Marc Girardeau, Canadian Trade Negotiator

When Marc got off the plane in the US, the first thing he noticed was how empty the airport was. Of course, women weren’t in public on their own much here, and this was the first international flight to land in this country for decades.

Trade talks between his home country of Canada and the US had been going on for a few years at this point, and had finally gotten to the stage that it made sense to send an in-person delegation to iron out the details. He and his two fellow delegation members, Roger McMillan and Jacques Thibodeaux, were the first foreigners to be invited into the country in thirty years. So perhaps there were some extra security measures involved, as well.

The Americans had insisted that the delegation be all male. They were permitted to bring their significant others, but perhaps unsurprisingly Marc’s wife Caroline had chosen not to come on the trip. She also begged him not to go, repeating some particularly crazy rumors about the way things were for women in America, but he had told her that these were completely unsubstantiated, and that this was just too big of a career opportunity to pass up. She couldn't take any time off from her job as a university lecturer, in any case. He felt like Commodore Perry leading a trade expedition to Japan. This was everything he had ever worked for.

“Welcome to the USA!” called a large man just beyond the gate. This was Mr. Jenkins, the lead American negotiator. Behind him stood a gaggle of press. Not as large as it would have been in Canada, but then again it was Marc’s understanding that only a few outlets had survived the past few decades in the US.

Marc and his colleagues shook hands with Mr. Jenkins and the other American dignitaries who had appeared to greet them, as cameras clicked away.

Mr. Jenkins leaned into Marc’s ear and said, “The press will ask questions, but do not answer them. We will handle it.”

Marc nodded, he had anticipated this. But what he had not anticipated was the type of questions the press would throw his way.

“Mr. Girardeau, why are Canadian men such cucks?” came the first volley.

“Mr. Girardeau, is it true that your wife has a college degree and makes financial decisions in your house?” called another. “How can you possibly justify this?”

Fortunately for Marc, these questions had no relevance to the negotiations at hand, and he simply waved and nodded. Then Mr. Jenkins led the Canadian delegation away through the airport. Looking at his surroundings, Marc thought at first that it was not so different from the Ottawa airport from which the delegation had left.

But then he saw a large contraption along a hallway that at first he took for a vending machine, before he realized what was sticking out of it. From a hole in the machine protruded a woman’s head, her mouth held open in an “o” shape. She was a brunette, and a pretty one, thought Marc. Directly next to her was a similar hole from which a woman’s exposed ass and pussy poked through. To the right of this was a small screen which showed the face of a pretty blonde woman, drinking water from a tube inside the machine. The screen showed the face of the woman whose asshole and pussy were exposed, Marc quickly realized.

When he saw that his fellow negotiators were also distracted by this display, Marc decided to ask, “Ambassador Jenkins, what is this machine?”

Seeing what he was referring to, Mr. Jenkins smiled. “Ah yes, this is a relief station provided for weary travelers. You may feel free to use either the provided mouth, pussy, or ass, should you so desire. The females are well trained.” He pointed momentarily to a sign on the contraption holding the girls, which advertised its contents as “Pure, Cornfed Nebraska Whores.” “But I feel I should tell you,” he continued, “there will be far more secure and pleasurable facilities available at your accommodations.”

Marc looked at him for a moment, translating out of American bureaucrat in his head. “You mean we will be provided with better women at our hotel?”

“Of course,” Jenkins replied.

“You are aware that I’m married, yes?” Marc asked him. “While I appreciate the gesture, it is unnecessary.”

Jenkins smiled. “Mr. Girardeau, I’m sure that your Canadian wife is a lovely, submissive woman, but these are trained American sluts. It’s a whole different animal. Please, just try it for one night, and if you still believe a change is warranted, we can discuss. Is that satisfactory?”

Marc exchanged glances with the other members of the Canadian delegation. These talks were too fragile to throw roadblocks up for personal reasons. He would simply tell any woman he found in his room that she could rest for the evening and then continue with the negotiations in the morning without having ruffled any feathers.

“Of course,” he said, with a practiced, wide smile.

When the group got to their cars, Marc was expecting to get his first view of America as they passed through the streets. But the windows were tinted, and it was night in any case.

When the delegation arrived at the Hotel Washington, the entire group walked into an opulent lobby that must have been from before the New Patriarchy. Mr. Jenkins spoke to the hotel manager and a few members of his staff, then turned to them and said, “You will all be staying on the 14th floor. Please follow Mr. Howell here. Please remember that the conference will begin in the Maxwell Room at 9:00 a.m.”

Marc patiently waited as the manager took him and his fellow Canadians up the elevator to the 14th and top floor. The manager showed Mr. McMillan and Mr. Thibodeaux to their rooms. Finally, he ushered Marc to a door marked “Penthouse Suite.” He opened the door and waited as Marc went inside.

“Thank you, sir,” he finally said. “I hope you will find the Penthouse satisfactory. If you need anything, anything at all, please let me know.”

Marc nodded and walked further into the suite. It had a full kitchen and wet bar, with a full bathtub in the bathroom. The windows opened onto a panoramic view of the White House and National Mall. Finally, he turned to the bed, where the woman was waiting.

She knelt on top of the mattress, her mouth open, tongue outstretched. She wore lacy red lingerie that seemed more designed to showcase her ample curves, rather than hide them. Her posture was clearly meant to cause her full and beautiful breasts to jut out, on full display for him. Her long, dark hair was set off by her pale skin. This was going to be harder than he thought.

“Miss, please… you can relax,” he said. “It’s just us.”

The girl moved her eyes to look directly at him, and he nodded encouragingly. She pulled in her tongue, swallowed, and moved into a slightly more comfortable-looking position, though still kneeling on the bed.

“Thank you sir,” she said softly.

“So you can talk,” he said. “I will have to tell my wife that the rumors of Americans removing women’s tongues are lies.”

“There is no need, sir,” the girl said. She kept her eyes downcast.

“Oh, and why is that?”

“Because women cannot speak with a cock in their mouth.” She finally raised her eyes to meet his. “Would you like me to demonstrate, sir?”

Marc swallowed, then turned away from her, removed his tie, and placed it on the nightstand. This was definitely going to be more difficult than he had thought.