This is chapter 6, part 2 of the Pleasing María novel. If you are under 18 years of age, or are offended by explicit descriptions of sexual activity or violence, or by strong language, please exit this site immediately. To view the Table of Contents of the novel click here. To go directly to the first chapter, click here. To read the latest novel post, click here.
Chapter 6 – Part 2, Political Panties
María’s escort of the politician, whom we nicknamed the Pol, became a regular feature of our life, 2-3 times per month. She gave top priority to these events. Occasionally we had scheduling conflicts with my work or her work at the apartments, but she always won. She always described her trysts with him, everything I wanted to know. Her detailed descriptions gave meanother chance to re-live the humiliation with her sitting by my side, and I tried my best to fuck her in the same way as she described. It was exciting sex.
The left-leaning San Francisco press trumpeted the Pol as a candidate for national office, perhaps someday the presidency. María often appeared in photos with him with a different name, and I thought her photos were too indistinct for anyone to identify her as my María. I was wrong.
I thought it was too bad he was a predator of married women. That and his use of cocaine would derail any candidacy beyond California. Furthermore, he had never done anything real in his life: first, an academic, then a community organizer, and now a politician. He had no real experience to qualify for national office. Pity, I thought, with his charisma and progressive social ideas, he could make a difference.
I talked about him at the company water cooler, and it surprised me to hear people either loved or hated him. His detractors, some which had already identified María in the newspaper photos, snorted he fucked every interesting and pretty woman among the state’s politicians, celebrities, actresses, and important constituents. He favored married women, especially the wives of powerful politicians and businessmen. He wrapped his hand around the testicles of many powerful men because of the secrets their wives revealed.
I didn’t understand their rancor – I’d be fucking those sluts too given the opportunity. I didn’t see why his private life mattered. His detractors also over-exaggerated the importance of his lack of real world experience in any field, and lack of economic knowledge. They asserted the Pol was unqualified for even his current position, junior senator, a criticism I couldn’t refute. His only asset was great emotional charisma.
His admirers dismissed that as irrelevant. He would raise up the poor and knock down the rich – worth more than any of his insignificant shortcomings. These arguments confused me and gave me a headache.
I was apolitical, but I was bothered the Pol used public funds for his trysts with his stable of escorts. María’s expensive clothes and professional grooming, the dinners and hotel rooms, probably even the cocaine were paid with a State of California credit card. One of María’s panties would feed a family for a week. Some of the dresses would pay six months of rent, and the jewelry pieces one year. Still I thought it might be justified by all the help for minorities he promised. I wondered if the Pol was unique, or if other politicians also dipped into the treasury.
One of my work colleagues, a self-proclaimed libertarian, whatever that means, constantly asserted, “Corruption is the final purpose of government.” His arguments were compelling but unimportant. Politicians are just men, subject to their own human failings, but at least the Democrats would attempt to uplift the poor. My wife’s involvement with the Pol fascinated him, and he came to talk at me frequently. He was obnoxious, and I called him the ‘Preacher’.
María loved a little gossip, so I asked her to ask the Pol about the secrets he pried from the wives of the politicians. The Pol was pleased she was interested in his career, and told her more than she should know. Some of the shenanigans were clearly criminal, reaching to the highest levels. This was dangerous, and I told her to quit asking about those things, only ask about his career aspirations and other harmless small talk. I wondered and had to ask, “Has the Pol asked you about our lives? Have you told him our secrets?”
She looked down and said, “Everything. He knows more about me than you. He knows more about you than you.”
We went to the clothing store, nicknamed ‘The Hooker Shop’, every Saturday morning to pick-out her outfits for the next events. Located half a block from Union Square, the Hooker Shop featured a respectable-looking store-front display. The frontage, a door and small display window, served its clients by appointment only. We were always the only customers inside.
The clients of the store were high-class call-girls, some professionals, some amateurs. Some clients came with their pimps, partners, husbands, boyfriends, or girl friends. The manager was uptight, she looked down her nose at me. I wasn’t rich, famous or a politician. I didn’t count for squat, I was just an ordinary guy with a fabulous wife.
The special panties were displayed and sold only in the back room, and were packaged and sealed before coming out. The escorts’ partners weren’t allowed to see or touch the panties. I didn’t understand the reasons for this and protested. The manager took María to the back dressing room and explained – the escorts’ male partners weren’t allowed to see the panties because they often caused a ruckus when they saw what they gave away to other men.
Other panties, solid, smooth, infinitely stretchy models were sold in the display room, and María tried those on for me. They looked small but stretched and clung, perfectly marking the outlines of her inner and outer labia, what was vulgarly called a ‘cameltoe’ years later. María said they were ideal for the unwanted hands that explored her vulva and derriere, always outside the panty.
The shop sold theatric masques to give the women a little exotic edge when penis sucking. They were artistically erotic. María took several and said the Pol loved them, but the masques and María’s mouth behind them were off-limits to me. María chose a variety of skin creams and lotions she said were the best in the world for anti-aging and skin softness. We picked out a few vibrators and sex toys, why not? The price was right.
A few male items displayed to one side, a teaser display for a larger display room off the back. One of the teasers was a finely-crafted testicle ring. I tried to go to the back room, wasn’t admitted, but the manager brought out a selection of testicle rings. I never imagined someone would spend the time and materials to make such objects – gem-encrusted, precious metals, engraved designs. They were heavy, they must have been silver or gold-plated silver. I chose several to see if María could purchase them, and she did! These tax-payer provided benefits were great! I found the other items in the display too effeminate, too homosexual, or too vulgar for my tastes. The Hooker Shop also served male prostitutes.
The manager assumed María was a call-girl, and she offered to set María up with the best paying men and politicians. María came out smiling at the thought of servicing those pompous, boring men she saw at the Pol’s events. No, thanks! The Manager misunderstood completely – María wasn’t interested in money, she did it for the ride.
The lingerie was imported from the best salons in Italy. Most of the pieces cost a few hundred dollars per panty, bra, or garter belt. They were unique pieces made by hand, and had been especially designed to induce erections and suck men into the vulva. I marveled at their hand craft. María didn’t allow me to see the panties until I came up with a clever idea – I’d do photo shots of her in all her new clothing, including lingerie.
We did photo shots all over San Francisco and Half Moon Bay, Santa Cruz, the Golden Gate Park, the Golden Gate bridge, with the Painted Ladies at Alamo Square, everywhere. The photo shoots were intensely erotic. We began with María fully clothed in the Pol’s outfits. She did a slow striptease over about an hour, down to the barest lingerie; sometimes even the bra came off for a few minutes. We shot always in public places, so we wrapped her in light robes when children approached. We received a lot of stares, curious, hungry, and hostile. The lingerie covered just enough of her body to avoid arrest, but exposed enough to entice most men and many women. The Italian panty’s molding of the half sphere of her vulva and the valley front-to-back in the vulva and buttocks, produced audible gasps from onlookers. The panty could have been body paint. By the time she disrobed, large crowds of onlookers had assenbled. Then she reversed-stripped. I’ve no doubt these photo sessions were the proximate cause of several divorces.
We did each photo session in a different location. The shoots in the Golden Gate Park were the most troublesome. In the greenhouse, María simulated a pole dance with some smooth tree trunks, and some matrons complained. The guards, embarrassed by their highly visible erections, ejected us.
A news photographer caught one of our photo shoots and took her own photos. María appeared in the newspaper labeled as ‘San Francisco’s Mystery Model’, which added to her allure and status at the political events with the Pol.
María wouldn’t let me get too close to the panties – she was afraid I might touch them. She was serious they existed only for the Pol’s pleasure. I touched a panty by mistake during a photo shoot when the wind blew open her wrap skirt. María turned red and yelled at me. She called the Hooker Shop and asked if she could get a replacement. That’s when we discovered her card had no limits. We made an appointment and went to the shop three hours later. We bought a selection of fishnet hosiery, baby dolls and other lingerie, and casual skirts, blouses, and dresses for our photo shoots. Only the quantity of panties was restricted for María. These erotic outfits spiced up our own sex life.
The Saturday trips to the Hooker Shop became a regular outing in our lives. I became as excited as María – we laughed and squealed and groaned as she tried on outfits. She always tried-on the outer wear first, without lingerie, and would dress and undress in the public showroom. Of course, we were the only customers, but a curious window shopper might have got a few scandalous thrills.
María tolerated the events, she put-up with the boring political stuff to get the all-night fucking by this black man. María didn’t much like the anus-fucks, but accompanied by the breast and vulva caresses, it was tolerably pleasant. She had a mental problem, she said she felt schuco (icky) while he stroked into her anus. She got excited by something she read in a magazine, and for the next event with the Pol, she took an extra package with her. The next day, she was all smiles. Before they started the Ride, she suggested a private shower, an enema, fragrant lubricants, then an additional line of coke. The coke cleared her mind, the shuco was gone, and she enjoyed the Ride for the first time. The private shower became part of their routine.
María was known as Isabel Velázquez in political circles, and I often saw her in newspaper photos or news videos on TV. The Pol appeared with other women as well. Everyone knew his escorts were window dressing, and he was admired for his taste and manliness. No one bothered to investigate the real names or backgrounds of the escorts. He was a Democrat and the darling of the media. The political parties were all celebrity ego-strutting. The Pol was up-and-coming, at the celebrity top. That’s why the best women panted for him, why he had María.
Some of my friends and colleagues recognized María in the media, and a few became comfortable commenting on how beautiful she was, their discreet way of asking just what was my wife doing fucking that politician. An excellent question. If I would have told them the truth – I allowed it because it deliciously tore my genitals from my body, that it showed the whole world what a pathetic worm I was, they wouldn’t have understood. Some of María’s girl friends dumped her in disgust as a trashy whore, especially since the politician was black. Others admired her freedom and her perceived lifestyle with the politician, but couldn’t understand why I allowed it. I was willing for the Pol to use María if her presence could help him win high office. It was a small price to help the country.
I could see why the Pol wanted María as his public wife – she was the perfect skin color. The black escort was, well, too black. An entirely black couple was too extreme, too marginal even for California politics. The white escort generated an outcry of ‘uncle tom’ and ‘sellout’ from the black organizations, and the Asian escort was a little too light and represented a very small bloc of voters. María’s deep olive color, her beauty, and the sizable and growing Hispanic influx from Mexico made her perfect public wife for the Pol.
End of book content.
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