprawled out in the press room, his sweaty arms hung over the chairs on either side of him, looking smug and fat.

Since I could already see the walrus, I chose not to look at him. I kept my eyes to the front of the room where the dais was located, waiting for the Mayor's Communication Director, or maybe even the Mayor herself, to arrive and begin the press conference. Nonetheless, I felt my fingers grasp my pen a little tighter and noticed my heart beating a little faster. A whole week in town and I was still the object of derision, it would seem.

"Well lucky us," Jack, a reporter from the state capital said and the clucked his tongue, "Now I hate to correct you there Pete, but while our new colleague is certainly fiery, I mean right down to her hair, I don't know if dyke is the correct word. I think they call the manly ones dykes. This one, I am guessing she is a lipstick lesbian, better known as 'a true shame.' She's about worth trying to convert. Though, if she had a girlfriend around, I wouldn't mind watchin'. With that said, I hope she grills the mayor's people again on the gay marriage ordinance. I feel like that dead horse could use a couple more whacks." Pete and Jack, the good ol' boys just covering local politics, laughed together, knowing that I could hear them. I knew that there wasn't anything I could do that would be constructive; they were just trying to be trolls. But a week of this had been enough. I turned quickly while they were laughing.

"The term for what I am is not 'Lipstick Lesbian' you stupid fuck. I think the crude, shame-inducing slur you're looking for is 'Shemale.' So why don't you shut up so I can prepare my questions on the gay marriage ordinance for the mayor." I said and I turned around quickly, not waiting to see the looks on their faces.

I already knew what the face looked like. As an attractive non-operative transwoman who was extremely open about my identity, I had seen the complex mix of confusion, disgust, and arousal before. Oh, just so we are clear here, when I write that I am attractive, I am not (just) tooting my own horn, I am trying to explain why my identity is so troubling to queer-bashing men.

I am relatively short at 5'5 and I only weigh about 110lbs. I have very long dark red hair (I was 28 at the time and I had been growing it continuously since I was 18) that I wear in a long ponytail down my back. I have wide green eyes, very thick lips (the lower one pierced on the left side), small ears, an upturned nose (with a stud), and a light complexion. I wear a 32-B bra, have a tight, compact body (with a belly button piercing), lithe legs, and very small feet. I have thin arms, the right one has a sleeve of vaguely floral tattoos (I also have a tattoo on my left thigh of a butterfly and a honey bee on my left foot). I guess I look like the slightly skanky bad girl that the straight-laced type of guys fantasize about when they are alone. I guess when then realize that I also have a 5-inch cock (also with a stud) it sort of messes with their minds. Although that day (and every day for the past week) I was dressed conservatively with a gray pencil skirt a red blouse, and a gray jacket that covered up most of my arm tattoo.

"Well I guess you hope the ordinance passes now," I heard Pete say, "then you can go about converting the shemale." He started laughing

"Fuck off," Jack said, a little discomfort in his voice now, which I was happy to have implanted. I wasn't here to make people comfortable. In fact, the two local rubes were right about one thing, I was here to talk about the "gay marriage ordinance." Although, that characterization was, at best, misleading. I had left L.A. a week and a half earlier to cover a local ordinance that would require employers to provide the same benefits they provided to married employees to employees who had completed same-sex commitment ceremonies (verified by notarized certificate). (I won't tell you the city, let's just say it isn't big enough to have professional sports teams but it is big enough that everyone in America has at least heard of it).

At the time I was working for a website that covered news stories important to the LGBTQ community. When I'd heard that the city in question was considering this ordinance I was intrigued. Then I heard that four of the ten members of City Council were solid yeses, three others were on the fence leaning yes (including a Republican) and that the Republican mayor was threatening to veto the measure. I knew I had to be there and cover it.

I'd flown in the week before and been desperately trying to get answers to my questions ever since I got there. The first week, things had not gone well. Initially, they'd refused to give me a press credential, claiming that the site I worked for was not a legitimate news outfit. After threatening a lawsuit, I was finally allowed into the press conference where various local elected officials pretended that I wasn't raising my hand when it came time for questions. On top of that indignity, there were the Jack's and Pete's of the world. I'd taken the weekend to relax in my hotel room (a suite no less, if in a part of town that rolled up the streets at 5:05) and now it was the start of a new week and I felt my hurt pride adding to the righteous indignation I'd already felt as soon as I'd heard about this story.

"Alright, the Mayor will be arriving shortly. She will be taking questions for no more than 15-minutes, Thank you," My head shot up as I heard the voice. It was the communication's director. This was good, I'd only been allowed into one press conference last week when the Mayor had actually taken questions. She hadn't called on me, but I figured: another day, another chance. I folded my lip ring into my mouth, hoping to prevent her from seeing it, maybe making her more amenable to hearing what I had to say. I grabbed my notebook with my handful of scrawled notes and felt my adrenaline start to rush.

In a few moments, the door behind the podium opened up. The first person through the door was someone I recognized. It was the Mayor's personal assistant or aide or whatever, her name was Hena something. Hena Dutta I believe. I was always surprised when I saw her walking near the Mayor. One does not often associate the Republican Party with beautiful, young, Indian college girls, but that was what Hena was. She was a tall girl, maybe 5'9 and very slim. I write girl, but she was probably 21 or so. She had long dark hair and the most beautiful, even, dusky-colored skin I'd ever seen. She had enormous almond colored and shaped eyes and perfect teeth. She looked like a Bollywood star, complete with medium-sized perky breasts, a tight butt, and long legs (though those were particularly obscured by the unimaginative pants suits she wore every day).

After Hena entered the room she sort of shuffled off to the side behind the podium and looked out at crowd. After a moment, the Mayor appeared in the doorway. Mayor Sara Barker was every bit the youngish Republican, female pol. I mean, if you looked at her on the street, the first thing you would think would be "that chick voted for George W. Bush twice and is still proud of it." She was blonde (of course) with incredible blue eyes, perfect teeth, and flawless white skin. She was a college cheerleader and it was clear that she put a lot of time and effort in maintaining her youthful looks even if she was now 42 years old. Her breasts were exceptionally large, but the rest of her body was very slim. She was short in person at around 5'4 but she looked taller on camera. She always wore snappy red or blue dresses that accentuate her still youthful curves and her round ass. I wondered if the fact that she had her husband (a real estate developer) had never had any kids explained how she kept it so tight. Hey, she might've been the enemy, but credit where credit was due.

"Okay everyone," she said in her breathy, sunny voice, "Thanks for making it to the Monday morning press conference. I have meetings today about development on the Johnson Street corridor and another with some local girl scouts, so I only have about 15 minutes. I don't have anything in particular I want to talk about, but I am ready for questions." My hand shot into the air.

"Yeah Pete," she said pointing to my old friend. I knew she always called on a local guy first, but I had to raise my hand anyway.

"Do you think that the permitting situation for the Johnson Street development can be handled by the Mayor's office or will you be coordinating with Public Works?" Pete asked and I rolled my eyes. Heavy-hitting, investigative stuff wasn't really Pete's deal. He'd asked once last week why the mayor had such a good rapport with voters. Seriously: what a tool.

"Well as you know, I abhor government red tape, I think we can solve this in a way that involves government as little as possible, with that said, the issue does not so much involve the Public Works department as it does..." by now I could barely stand to hear what she was saying anymore. I just listened to her drone, waiting for a break in the mundane details of city management to raise my hand again.

"Thanks that helps," Pete said, making some notes. My hand shot into the air again. This time she called on someone from a national news network and I prayed that he would ask about the ordinance, something I could piggyback on. I was disappointed when he asked about something related to a local university's football team. I looked down at my watch, seeing the second tick away. She said 15 minutes, and we were already 10 minutes into the conference and she'd answered two questions. I began to strategize about what I'd do if I couldn't ask her questions today. But none of my options seemed right. I realized I was too busy being worried about time and started listening to the mayor again

"And I think that Coach Cruz made an excellent point in his press conference yesterday. If that woman did not want to have group sex with the offensive line, why was she in the locker room to begin with?" she asked with a hint of disgust. Ah sports! Wholesome fun it seemed. Wonder why I never got into it?

"I believe she was just an 18 year old and an athletic trainer. Her doctors said..." The reporter pressed. The mayor clearly didn't want anything to do with this toxic line of questioning and I saw her look about frantically.

"Any other questions?" I knew it was now or never. She was off balance and would respond to anything that wasn't related to the football team. I didn't raise my hand this time; I just stood up and started asking questions.

"Mayor Barker, Heidi Drake from QueerWire," I said and I saw her actually wince, "In light of the wide support for Resolution B in the public at large, how do you justify your continued insistence to veto the measure if passed by the city council." Mayor Barker gave me a look that indicated she knew she'd jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.

"Well, beyond the obvious moral issue," she said, making my teeth grate, "I think this is a financial issue. Our city is not exactly swimming in tax revenue and increased benefits..."

"We are not talking about increased benefits. We are talking about extending the same benefits to everyone," I interrupted. I wasn't going to let her create these sort of false-rational arguments.

"Please let me finish my answers," the mayor said coldly. She gave me an injured looked and I could feel some of the local reporters reflexively sympathize. Our pretty lady mayor is being bullied by the big city outsider. I didn't care, "The point I was trying to make is that it really is a moral issue. I strongly believe that God designed men to be the head of a household and that a wife should be his helper. Now, that can take different forms in a modern marriage, but those are the essential pieces. But, even if that weren't the case, I would still oppose this measure because doing so saves the taxpayers money." She said and acted as though that were an actual policy argument. She turned to ask someone else for a question. But that wasn't nearly enough, I spoke again.

"But several polls show that the taxpayers in this city believe that their dollars should go to benefits for same-sex couples. So really, it isn't about protecting the taxpayers. It is about enforcing your moral code on everyone else," I said.

"Again with the interruptions," the Mayor said, shaking her head, "Listen, I explained my position very calmly and politely. It seems that you don't like to play by the rules. Which I suppose is typical. You work for a 'publication' called QueerWire, so you apparently believe that rules, whether set by man or by God, do not apply to you. And that is fine; you don't have to believe that, it is a free country. But the citizens of this city elected me for two reasons. One, because they wanted the city's fiscal house put in order after 8 years of Mayor Carter and two, because they believe in my strong moral convictions. On this particular issue I feel that I get to prove to the voters that they made the right choice on both counts. Thank you for your questions."

"Stop trying to be cagey and answer the goddamn questions I ask," I said, feeling the adrenaline running in my veins and my heart pounding like a hammer. I knew even as the words came out of my mouth that they were a mistake. There was a little bit of a murmur in the room and the Mayor shot me a look like I'd fucked her dog or something.

"I will not dignify such behavior with a response," the Mayor said after a moment. She sounded almost like her feelings were actually hurt. I could feel sympathy waving out to her in the room. I had been so gung-ho to start asking questions that I hadn't even really been prepared for her obvious head fakes. Now I looked like an asshole. I had to salvage something.

"But..." I started. But I felt someone tapping on my shoulder. I looked over and saw the Mayor aide, Hena, standing next to me. She quickly hissed into my ear.

"You failed to follow the proper protocol. The Mayor will no longer be answering your questions today. If you interrupt again, a police officer will escort you from the press room and you will not be permitted to attend any more press conferences," Hena said. She gave me a stern look that seemed to indicate that while she was young and foolish, someone with real power was putting words into her mouth. I shot her an evil glare, but I closed my mouth and sat down. They weren't going to get rid of me that easily.

But at that moment, the mayor finished her answer to another softball question and then turned and left. And just like that they were rid of me, easily.

Chapter 2: An Applied Tutorial on Power

"Listen, I am not trying to tell you that you're bad at your job or something," said a reporter, Kent, from a prestigious national newspaper (if there is such a thing anymore), "I am saying that you are going about it the wrong way. You can hit them hard on the page, but if you go into their arena, the place where they are in control, and try to take the fight to them on their terms, especially with a tiny outfit like QueerWire behind you, you are going to get smacked down."

I was in a bar about three blocks from the city hall. After the fiasco at the press conference, two other out-of-town reporters had invited me out for drinks. Kent was a middle-aged male reporter from D.C. who seemed full of conventional wisdom. The other was an almost-elderly woman from New York named Carol. It was apparent that they knew each other from way back and seemed comfortable together. They both seemed nice enough and were trying to help. But I was on my third drink and no longer in the mood for it.

"Well, with all due respect, I think you both have forgotten what this is all about," I said, noticing that I was slurring a bit. I wasn't much of a drinker, especially for a reporter.

"And what is that?" Kent asked, downing another shot. His face was red and it was clear he was not unused to drinks on a Monday night.

"It's about, you know, tipping things over. It's about making the comfortable uncomfortable and all of that. I mean, at least today, I tried to do that," I said. Oh yeah, when I drink I get self-righteous.

"Well you certainly did that," Carol said dryly.

"What do you mean?" I asked defensively. Carol spoke less than Kent, but when she did, it went right to the heart of things.

"I mean that you stomped in there like an elephant and made sure that everyone knew that you were there to do it. I mean you left your damned punk lip ring in for God's sake." I tongued my lip ring and wondered if she was right. Had I made tactical mistakes? But I had to bluster now, couldn't let her see that I knew she was right.

"Well someone has to. All of you other reporters, you were just happy to be stenographers, to write down whatever anyone said and just take it. I don't regret not doing that."

"Hey kid, I like you, but go to Hell," Kent said and then laughed. He clearly wasn't overly offended, but it was obvious he thought I was an idealistic kid, off base, not correct about the situation.

"You just think that because your right and you know it that if you spray it all out there people will just agree with you. That the power of your logic is like the gravity of the sun," Carol said, "But you're full of shit." She looked over at the bartender and ordered another glass of wine.

"If people get all the facts, they make the right decision," I said, "People who love one another deserve to be together. When people see injustice, they react."

"False," Kent said.

"People react to power. That's what you don't understand. What did you do today? You played into the mayor's hands. She got to show all of the people who already support her that she is a victim, she got to show those on the fence that the other side is rude and demanding, and she got to make you the sneering face of the opposition, and she can now use you against your allies. And you made her a bunch of money, because she is going to use your little exchange to raise money from the religious right. You might've spoke truth to power, but power doesn't care. You don't win by getting to the truth. You win by having more raw power and using it better. That is what you don't get," Carol said. I was starting to get annoyed and my well-lubricated sense of righteousness led me to squawk back. Again.

"What the Hell do you know about it?" I asked, "I've read some of your stuff. You write well, but you don't seem to be interested in winning or losing anything, you just write what you think will get eyeballs."

"Well there Edward R. Murrow, that happens to be the job," Kent said, reveling in my anger. It was clear he was just stirring the shit at this point.

"You are an activist-journalist," Carol said, not coming back at me with the same anger I did, "I don't think that ever works. Kent is right. Writing is the job, that's what I do. I am not telling you how to do my job. I don't give a damn about any policy in particular. I am too damn old to care about gay rights or anything else. I mean, I don't dislike gays in particular either. Based on who you work for, I assume you are gay," she stated.

"I..." I started to let her know I was transgendered pansexual (as I always did, got to fly the flag) but she put up her hand.

"And I don't care. That's not what I am in this for. For these sorts of issues and talking about 'people' and all that nonsense. But you clearly are. And I am telling you, I have seen activist-journalists before. If you keep running out there full-flame you are going to burn yourself out. And you won't accomplish anything. I am just trying to provide a word to the wise from someone who has seen it all."

"Why, if you don't care?" I asked, it seemed like a killer question.

"Activists give me something to write about and someone who really knows how to shake things up, not just shake her fist at power, she is going to provide a lot of interesting stories," she explained, "But you've got to learn how to play the game." And with that she took a deep drink of her new glass of wine.

"Amen," Kent said, smiling a little in awe of Carol. I guess I was too. She was pushing all of my buttons, hitting all of my professional insecurities all at once. Was I doing anything good? Was it my role to try to do good? Could I sustain this kind of career if I didn't ever get a win? I had been working so hard all week to get any traction and it wasn't working. And it went beyond this week; it felt like Carol and sort of summed everything up. I slumped down at my stool at the bar. Well, if nothing else, Carol had given me a lot to think about. Kent said something to Carol and they spoke briefly, but I wasn't paying attention. I thought back again to my humiliation at the press conference. Maybe Carol wasn't as full of shit as I wanted to believe. I sat for a while, not listening to them, just thinking.

"What do I do?" I asked suddenly, interrupting their conversation, "It's all fine and well to tell me to get power and use it, but what does that mean?" They looked at me, confused, for a moment.

"Come honey, don't be naïve, you know that. You have a youthful pair of tits, you know how power works" Carol said with a knowing look.

"What does that mean?" I said, confused.

"It means that you find something that gives you leverage. Then you apply it," Carol said and downed the last of her wine.

* * * * *

About two hours later it was well past dark and I was stumbling a little down the street towards my hotel. Kent and Carol had called it a night and I had decided I had better leave as well. I hadn't had as much to drink as Kent, but certainly more than I usually did on a work night. Or a Friday for that matter. I thought back on my day, my thinking seemed to become clearer in my drunken state.

I hadn't really engaged with Carol and Kent that much after Carol had explained to me her concept of power. I had just sort of sat in the bar and considered it. I knew, to a certain extent, that she was right. Posting little bits of anger and outrage on the internet wouldn't get things changed. But I also didn't really know how one went about collecting leverage. It sounds easy in the abstract, but where did I start? As I walked back to my hotel, I continued to consider all I'd learned that day.

In order to get to my hotel, I had to walk past the city hall. As I moved in front of it, I stopped for a moment and looked up. It was a simple municipal building with a charming brick façade and a small dome at the top. It looked like the seat of local power that it was and I shook my head.

"Fuck you," I slurred a bit to myself. I don't know if I was talking to the mayor or to myself or what, but it felt nice to say. Then I was suddenly struck by another idea.

"You can't keep me out. You think you hold all the goddamn cards because you do, but I have just as much a right to be here as you," I said. It made sense at the time. But I decided I was going to go back into the press room, when I wasn't supposed to, and I was going to ask my questions again and I would stand there in the empty room and wait and see if I got a better answer than the one I got from the mayor. It might have been a totally empty gesture and it might not have made any difference, but at least it would make me feel good. Carol wouldn't have liked it.

I climbed up the stairs to the front door. Actually it was a bank of doors. I started with the farthest on the left but it was locked. Slowly, I worked my way down, checking each one. The farther I went, the less and less certain I was that I was going to find a door that would open. But finally, on the second to last door, as I gave an exceptionally hard pull, the door swung wide open.

I walked into the abandoned city hall, waiting for security guards or police officers to rush in at any moment and arrest me. But the building was still and silent. Several lights were on, but not many. I didn't even hear the sound of a janitor. It felt a little ominous now, and I stood for a moment in the reception area and just sort of soaked it in. Then I remembered why I was there.

The mayor's press room was on the third floor, the same floor as her office. I quickly walked over to the stairwell (wincing as my heels clicked on the marble floor) and started to make my way up. In a few minutes I was on the darkened third floor. I made my way over to the press room, the scene of my earlier misfortune. It felt suddenly drained of all power, like I was seeing it with its clothes off. It was dark and small and didn't feel at all like an intimidating arena that someone was trying to shut me out of.

I walked up to my seat from earlier in the day and stood in front of it. I looked up to the dais in front of the room. I took a deep breath and got all of my thoughts together. This was going to go exactly the way it was supposed to go this time. I opened my mouth to speak and...stopped.

I heard something, I couldn't quite make out what it was. But I felt a prickle in my skin and a sense of nervousness I hadn't felt a moment before. I stopped moving and listened intently. For a moment there was absolute silence. I was about to start to move anyway, when I heard it again. Now that I was focusing I could tell it was laughter. Just a small amount of laughter. It was coming from the opposite side of the third floor.

At first I thought that the smartest plan would be to get out of the building. If someone were there who had the right to be there saw me, I could get into serious trouble. But, being a reporter, and a drunk one at that, my curiosity got the better of me. Who was in the building? Why? All thoughts about consequences for my actions flitted out of my head. I moved out into the hallway.

Now that I looked, I could see a light on at the end of the hallway, underneath a door. It was the mayor's office. The mayor was in and she was laughing about something. I wondered what it could possibly be. I started to slowly make my way across the floor, past offices and copy machines and the like. I walked past the little reception desk that sat directly in front of the mayor's office. I crept as quietly as humanly possible, but quickly as well. I felt my heart pounding. I don't know if I knew intuitively that something interesting was occurring or that I was just getting off on creeping around, but it was fun.

Finally, I made it up to the door. It was open the slightest crack, but at first I was afraid to look in, afraid that I would somehow block something and get notice. But I heard a strange sound. Not a laugh like before, but I muffled noise that was hard to place. I had to see what was causing it. I slowly slid around to the side of the door. I titled my head slightly and looked into the Mayor's heavily illuminated office and I saw...the Mayor and her aide Hena. Kissing passionately!

For a moment my head reeled. None of this made any sense! I could not be seeing this! But there it was, in front of me. I didn't know what I was supposed to do. But as I watched them, I began to feel... strange. Their kisses weren't just passionate, they were electrifying. The last conscious thing I remember doing was grabbing out my phone, clicking the video button and pointing it towards the action. After that all I could do was watch.

Mayor Barker...maybe I will just call her Sara for this, it will be a little awkward to refer to her by title...Sara and Hena were sitting on a couch in the mayoral office. It was directly in front of me, about fifteen feet away, from the opening of the door. There was a table in front of the couch with a bunch of papers scattered about it. There were two big bottles of diet cola sitting on top of the papers. It was clear that Sara and Hena had been working late into the night and were now doing a different sort of work.

Sara was still wearing the tight red dress and white blouse she'd worn earlier in the day, but her suit jacket was removed, showing how large her breasts were when not confined in fabric. Her knees were together and her feet spread apart on the floor and she was leaning over towards Hena. Her long blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders giving her a sexy, disheveled look. Her left arm was resting across the back of the couch and her right hand was resting on Hena's left thigh.

Hena was sitting right next to Sara. Unlike Sara, it looked like she had changed after work. The unflattering pants suit was nowhere to be found. Instead, Hena was wearing a pair of skin tight yoga pants (a particular favorite of mine) and an equally tight white t-shirt that fell just four inches or so below her breasts, exposing her slim mid-rift. Even from the distance I could see Hena's black bra showing through her t-shirt. Hena was barefoot and her legs were curled up underneath of her on the couch. Her left hand gently rested on Sara's waist and her right hand was placed lovingly on Sara's cheek.

And the women were kissing. Both of their eyes were closed and their lips were pressed together. I saw Hena's mouth open and Sara's did as well. Their tongues poured out of their own mouths and then into the space between them. I could hear the wet, enticing sounds of their tongues pressing together. I could hear a groan escape from Sara's mouth and saw Hena smile around their kiss as she heard it as well. Hena made her tongue rigid and I watched as Sara slowly started to bob her head back and forth on the tongue, sucking it gently.

While they were kissing, Hena's left hand began to move. First it started to press harder into Sara's waist. Then her fingers started to crawl up Sara's body. I saw her fingernails gently tickled the bottom of Sara's right breast. Sara opened her eyes and gently grabbed Hena's hand and moved it away from her breast. She let Hena's tongue fall from her mouth, but gave it one last quick lick.

"No, No, No," she said coyly, "You know what I need first." Hena bit her lower lip and nodded. Then the young aide jumped up from the couch and walked slinkily around the coffee table. She stopped facing right towards the door, her back to Sara. (At this point I absolutely froze, even holding my breath, as Hena was only about eight feet away and facing me, but I kept the camera running).

"Something like this?" Hena asked. She turned and looked over her shoulder for a moment. Sara leaned forward on the couch, putting her elbows on her knees. Her breasts squeezed together, pushing out her cleavage. Sara nodded and spoke in a baby-doll voice.

"Do what I like baby," Sara said. (Any thought that it was in any way a first time, or a sort of one-off thing disappeared at this moment). Still facing away from Sara, Hena grabbed the bottom of her t-shirt and tossed it across the room. She was still facing me and I saw her smooth stomach, gently curved hips and black bra exposed. Her work clothes had not done her justice! She was stunning. The body of a bikini model.

But she wasn't done yet. Now she reached behind her back, finding the hooks to her bra. She unhooked it and quickly worked the bra down her arms and tossed it as well. She was still facing me and I saw her beautiful breasts. They were incredibly perky, bouncing out of her bra like they were still being held there. Her nipples were about the size of quarters and short, and a dense chocolate color.

Now she turned, but not completely. She stood to the side so that her left arm was facing Sara and her right arm was facing me, giving me a gorgeous profile shot of her body. The way her flat stomach rose up to the softly angled bottom of her breast and then to the delicious points of her nipple, only to recede back in a slightly convex shape up to her throat was stunning. And I was also enticed by the way her long, black hair cascaded down her back. Her head was turned slightly so that she was looking at Sara.

"How do I look?" Hena asked, and rather than use the sort of faux-sultry porn voice she'd affected before, it seemed like she was actually asking this time. I could sense a little vulnerability in her voice. Sara paused a moment before speaking.

"You look...beautiful," she said and Hena smiled widely. Then Hena reached up with her hands and cupped the underside of both of her breasts.

"Really?" she said, more playfully now. She shook her reddish brown breasts slightly, and watched as her nipples hardened in the cool office air.

"Incredible," Sara said. Hena giggled in a youthful way (that reminded me that she was probably only 20 or so). Hena started to squeeze her breasts tighter and she fingered her nipples gently. Doing so clearly had an effect on her and I watched as she arched her back a bit, closed her eyes and moaned. Sara shifted on the couch. I could now see her nipples poking out ever slightly from blouse. Hena rolled her nipples between her thumbs and forefingers and let out a little squeal.

"Oh God!" she moaned. Sara shifted again.

"Okay," she said, seeming very hot and bothered, "Stop torturing me and do what I like!" she begged.

"Take you shirt off," Hena said and Sara's eyes got big.

"That isn't how we play this game," Sara said, sounding like she was actually a little put out by the request. Hena seemed to know she was pushing something. She slowly bent over at the waist, pushing her ass far out into the air. She still cupped her breasts in her hand.

"Please," she said. For a moment Sara just looked at her. But the older woman's eyes moved all over Hena's body and it was clear her will was broken.

"Fine," she said with a sigh, "but you didn't say anything about the bra!" Then Sara quickly unbuttoned her blouse and tossed it onto the floor. Her large, and surprisingly perky, breasts were encased in a thrilling red bra that would've looked scandalous on a porn star, let alone a conservative mayor. But once she was out of the shirt, she crossed her arms in front of her tits and leaned back into the couch. (I was surprised, for a woman approaching middle age, her stomach looked flawless, I don't know what she did to keep it that way. But seriously: kudos.)

Hena seemed to accept that she'd gotten all of the concessions she was going to get out of her boss. She released her breasts and then reached back to her hips. While she did this, she turned so that her back was to the mayor. She slipped her fingers into the waistband of her yoga pants. Slowly, she worked the pants back around her round ass; exposing more and more of her brown skin (it was readily apparent she wasn't wearing panties).

As the pants slipped over the bulge of her ass, Hena once again stood up. The pants slipped down her legs and pooled on the floor at her feet. She quickly stepped out of them and stood naked in the mayor's office. Her legs were long and perfectly proportioned. And, from my angle, I got an unobstructed view of her pussy. She had a small patch of well-kempt black hair above tight looking brown lips. I could see the little nub of her hard clit from that distance and could almost smell the thin film of clear liquid that was erupting from inside of her.

Now she turned and faced Sara. Her ass looked tight and her long hair fell all the way down and touch just above her hips. I thought she was going to walk over to Sara now. But I was mistaken. Instead, she slowly dropped down onto the floor, sitting her bare ass down on the dirty office carpet. Then she leaned back. She tucked her left arm under the neck so that as she put her head down, she was propped up slightly, looking towards Sara on the couch (And luckily keeping her eyes where they wouldn't be looking at my narrow crack in the door). I got a thrill seeing the way her pert breasts splayed out across her chest as she laid down, her nipples looking even more prominent in that position.

Then, Hena lifted her legs in the air and then spread them wide apart. She gently lowered them so that her heels landed on the coffee table, in a slightly inclined position. Her ass was just slightly off the ground now and her dripping pussy was facing Sara. I could see the mound of her pussy thrust slightly into the air. Sara's eyes were firmly planted on Hena's body, and the mayor did not move.

"What does looking at me make you want to do?" Sara asked, her voice sounding thick now. Her face was flushed and I could see her chest rising and falling rapidly. I felt like I could see her heart beating in her chest.

"I want to play with myself!" Hena gasped. Her free hand, the right, was gently kneading one of her breasts, playing with the nipple. Her hips rocked in the air and she twisted slightly. I could hear her panting. The little strip show had clearly gotten her motor running. (And mine too, I could feel my cock pressing hard against my panties, but I couldn't even think to touch it.)

"Then do it baby," Sara said, just above a whisper. Hena's hand snaked down off of her breast, giving her nipple one last little flip before gliding across her ribs, over her flat stomach, and nestling into her little patch of pubic hair. Hena gasped loudly as her finger grazed her clitoris. A tremble moved through her entire body. Her fingers slipped lower, rubbing against the juices that were dripping from her pussy. When her fingers were sopping wet she moved them back to her clitoris.

Now that her fingers were lubricated, Hena's hand moved quickly around her pussy. It looked like she was putting her middle and fore-finger together and quickly circling them over her clit. Occasionally, she would dip back down to her open pussy, get her fingers wetter, and then move back up to her clit. She was moaning slightly as she played with herself and her legs trembled on the coffee table. Sometimes, her hips would thrust up into the air, the bottoms of her feet flattening onto the coffee table and her tits moving up towards her face. The whole time, her eyes stayed intently on Sara.

At first, Sara stayed in the position she'd taken since she had taken off her shirt, leaning back with her arms crossed. But as Hena got more and more involved in her actions, Sara seemed that she was feeling it more. Her arms dropped and her nipples were now like little beads in her bra and her breathing was even lighter than before. Around the time that Hena lifted her fingers once to her mouth and licked off her own juices, Sara seemed like she could barely take stand to look professional and detached anymore.

She nestled back into her couch, her large breasts jiggling as she did so. For a moment, she just watched from that position. But then I saw her breath in deeply. From where I was sitting I could smell Hena's sex in the room, it was intoxicating. I was sure that where Sara was located, the scent was overwhelming. Sara carefully reached down unzipped her skirt (it helpfully zipped on the side). When it was all the way unzipped, she flung it off of her lap, exposing her beautiful legs and her cute red panties. As soon as the skirt was unzipped her legs splayed open, giving me an amazing view of her inner thighs. Her body looked incredible. Not just for a woman her age, but for a woman half her age. I could see that her panties were wet (as though there had been any doubt that she was enjoying the show).

Sara lifted her ass off the couch and slipped her fingers into the waist band of her panties. Her legs briefly went back together. I watched as her panties slid down her hips, over her knees, and then down onto the floor. She even kicked them off her small foot in a particularly sexy way. Once she was disrobed (with the exception of her bra) her legs split open again. Sara had soft, smooth pink pussy lips and an inflamed, red clit that seemed to be begging to be played with. She also had a small, well-kempt patch of hair, but hers was a particularly cute little bit of blonde shaved into a landing strip.

Purchase this book or download sample versions for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-2 show above.)