VD - Political Part 2

Election night is tense. You’re at Morrigan’s place in her lavish sitting room. It’s just you, Demi, and Morrigan. Morrigan’s campaign manager is around, and so are her servants, but they keep their distance as she paces restlessly. The TV is on as the demonic provinces report their totals, but it will take all night.

“Fucking hate this part,” Morrigan grumbles, going to the bar and pouring herself another drink, which she drains in a gulp. She’s wearing a bathrobe because she’ll have to get dressed later, either to give a concession speech or a victory speech.

Demi sits contentedly with her hands on her belly, watching the TV. She looks at Morrigan with sympathy. Then she glances at you. You know what she’s thinking: sitting here is painful. Especially with Morrigan acting this way.

“If only there was something stronger than a drink,” Demi says, rolling her eyes.

Morrigan pauses and looks at her steadily. Then she looks at you.

“That’s a good idea. Riley, give me some aura. Team spirit.”

“Um,” you say, startled. “What?” You look at Demi. “Are you pimping me out?”

“What? No. I mean, not if you don’t want to,” Demi says.

“Come on Riley. Just to take my mind off things,” Morrigan says hungrily, opening her robe.

“Oh jeez,” you say, staring at her. You’re around her a lot, but her crazy, sexy hourglass body never grows any less arresting. Her lavender lingerie is all sheer; you can see everything. She sways her torso a little to hypnotize you. “Oh, come on. We’re supposed to be being serious,” you add, self-consciously putting your hands in your lap.

“There it is,” Morrigan says, shuddering. “Yeah. Give me that.” She moves closer. You look in panic at Demi, but she’s feeling it too.

“Oh jeez,” you repeat as Morrigan drops her robe and climbs into your lap, settling her weight on you. Your bulge presses tightly against her panty-clad buttocks. You make a quiet squeaking noise.

“Good. Good,” she coos, looking into your eyes and softly rocking her hips. “More. Be more aroused.” She pops her bra and shoves her huge, bare breasts into your face, smothering you.

“Mmm!” you protest, but she hugs your head to her chest, shivering.

“Yes,” she hisses. She is drowning in it. You look in panic at Demi, only to see her with a hand in her blouse. She’s biting her lip as she twists her nipple, watching.

Morrigan’s campaign manager enters the room, holding a phone.

“Morrigan,” she says.

“Not now,” Morrigan pants, squeezing you in a **** grip and grinding her mound against you.

“I have Trish on the phone.”

Morrigan freezes, then leaps off you. Demi looks disappointed.

“What is she saying?” Morrigan demands.

“She’s ready to concede,” the campaign manager reports. “But she wants to do it in person.”