Sarah Palin Erotica

The World of Men

by Delilah T. Jones

She stands in the cramped bathroom and stares at her reflection in the small, dirty mirror. An aide is rapping his knuckles against the door insistently, but she ignores him, the roar of plane engines, the incessant buzz of the press corps, her cell phone beeping in her purse. “I am Sarah Palin. I am the future president of the United States,” she says softly, allowing the corners of her mouth to curl. Carefully, she smoothes the wrinkles out of her blouse and skirt, makes sure she’s showing some cleavage, and gives her shoulders a little shake. She has been repeating this mantra for weeks now and every single time, she feels a rush of sensation between her ears and her thighs. In these vainglorious moments, she doesn’t think of the old man who brought her here or Todd or the kids or the one on the way. No. She thinks about herself and she likes it.

“Governor,” we really need you, the aide says, his voice rising to a desperate pitch.

She eyes herself once more, gives herself a fresh coat of lipstick and shakes her head. “This is some fucking country.”

Sarah has always lived in the world of men—first, it was Alaska with her rough hewn fishermen and wildcats and prospectors and miscreants and then, the campaign trail where men, young and old, with their loosened ties and sweat-stained dress shirts and multiple cell phones usher her through a parade of events. She smiles for the camera and shakes hands and parrots whatever party line will get the crowds frothing for more. It is a turn-on, she has to admit, choosing just the right words to get a crowd to follow her blindly. When he called to offer her a spot on the ticket, the old man had only one thing to say—give them a good story and look good telling it. I’m the mother of four children, Sarah thought. I know all about a good story.

At night, after the aides and handlers and yes men have retired to their hotel rooms to continue plotting the future of the world, Sarah likes to strip naked and slide into bed next to her husband. She will throw one leg over Todd’s muscular, hairy thigh rubbing her cunt against his skin while he plays with her hair. She’ll bite his chest, slide one hand down his stomach, wrapping her fingers around his cock. When her cunt is slick and her clit is throbbing, she’ll straddle Todd, hovering above his cock until her thigh muscles start trembling. She’ll stay like that until it burns. There’s a look in her husband’s eyes, a bright and frenzied look. He’ll slide his hands up her stomach to her breasts, fantastic breasts, she knows, squeezing them roughly. He’ll try to force himself inside her but she’ll stop him, planting one hand over his breastbone. She’ll lean down and bite his lower lip, breathe into his mouth, ease down so just the tip of his cock is touching her pussy lips. “Please, baby,” he’ll say. He’ll beg. He will sound desperate. It is that moment, that sweet terrible moment, that she enjoys the most because she knows that she may not be the smartest woman in the world, but she’ll always have this.

She rarely knows what city she’s in and she likes that sense that she’s really nowhere at all. When Todd is fucking her, and her thighs are pressed against his hips, and her hands are tearing at the skin on his back he’ll say, “I’m fucking the next president of the United States.”

She’ll stop moving her hips for a moment, breathing loudly and look up at him in the darkness. “Yes,” she’ll say. “Yes, you are.” And he’ll groan, loudly, shamelessly, burying his head against her shoulder as he comes. Because it turns him on too, that everywhere he goes, everyone knows that he’s the man who gets to fuck the next president of the United States. He’s got it made. Afterward, as he’s falling asleep and Sarah is sitting against the headboard, refreshing her memory about the party line or reviewing the next day’s itinerary, he’ll murmur, “This is some fucking country.” Sarah will pat Todd’s bare chest. “Go to sleep,” she’ll say.

What Sarah likes most about skirts is that they fall just far enough above the knee to catch a man’s attention. If she’s learned anything living in the world of men, it’s that a woman must always catch a man’s attention because without a man’s attention, a woman has nothing. She is nothing. What makes Sarah happiest right now is that she has the attention of a great many men. If her favorite thing is telling herself she will be the next president of the United States each time she passes a reflective surface, her second favorite thing is to sit in a conference room full of men in their crisp, slightly sweaty dress shirts and designer slacks with their earnestness and condescension and turn away from the table just enough to slowly cross and uncross her legs. She’ll allow her eyes to crinkle, the corners of her mouth turning up slightly and she’ll lean forward just enough for her blouse to part. She’ll watch them and the predictable way their eyes follow the toned muscles of her calves up to her breasts. They’ll clear their throats and adjust their ties and shift uncomfortably in their seats. She knows what they’re thinking—they’re thinking if they play their cards right, they too could be fucking the next president of the United States.

If her favorite thing is telling herself she will be the next president of the United States and her second favorite thing is toying with boys in conference rooms, then her third favorite thing is to read the things people say about her. When she’s flying between cities and the men in suits are buzzing around planning the future of the world, she loves to sit with her laptop, alone, reading about her inexperience and right wing politics and the tanning bed in the Governor’s Mansion which, it must be known, is one of the few places where she can have a moment to herself, and as such is a crucial part of the gubernatorial process. The caustic barbs and Photoshopped images and conspiracy theories about the maternity of her youngest don’t bother her. They’re a turn-on. They are talking about the next president of the United States, she thinks. And they just don’t get it. I could give a shit about reproductive health or alternative energy or tax cuts because when the old man kicks it, sooner than later, I will be fucking in the fucking East Wing.

One of the GOP aides who’s been assigned to Sarah is an eager young man with an earnest, serious haircut named Conor, with one “n.” He is tall and handsome in that uptight, muscular manner unique to Republican men whose bodies have not yet given way to too much bourbon, too much red meat and too many cigars. Conor recently graduated from one of those elite East Coast schools that the Republicans love to criticize but always attend. He has not been out of school long enough to realize that a degree in political science teaches one exactly nothing about politics and this ignorance is somehow endearing to Sarah. Conor is not very bright but he is good at getting things. He always knows the location of her phone, husband, glasses and suit jacket. He also knows how she takes her coffee and maintains custody of a pack of Marlboro Reds at all times. These are not inconsequential skills.

On those nights when Sarah is alone, when Todd is back in Alaska looking after their brood, Sarah is not really alone and it is not a well-kept secret. Amongst her staffers, it is not Trig Palin’s maternity in question but rather, the boy’s paternity. Some time after midnight, after she’s slipped out of her suit and set her glasses on the night stand, and she’s watching the image of a late night talk show host flicker silently on the TV screen, she’ll hear a soft tap at the door. She’ll wait for a second knock, and then she’ll open the door and let Conor in because in addition to getting things, he’s also fairly adept at giving things. He’ll look both ways, making sure the hallway is empty because he doesn’t yet realize that there are no secrets on the campaign trail. When he thinks the coast is clear, he will slide past the door and lean against it as it shuts. He’s always wearing jeans and a t-shirt and Sarah enjoys seeing the boy out of uniform.

“Madame Governor,” he’ll say, shivering because Sarah likes to keep her hotel room frigidly cold. It reminds her of home.

Sarah will hook her fingers in his belt loops, pulling him to her and she’ll smile as, predictably, his cock stiffens. Conor hasn’t traveled much but he wants to know more about the world. Conor hasn’t traveled much so he doesn’t realize that Sarah hasn’t traveled much herself but she’s good at telling a good story and that is enough. “Tell me about Alaska,” he’ll say. “Tell me about Europe. Teach me about the world.” She will slide her hands under his shirt, and grab at his neck with her teeth. She’ll leave a mark that he will try to cover the next morning with a high collar and a persistent lean.

“Alaska is a cold, hard place,” she’ll say. “And so is the rest of the world.” One doesn’t have to be well traveled to understand how the world works.

She isn’t one for ceremony when there are no cameras flashing. She gets that from her father. Sarah will slide to her knees, while Conor fumbles with the zipper of his jeans, and hurriedly shove them down around his ankles, his cock bright red, the tip moist with silver. He doesn’t know many women who are willing to suck cock because the women his age haven’t yet realized that in the world of men, a little head goes a long way. He thinks that Sarah, on her knees, her lips squeezing the base of his cock, is something special. She knows that being on her knees is a means to an end—in the world of men it’s important to have someone like Conor under her control.

Conor’s cock is average in length, but thick, and when he’s in her mouth Sarah drags her tongue along the underside, making wet sucking sounds. She works her hand up and down the shaft, twisting around, while she licks the tip slowly with the widest part of her tongue. She’ll cup her balls with her hand, pressing one fingernail just below his asshole.

It won’t take long for Conor to come, his hands pressed firmly against the back of Sarah’s head, thrusting his hips so that his cock reaches the back of her mouth. He will throw his head back, gripping her hair tighter between his fingers. He’ll only hear one thing—the sound of her gagging and struggling to breathe. As his cock softens, Sarah will bite because she has her spiteful moments. It won’t take long for Conor to get hard again. While they’re waiting, he’ll review her itinerary for the next day, telling her what to say to whom and when. He is careful and studious in these moments because he wants to do a good job. He wants to be a good boy.

Sarah will leave the TV on and she’ll drape herself over a low chair, her ass high in the air, studying the newscasters on Fox News. Conor will stand behind her. He’ll hold his cock and inch forward until he’s inside Sarah and he’ll sigh, enjoying the tight warmth clinging to him. As she bounces her ass and leans into him, he will shyly slap the backs of her thighs. Sarah will roll her eyes. He’ll rest his hands on her hips, pumping erratically. “Fucking,” she’ll think, “is a lot like drilling for oil.” Conor will be sweaty and red when he’s fucking her, the muscles in his neck straining. He has little control or finesse. But he makes her feel stretched wide open and sometimes, that’s enough.

She will close her eyes and imagine that she’s fucking her opponent, not the widower but the younger, brilliant one who tells a good story—the man who is lean and athletic and eloquent and so easy on the eyes. She imagines her opponent fucking her backstage at a debate in a dark secret place guarded by Secret Service agents while their spouses have an awkward conversation somewhere nearby. It is only then that she will get wet as she thinks about his hands holding her ass, tearing at her underwear, lifting her onto a table, spreading her thighs. It is only then that her skin will tingle and she’ll spread her legs wider and she’ll bark at Conor to fuck her harder.

She will stare at her reflection in the TV screen and imagine her opponent standing behind her, one hand in her hair, yanking her head back, bruising her lips with his, nipping his tongue with her teeth. She’ll imagine her opponent twisting her nipples between his fingers until she cries out, then twisting them harder, hard enough that her knees buckle. She imagines him pulling her back up and slapping her hard enough to make her jump. She imagines him making her say his name. She imagines him making her beg. She comes, thinking about her opponent buried deep inside her, fucking so hard that her body starts to come apart. Then she will remember Conor.

The closer Conor gets to coming, the faster he will thrust and as he comes, he will fall on her back, panting. His sweat trickling along her rib cage will make her cringe. “I just fucked the next president of the United States,” he’ll say.

“No,” she’ll reply. “The next president of the United States just fucked you.”

Conor will be confused but won’t linger on the point. He’ll sit in the chair they just fucked on, pulling Sarah onto his lap. “What do you think of when we’re fucking?” he’ll ask.

“The next president of the United States,” she’ll say, imagining skirting away from that dark secret place while straightening her clothes and smelling her opponent on her skin.

Then, Sarah will push Conor away and take a shower. When she steps out, the mirror will be foggy so she’ll wipe away just enough condensation to consider her reflection. She’ll wonder how long the old man has left—how long she has before she becomes the next president of the United States. As she thinks of the boy in the next room and her husband at home, she’ll feel slightly nauseous. Then, as the mirror fogs up again, she won’t. The next president of the United States doesn’t need to concern herself with the trivialities of infidelity. She’ll sit on the edge of the tub, legs crossed, and light one of the cigarettes Conor keeps for her. She’ll lotion her legs between drags, tapping her ashes into the toilet. The hotel will charge her $150 because she has been installed in a nonsmoking room.

Back in the bedroom, a towel wrapped tightly around her body, she’ll find Conor comfortably asleep on her bed, one arm resting over his head, the other over his heart, the sheets tangled around him. Sarah won’t mind because she doesn’t like to sleep alone. She’ll lie next to him, sore¾but not sore enough¾and unsatisfied. She’ll call home and check in, listening to the children chatter about their day, then she’ll send them off to bed with her love. She’ll talk dirty to Todd with her back pressed against Conor’s and her fingers furiously rubbing her clit. He’ll recount the time they fucked against a tree in the deep woods in the middle of January and he’ll tell her about all the things he’s going to do to her when they meet up again. Her breathing will be heavy and when she comes, her entire body will shake uncontrollably. She’ll fall asleep with her hand between her thighs, her cell phone pressed against her cheek.

In the morning, she’ll fly to New York and sit for an interview with Katie Couric. She will not acquit herself the way she should but it will be of little matter. The current administration has lowered the bar of expectation for what the president of the United States should know. What Sarah will know is this: She will know that Katie doesn’t like her. She’ll know that her skirts hemmed a few inches above the knee will have no effect on the newscaster. She’ll also know that the reason she got the call from the old man is the same reason why Katie Couric won’t have her job for long.

Afterwards, she and Conor will sit in the back of a limousine and head to a meeting with world leaders and their spouses. She will look forward to meeting the first lady of France, a woman, to her mind, who has perfected the art of living in the world of men. Conor will reassure her that she did fine. They’ll both know he’s lying. As she is staring out the window, watching a city filled with the kinds of people she will never understand, Connor will kiss her neck and paw at her chest with his hands. Sarah will catch the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror and just slightly inch her head to the left. The driver will smirk as he raises the privacy divider. He loves his job. Sarah will uncross her legs, pulling Conor’s hand between her thighs. She’ll lean back as he pulls her panties aside and roughly slides three fingers into her cunt. She’ll dig her fingernails into his wrist and leave another mark. She’ll ignore her ringing cell phone and the cacophony of a traffic-filled street. She’ll look out at the city again. She’ll stare at her reflection. She’ll imagine that she her body is being filled by the man with the long, slender fingers who should be the next president of the United States. She won’t come and when she pushes Conor away, she will be sad because she knows how the world of men works. “This is some fucking country,” she’ll think.

Bio: Delilah T. Jones is a Democrat.

Sarah Palin: The Agony and the Ecstasy

by Jackson West

With the punch of a button, the hum of the dishwasher kicked into gear. It was a Friday night, and she was supposed to be in Juneau, but knowing the house would be empty, she couldn’t resist the temptation to fly back to Wasilla for a little quiet time away from all the haters in the capitol.

Bristol was off cheering at one of Levi’s away games, and the grandparents had the rest. Todd was on his cross-country snowmobile race. The thought of him sitting at the fire, a few days leaner from his camp diet, his beard growing more rugged by the day, made her smile a bit. But then she remembered how long it had been since they’d crossed a finish line together, in a manner of speaking.

The frown lines deepened when she thought of what Bristol and Levi would probably be up to after the game. If it was anything like those early years with Todd, she’d know exactly who to blame for the shrinking glaciers in Denali. It always took more than a few beers, but once Todd’s young eyes sparkled dully, she was in for a mauling worse than any a park ranger might describe in mixed company. Lot would have blushed at some of the things she’d let him do to her back then when they were dumb kids trying to avoid the family way.

Naturally, their ignorant fumbling had paid off with their first child. So he shipped off for half a year to drill for oil, and it hadn’t been the same since. She didn’t know what those boys got up to at the head of the pipeline, but whatever it was, Todd only came back drained. Sure, Trig was still a baby, but that was nearly two years ago.

Her descent into sinful nostalgia was broken when the cell phone rang. It was just her chief of staff, and she clicked ignore with a heavy sigh. If it was important business, he knew to call her personal number. She loved Alaska, but Alaskans? Few could spell “discretion.” Understanding it was a lot to ask.

It was only six, but it had been dark for a while. With a cup of chamomile tea, she walked through the big, empty house, making sure everything was in proper order. All was well until she spotted dust on the buck, bear and beaver trophies in Todd’s den. She punched a note into her BlackBerry reminding herself to scold the cleaning lady, maybe even dock her pay. “Those papists and their work ethic,” she clucked knowingly, having escaped through force of ambition.

Tired of pecking aimlessly, she retired to the living room, grabbing the remote and falling back into the cushions of the sectional. She flicked on the set but kept it muted. CSPAN replayed an Obama speech from Iowa. The heartland was a bastion of christendom, she thought, but apparently even there the atheists and homosexuals had run roughshod. She took solace that those lower 48’s will be hard pressed to find comfort in her state come the calamity if they elected some jihadi.

Cutting through her mental smog of smug self-satisfaction were the icicles of a cutting headache. She flicked off the set. Crossing her legs before putting her feet on the divan, she leaned back and rubbed her temples. That lanky, smooth-talking Arab winning the primary would be a clear sign, she rationalized — even an opportunity. Because it will all be over soon, and he serves to fulfill the prophesies. “Good luck getting Allah to help govern that mess,” she said out loud to no one in particular. But the muscles in her neck only grew more tense, gripping her skull in a vice of pain.

How long had it been since she’d been to her old church? Her campaign advisers had told her to switch to some unitarian slum full of deist freethinkers and Buddhist burnouts. She’d resisted at first, resolute in predestination, but when that nice little Thomas from Africa told her she’d be doing the Lord’s work by subverting the power of the state from within, she’d consented. “Lead the sheep,” he said. Who was she to deny His will?

Casting about the migraine’s static, she hit upon a clear signal from the Lord: She needed that old-time religion.

The Master’s Commission always met on a Friday night for a meeting and prayer. If she got ready now, she could make it just in time. It was probably just the thing she needed to cut loose and get rid of some of these thoughts, these feelings, these selfish needs — her self and her pride in greed, venality and manipulation. So she clicked her keyfob remote to start warming up the Yukon in the garage.

—

She stepped out of the truuck and into the grimy, crusted ice of the parking lot in her soft, padded boots. She almost slipped and fell on the wet runner making her way down from the cabin, slamming the door in frustration and anger but just restraining herself from swearing out loud. The traffic had made exacerbated her tension, especially since she’d been chauffeured with an escort for as long as she cared to remember.

The sub-freezing night air was dry and crystal clear, and the lights from inside the church sparkled, catching thousands of snowflake facets. The awesome, uncanny silence of the surrounding woods only magnified the wonder. Close by, a raven squawked. Ever so faintly now, she could hear the clatter of metal and plastic as the commission put away the meeting chairs to make room for the sermon.

The musicians started to tune their instruments as she crossed the lot, hurrying. Brighter grew the glow from the windows. She desperately wanted to break into a run, but stepped gingerly, worried about black ice. Her mail-order skirt was new, and she didn’t want to ruin it with a backslide.

Opening the door, it hit her all at once. The warm, moist air of the cloister and the first chords of “No Turning Back” by This Beautiful Republic fluttered on the guitar were magic. Sweating from the press of heat, she took off her fur-trimmed parka and kicked off her dirty boots.

The stagelights, a swirl of color reflect from the altar, mesmerized her. Pastor Ed stood centered under the cross at the head of a circle of young warriors. Heads bent in prayer, they swayed gently, murmuring a mantra barely audible while the guitarist coaxed a few introductory bars into a treacly extended solo.

As she approached the circle, those gathered quietly made room for her, directly across from the pastor–as if they knew she was coming and felt her sentient presence. Stepping in and clasping hands, Ed’s eyes briefly met hers. He smiled in acknowledgment, sending a shiver down her spine. She hung her head and closed her eyes, miming humility and finding it as relaxing as ever.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” she joined in the prayer. But it brokered no relief from the guilt. These people had done so much for her, and she had forsaken them for a higher power. Here she was greedily accepting their touch and their warmth, their music and their prayer when they’d never come to her office asking for such handouts. “Jesus, oh Jesus, I am sorry!”

“Let it out, Sister Sarah,” Ed commanded firmly.

“Oh Jesus, I am so sorry that I’ve been vain and lustful. That I have justified lies to the ungodly and to myself in your name. That I am complicit in this evil government that denies you, repudiates your will, and sanctions untold abominations. I come to you, Jesus, my Lord, because I went to my beautiful house and it was empty of your love.”

“Say it, sister, say it out loud,” exclaimed a young man whose voice had just broken. A deferential “amen” was offered by the younger woman next to him.

“My husband is wandering the wilderness, and my daughter goes down on Satan’s temptations without me. Yet I yearned to be alone. Because with all of us in the same room, you’d be there, and I didn’t feel up to your judgment today.”

Laughter, and she almost looked up to shower them with her radiant presence. Self-checked, she hated herself for the easy irony. “But it wasn’t fun, or funny.”

The laughing stopped, and Ed sniffed approval. With that, pride almost unbowed her shoulders.

“It began to hurt. Hurt bad. Starting with a headache, I knew what was sick was my heart.” The guitarist wailed with a clear, high note. Now she threw her head back, and she could feel the hot tears as they welled and ran down her cheeks. “I love you Jesus! Love you! Need you! I need you, Jesus, now more than ever!”

“Praise Jesus!” The whole group shouted, and the drummer’s wicked fill kicked the song into gear. Ed spoke: “Bless her Jesus! Our lord who blessed us all with your sacrifice!” The band settled into the uptempo groove. “You brought our sister Sarah back from the vile wickedness of the heathens and back into our arms. In the name of our father, amen!”

The circle of hands disintegrated, bodies pushing closer together, moving forcefully with the rhythm. Some jumped up and down, shaking their heads from side to side. “Somebody told me the holy spirit would show up tonight. And boy did it ever. Thank God that it paid a call to sister Sarah on his way over!”

She smiled, unreservedly, with joy. It was true, she could feel the holy spirit now, all around yet deep inside her. In and out it breathed, until she could her its voice as her own, starting deep and slow and in a language unknown. “Salamamalaa oompharizada lalooloonalee,” she intoned. “Faraseesee wareneesooga.”

Everyone began a chant, even Ed. The terrible power of God amplified, feverish. “Kalookakaseegee! Gabinjournakaka, malitsoteekagow!”

The tongues took her deep into a reverie. Her mind’s eye he came into focus on Him, his crystal blue eyes deeper than any ocean, his haloed hair golden like a mountain meadow in the late summer, his snowy skin gently softening those masculine angles, chiseled from a world of sin and hardship as though from immutable rock. In his embrace the caresses glided softly. She didn’t flinch as he marked her all over, smoothly, in the warm blood of salvation from his weeping wounds.

Her keening ululations pierced through an expanded consciousness that included her body melting into Him. Into infinity. Beyond. Suddenly, her weak flesh and her eternal soul were entangled by a zenith of pleasure. Her designer silk blouse clung wetly to her bosom. The pulsing energy started to build up inside her, and she begged not to let it burst, not to let her lose control.

He began to drift away, smiling. “Jesus,” she tried to shout, hoarsely. “God, oh God. Jesus!”

Her fellow acolytes pressed closer passionately, the music cascaded into a crescendo, the lights became a psychedelic kaleidoscope. Explosively, Ed’s hand fell hard against her forehead. Deafeningly, his voice reverberated through the microphone. Hallelujah!”

Ecstasy ripped through her mercilessly, followed by a full moon, tidal throb. Her body convulsed, her flesh goosebumped, her face and chest burning red hot. As soon as it had receded and she thought she’d returned to calm, the storm of indulgent sensuality struck again, bringing her to her knees. Then again, leaving her on all fours. She could feel no self, no feelings. Simply brilliant light and calm darkness, pure euphoria and total ease.

—

On the floor, lying on her back, she was right where she had been standing. A pillow had been folded under her head, and a blanket draped over her. Her eyes itched red, and the muscles in her legs and arms were exhausted. Her blouse still damp.

She tried to get up, but shame overtook her–a slick, unseemly wetness between her thighs betrayed her–she had ruined her new skirt after all. An ebb of embarrassment, then fear. How on earth could she show herself in public in her condition? Having come to repent her pride, this unexpected penitence humbled her beyond belief.

Maybe she could lay back down and play asleep until most everyone had left the building, she thought, until a solicitous voice resonated behind her. “Sister Sarah, I’m so glad you came by tonight.”

It was Ed, and whatever his intentions, his arrival was that of an angel descended. She turned to him girlishly, demure, clutching the blanket around her hips. “I don’t know what came over me. I haven’t felt the holy spirit like that since I was born again into the fold of the righteous.” She smiled, wanly.

“If any man–or woman–thirst, let him come unto me and drink,” he grinned back, bending onto one knee. “Here, let me help you up.”

“I can manage.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I wanted so bad to be redeemed tonight. I slipped in the snow hurrying from my car. I was just so moved I forgot all about my wet skirt.”

“When I lay on my hands, the Lord sure does work through me,” he chuckled, knowingly yet sympathetic. “Your body is not your own when He chooses to force his mastery upon you.”

Her stare hardens, searching, skeptical.

“I’ve got some donations from the clothing drive last weekend staked in my office. I’m sure the congregation wouldn’t mind if you traded your skirt for another for a spell.”

He reached out his hand, and she saw he, too, was slick with exertion. Body odor and spent cologne mingled with the stench of her mortal imperfection, headily.

She looked him straight in the eyes, flashed her winning smile, and firmly laid her hand upon his.

Jackson West grew up in the Pacific Northwest, wishes there were more than two viable parties, and has more foreign policy experience than Sarah Palin. His most recent work can be found at http://www.jacksonwest.com/ where he also posts photographs of particularly delicious meals on occasion.

Swing Vote

by Stan Kent

Even in Los Angeles with its ever changing landscape of willing flesh, swinging can grow tedious. You bump into the same bodies you fucked last week at different parties and it starts to feel like you’re in one very big and open marriage, and when that happens, it’s time to hit the road. Or more precisely, the high seas, for the annual Swing Saila cruise from LA to San Francisco, Seattle, Vancouver and Ketchikan, Alaska and back again, with a stop in Portland. The ship docks and takes on bawdy boarders for a night of rocking the boat; it’s a month of sampling swingers in all these very different towns, and it is guaranteed to revitalize our juices for our return to all that LA has to offer.

Ceyenne and I had lusted our way through the early stops and had enjoyed the downtime as we cruised to Alaska and its contradictory beauty. Just as that landscape can be beguiling and repulsive at the same time for the way it is abused and used by locals and oil companies alike, so too can the Alaskan swingers be a strange bunch of horny individuals—you’re never quite sure whether you might not end up stuffed and mounted above a fireplace next to last season’s moose. It is the frontier mentality and it can be exciting in a way we never get in LA.

Conscious that we had an LA image to uphold, we dressed in sleazy style. Ceyenne wore a skintight black PVC dress that had both sides open except for a thin shear mesh that looked like stockings running along the length of her shapely torso. Any notion of lingerie underneath was superfluous; six-inch high Giuseppe Zanotti black platform heels were her only other adornments. She was dressed for fucking. I was similarly dressed to fuck in skintight red and black leopard print trousers, black pointy Casadei boots and a wrinkled white dress shirt and skinny tie. I had a pocket full of condoms, and Ceyenne and I had a boatload of hope and trepidation as to what fresh meat Ketchikan had to offer. We were fully prepared, should the Lust Gods not cooperate, to hightail it to our cabin and fuck each other senseless under the midnight sun.

Our fears were silly; there were ample lovely bodies to choose from, as well as some more down-to-earth types who were eyeing us like deer on the first day of hunting season. We had to act fast to avoid being cornered, so we made our way to the dance floor where we could always be mobile. We started dancing and noticed a couple eyeing us from across the room. I motioned for Ceyenne to scope them out and her response was predictable: “They’re perfect.”

She strutted across the floor and took them both by the hand and brought them to me. They seemed a bit on the shy side. We learned their names were Sarah and Todd, but she referred to him as “dude,” and he called her affectionately “babe.” She had MILF written all over her shapely little body. There had to be a minivan full of hockey sticks parked on the quay. Her hair was piled high and loosely tousled with librarian glasses atop a pert nose. She wore a schoolgirl uniform made all the more authentic by a dangling crucifix. Her white knee socks and black Mary Jane high heels had me hard the moment she spun around on the dancefloor to reveal white cotton panties under her thigh-length pleated skirt. Dude was busy wrapping himself around Ceyenne, so I took the opportunity to do some dirty dancing with Sarah. She was up to that task, rubbing her ass in my crotch with the skill of an experience stripper. I had my arms around her, squeezing two firm, tight titties. Her nipples grew hard and I slid one hand lower, tracing her hourglass torso down to the hem of her skirt. She did not flinch, but instead purred as I slipped my hand up her skirt and under the elastic of her snow-white panties. Her pussy was furry and wet. She sank herself on my finger, turned to me and demanded, “Let’s go to your cabin.”

This was fast even for us; I nodded at Ceyenne, who steered Dude over to Sarah and me and we enjoyed some group frottage as I told Ceyenne what Sarah had proposed. She looked surprised, but one quick survey of the room confirmed that we had the best of the catch. Ceyenne nodded. She grabbed Dude’s hand and led him towards our cabin. Sarah slid off my finger and ran across the dancefloor to pick up what looked like a hockey equipment bag. She noticed the quizzical look on my face and headed off any concern by saying it contained her costumes, adding that she and Dude enjoyed playing roles. As long as one of them wasn’t axe murderer, I was down with that. Ceyenne had enjoyed our fair share of doctor and patient, cop and prostitute, President and intern—it would be fun to see what fantasies Sarah and Todd enjoyed.

We were in our cabin and falling all over each other before we could even offer them a drink. We disengaged long enough for Dude to enjoy a beer as he slid his other hand up Ceyenne’s dress while Sarah knocked back a couple of Jack Daniels swigs from the bottle as she unzipped my leopard pants and stroked my cock. With a mouth full of Jack, she leaned over and swallowed my cock, the whiskey burning at my tender flesh. Her tongue worked around my tingling dick to lick the Jack from my balls. She looked up at my face.

“We call that a Jack and Cock up here.”

“Nice…” was all I could manage in return.

“She’s cute as a button,” Sarah said, stroking Ceyenne’s shoulder, before turning to me and saying, “Now why don’t you just sit back, have a drink and watch.”

How perceptive of her to know that I am a confirmed voyeur, and then I realized that she had probably done her research looking at our profile, or perhaps she could just tell by the way my eyes were always moving around and over Ceyenne. Which is what she was doing as she moved behind my girlfriend and pulled her backwards, wrapping her arms around her breasts, pushing her arms upwards as if Ceyenne were bound like some trapped animal.

“Hey, Dude, push up her slutty dress and fuck this unholy wench good for me,” Sarah growled.

“My pleasure, Babe.”

“Make her repent for me, Dude. Use your holy cock to purify her naughty cunt.”

To see this prim and proper eyeglass-wearing schoolgirl holding my girlfriend down and coaxing her husband to fuck Ceyenne was extreme, scary and seductive at the same time. Ceyenne was getting into it, wriggling as Dude pushed up the transparency of her dress while Sarah held her breasts and body tight against her.

“Yeah, slutty LA girl, grind your hot little body on my pussy. Struggle all you like; it makes it better for Dude.”

Dude was naked and between Ceyenne’s legs, rubbing an impressive condomed cock up and down my girlfriend’s pussy.

“She’s wet, Babe, very wet.”

“Then give it to her, Dude, give her your gift that you give to me every night. Give her your dick and make her squeal for her boyfriend.”

This was pretty hot fucking stuff that I wished I were recording for later enjoyment. My hand fell to my cock and I stroked the shaft, feeling the wetness ooze from my tip.

“Easy there hot stud, your turn will come. Don’t you go wasting that seed.”

My hand fell to my side, but my vision stayed fast to our bed as Ceyenne had her legs wrapped around Dude as Sarah held my girlfriend tight. Dude fucked her hard and fast, pushing Ceyenne into Sarah’s widespread legs. It was like he was fucking his MILF through my girlfriend; they moved in concert, his thrusting causing strands of Sarah’s hair to fall from the piled high bun, and true to his command he was making Ceyenne squeal. She was their fucktoy and they knew how to use her. As my girlfriend reached a tidal wave making orgasm, Sara leaned forward, the crucifix landing on Ceyenne’s forehead where Sarah pressed it tight with her breasts as they popped out of the too-tight shirt and half-cup bra.

Ceyenne’s orgasming pussy had Dude in the final throws of his climax, when he did something that surprised my swinger-seen-it-all-before sensibilities. He pulled his cock out and whipped off the condom like a very skilled pornstar and just when I thought he was going to give Ceyenne a pearl necklace, he leaned forward and Sarah looked up and opened her mouth to receive a jism eruption. She sucked his coming cock deep in her throat, her breasts still pressed to Ceyenne’s head.

Sarah pulled away, licking her lips.

“That’s good, Dude. Very good. Now why don’t you eat this little slut’s pussy while I take care of his cock.” She then turned to me and barked, “You! Come over here and lie down next to your girlfriend—and lose those silly clothes.”

I tore off the offending garments and lay down next to Ceyenne. Dude was already wearing her like a pair of sunglasses. She gripped my hand and we kissed. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sarah slip off her cotton panties. She straddled my body and sank my cock deep into her furry snatch. She was warm and gushing like I imagined an Alaskan oil well to be, with her juices just as thick and aromatic. She was soaking my thighs as she flexed her knees up and down. I broke from the kiss with Ceyenne as Sarah leaned forward, pressing the crucifix to my forehead with bullet-hard breasts and soft, warm breasts. She reached behind her with her hand and cradled my balls, squeezing them tight in a skilled way that slowed the onrush of what would have been a very premature ejaculation. Her long middle finger probed my ass, coating my anus with her juices until I was sufficiently moist for her to insert her finger, and it was my turn to be squealing along with Ceyenne as Dude licked her wall the way to the moon and back. Sarah pushed her digit around in a rude, brusque, no nonsense fashion that made me feel like a rag-doll puppet. I came in torrents, and even then she didn’t stop working over my ass and balls with her hand, her cunt adding an equally torturous pressure to my shaft.

“Do me, Dude. Do your Babe in the ass. Leave the slut’s pussy and give your Babe an Alaskan ass fucking.”

Ceyenne was limp besides me, but we still held hands. I felt Dude’s legs between mine as he positioned himself behind Sarah. I saw his hands grip her shoulders and he eased himself into her butt. They moved slowly at first until they found their rhythm, and then he was banging away, and I felt his cock rubbing along mine through the thin wall of Sarah’s pussy. I grew hard again as she moved along my shaft until I felt his cock pulse, and Dude bellowed like an angry moose as I felt his sperm fill her ass. I think I blacked out.

Next thing Ceyenne and I knew was that a naked Sarah was bent over at the foot of the bed rummaging through her big hockey equipment bag. Sarah’s hourglass was red and her sphincter gaped from the fucking. Dude was licking at her legs and cheeks, cleaning her in a tender and just a bit creepy fashion.

“Here, put this on.”

She tossed Dude some clothes and it took Ceyenne and me a few seconds to realize it was a priest’s robes. Sarah was dressing as a nun. They stood at the foot of the bed. Dude jerked off, sprinkling us with his “holy water” as Sarah read us a sermon about the error of our promiscuous ways. Then it was my turn to eat Sarah’s pussy while Ceyenne fellated Dude, all to a Holy Roller litany. This was kinkier than anything we’d done in LA, and it got even stranger when the next rummaging through Sarah’s bag of disguises had them dressed as soldiers and we were put through our drill exercises. Then they dressed as hockey players and it got rough as we were pummeled and checked into ecstasy. And finally, they dressed as a young, married couple. Dude looked every bit the down-home dad and Sarah the quintessential young, professional mom who everyone in the PTA would want to fuck.

After they left, Ceyenne and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. We soaked each other in the shower, amazed at the role-playing we had experienced. We were sore physically and mentally, but pleasantly exhausted. It had been a thrill and a treat, and had opened our eyes to the erotic possibilities of the far North, but scared us a little too about the way we had been used as means to their ends.

It was years later when Ceyenne was watching the news and saw the announcement of Sarah Palin as vice-presidential candidate that I thought my girlfriend was having a seizure.

“Look … look … look … it’s … it’s …”

“Fuck me,” was all the eloquence I could muster.

“Would you vote for her? McCain isn’t a spring chicken. She could have her finger on the button.”

I thought back to that sex-filled night on the boat and remembered how Sarah’s finger had rough-housed my ass with no sense of subtlety. Here was a woman who was definitely trigger happy.

“No way,” I said. “She’s not getting my vote.”

Yes, we are finally launching! A bit late in the game, but hopefully these stories will still entertain you. They are intended as entertainment, satire, and hopefully will arouse you and make you think.

If you’d like to submit a story, send a Word document to sarahpalinerotica@gmail.com

For more information about the site, read the interview in The Village Voice.