Gay Erotic Stories

Part 3 “The freakin’ first lady... what the hell does she want with me?” Latrell whispered to himself as he sat in front of the glowing computer screen. He thought about the strange offer for a few moments then typed in the simple reply, “Sure” without really knowing why, to his agent, then resumed checking his other accumulated mail. As he sat there, Latrell realized an entire night’s worth of sexing with the eager blonde model, now snoring in his bed, had made him as sweaty and gamey as playing an entire basketball game would have. Pushing himself away from the computer desk, Latrell tossed off his shorts and walked nakedly back through his bedroom, by Rebecca sleeping on the bed, and went into his bathroom to take a long hot shower. As the sizzling water cascaded down over his 6’6” frame, Latrell closed his eyes and soaked in the sensations of the soothing waters. As the water pounded down on him, he relished in the darkness just how fortunate his turn of events again had been. To go from a pariah on one coast, to the hottest ticket in town on the other and to have a married blonde supermodel sleeping in his own bed, while he’s showering up after laying it to her all night, “Only In America”, Latrell snickered to himself. Opening his eyes and looking through the rapidly steaming murky fog of the shower, Latrell realized someone was walking towards him outside the shower. As the shower curtain quietly opened, Latrell smiled wide looking down at Rebecca Romijn’s matted curly blonde hair as she eased her head around the closed soaked curtain. Like a baby in need of its bottle, Rebecca once again opened her mouth wide and began sucking Latrell Sprewell’s rapidly inflating cock as she dropped to her knees, her eyes closed as the rushing water from the shower head pulsed down onto her exhausted but hungry face like an early Spring thunderstorm. Soon Latrell’s cock would do the same... Three days later... Friday Morning and daybreak was splendid for Hillary Clinton as she looked out over the hotel’s penthouse view at the beautiful sunrise. Hillary prepared herself for her early morning campaign briefing with her staff and a run down of the day’s events. At the top of the list she knew would be a 2pm speech at the Boys & Girls Club in Harlem with an assortment of black and Hispanic Celebes aimed at getting a greater voting foothold in the inner city of New York. At the meeting, her campaign manager, Carl Gersteen walked Hillary through the day’s upcoming events as she sipped her coffee and patiently allowed her make up artists to slowly apply her face. As Carl reeled off the names of several of the Celebes that were going to be at the Harlem gathering, suddenly Hillary spoke up. “Who’s going to be there!” Hillary asked puzzledly. “Isn’t that the same basketball player that tried choking his coach to death a few years ago? He’s someone we want helping us get votes...” Carl quickly interjected, fully expecting Hillary not to be so keen on the idea. “Look, that was in the past, America loves a good comeback story, always has. This guy has apparently re-invented himself here in New York, almost to a point where he’s now a matinee idol. He’s gonna attract the youth vote, the black vote and as long as the Knicks are playing well, getting seen with him will only boost your recognition around here. Besides...you more than anyone should understand the nature of forgiveness.” Hillary looked back at Carl kind of bewildered, but his last statement had struck a chord. “Whatever... but he’s not touching me , you got it!” Hillary warned her campaign manager, only half joking. The Harlem Boys & Girls Club was packed with a throng of local youth cheering, dozens of reporters with their camera, lighting and sound people, and everyone seemed abuzz. It was a circus like atmosphere. While most of the participants looked out over the mad scene in augh, two of the inhabitants felt right at home in the atmosphere. Hillary and Latrell both were use to being surrounded by the screaming public and when the lights went on, they were both ready to perform. Latrell had spent the better part of the afternoon playing hoops with many of the kids from the club, signing autographs and cutting a few charity PSA’s for the upcoming NBA season. After the speeches started, Latrell, who had a chair behind the table on the main stage, had to fight himself to stay awake. As the meandering rambling of scripted prose continued to drone on, Latrell was awakened fully by the explosive roar of the crowd when Hillary finished up with her campaign speech. The crowd was buzzing, not so much from what Hillary had said, simply from being elated that the whole thing was all over. Latrell tried sneaking off the stage as the event was ending and finding the fastest exit, but before he could he was cornered by several of Hillary Clinton’s PR people asking him to walk out with Hillary for a few photo-ops. Latrell rolled his eyes and shock his head, but then absently agreed. Hillary and Latrell walked slowly side by side through the main flow of VIP’s out towards the main doors of the club. Surrounding them was a petulant intertwined mass of arms, legs, heads, TV cameras, lights and microphones. The assorted Secret Service agents and other law enforcement did a admirable job keeping the walking lane open for the dignitaries as they made their way out. Catcalls from many of the young girls in the stands echoed down onto Latrell as he walked out, almost drowning out the jumbled requests of the reporters as they tried to ask Hillary questions. Suddenly, a small black bra came raining down from above, landing squarely on Latrell’s shoulder before falling to the floor in front of the blushing First Lady. She stopped and bent over to pick the bra up. “I think this was meant for you?” she said laughing. Latrell took the lacy undergarment with a phone number taped to it from Hillary’s hand and said as if he was pleasantly use to this response but still trying to be sensitive to the first lady, “I’m sorry, this is really embarrassing.” “Oh No, don’t worry about it, I was young once and I know what these girls are going through. I’d have done the same thing if I saw the Beatles when I was a teenager,” Hillary said, half yelling to Latrell beside her over the din of the crowd. “Looks like you need the Secret Service protection more than I do,” Hillary joked, once again only half kidding. “You think?” Latrell replied surprised that the ice princess he thought she was actually had a little sense of humor. They both continued walking, smiling for the cameras lining the path. Hillary and Latrell stood side by side outside the main entrance to the club, allowing still photographers an opportunity to get a few final shots of the odd pair together. As Hillary extended her hand to Latrell for a parting handshake, Latrell took hers into his and both squeezed tightly. For just a brief moment, in a twilight zone type instant, Latrell tried loosening his grip and ending the embrace but Hillary held firm. Latrell looked down at Hillary, who was easily a foot shorter than he was, and marveled at the besheviled look on her face. Hillary was starring directly at their two black and white interlocked hands in front of her, in a scene reminiscent of what the movie poster for “Jungle Fever” looked like. Latrell could feel the energy course through Hillary’s tense palms and fingers until suddenly, the moment was over. Hillary let go and before Latrell could say anything her, Hillary’s handlers had whisked her over to her waiting limousine and they were off to the next meeting. Latrell stayed behind to shoot some more hoops with the waiting kids and perhaps he hoped he could find a phone number from a girl who was 18 or older in the assembled crowd of well wishers. After having checked in with her husband back in Washington and calling Chelsea out in Palo Alto, Hillary burrowed under the covers of her hotel bed, alone in her room to read up on several campaign topics and to perhaps begin her latest Harlequin novel. Bored, she flipped on the TV in front of her with the remote to watch the 10 o’clock news to see how the TV stations in NY were going to replay her day courting votes around town. Hillary looked over at the digital clock beside the bed and it read 9:50- 10 minutes to news time. She lazily looked through her policy statements, figuring the trashy novel could wait till after the news. As she plodded through the bland malaise of issues in the solitude of her hotel bedroom, the familiar rumblings of need deep within her loins began to sound like an impending thunderstorm off in the distance. Hillary tried to block out the feelings, focusing on her readings, but she knew in the end it would be fruitless. Like that impending storm, now the shock waves of her internal thunder was reverberating against the inner walls of her vagina, down her thighs making her toes tingle and up her torso until her pink round nipples became visible beneath the white fabric of her lacy conservative nightgown. Hillary’s fingers, seemingly acting on their own, began the deliberate journey from her side, up onto her exposed open inner thigh, stopping for a brief moment at the hem off her gown almost as if to ask permission at the gate, then it slowly moved under the hem and trailed its way straight upwards towards it’s goal. The clock now read 9:54. Her short white fingers moved in tentative slow circles up the inside of her thigh, making the slow devious journey that much more enjoyable. Hillary squeezed her palm against the inside of her thigh, forcing them apart as the warm rush of air immentating from her pussy coated her left hand. As if in a gesture of surrender to her own lustful cravings, Hillary cast aside her papers to concentrate fully on her own private dance. She positioned herself so that she was laying flat against the bed and pulled the covers down to her waist with her right hand. Through her slitted eyes she could see her knees rising above her on each side like a pair of white peaks, spread wide allowing easy access for her skilled hands. The index and middle fingers from her left hand suddenly disappeared into the steaming fissure between her outstretched thighs causing Hillary to grind her teeth together and let a low “Mewwwww” as her finger worked inside of her needy twat. She closed her eyes tightly and sighed even louder this time as her thumb began swirling back and forth across the raised nub of her clit while her fingers massaged the liquefied expanse of her own juicy pussy. Both of Hillary’s chubby legs now closed tightly around her left hand as it furrowed deep into her sex, while her asscheeks clumsily grinded into the hard mattress beneath her. She was cooing audibly as the clock flipped to 9:59. Hillary’s body now began to writhe involuntarily across the bed almost as if it was a snake sliding in place as it tried to move across the dusty desert floor. With her left hand firmly entrenched in her pussy, Hillary slid her right hand up to the top of her nightgown and haughtily pulled the top down allowing her milky white fleshy tits to spill free across her chest as she squeezed each round sphere desperately between her fingers. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that the news was beginning on TV. Hillary deftly sank two more fingers of her left hand into her sizzling vagina, now manipulating her G-spot as well as her cli at the same time, mentally trying to focus on an image that would get her off. She watched as the newscasters on the screen introduced themselves and eagerly focused on the female reporter when Hillary’s picture was superimposed on the screen above the pretty anchorwoman’s right shoulder. Hillary continued to unabashedly fondle herself as she watched the replay of her day unfold on the screen between her outstretched thighs. The sound on the TV was muted so the noisy wet sounds of Hillary’s hand firmly embedded in her cunt and her spastic breathing were the only sounds in the room. The sound bite package on TV followed Hillary from her early morning breakfast at the home of now Senator D. Patrick Moniyhan, lunch at the U.N. and her mid afternoon meeting at the Harlem Boys & Girls Club. Although the thought had danced on the periphery of her consciousness all evening, it wasn’t until right then that Hillary knew exactly what she was going to envision as she brought herself off to a powerful self gratifying orgasm. As the TV screen showed Hilary on the stage at the club giving her speech, Hillary lust soaked eyes focused on the tall black man with corn rolls in his hair, 5 chairs down from her at the table, as he sat looking blankly out over the crowd while she was speaking. That’s when the brief tantalizing feeling of sharing the fleeting handshake with Latrell Sprewel returned to Hillary’s consciousness with a blaring suddenness. “That’s it... oh yess.... that is it.. that’s exactly what I want... ummmyessss.ahh..ahhh.ahhhh” Hillary cooed as she frigged herself harder looking at Latrell on the screen and mentally recapturing the feel of his hand holding hers. Hillary replayed in her mind the short walk she made with Latrell as they left the gym and went outside, She focused on how nonchalant he was when the bra came flying down, almost as if he expected... no demanded that kind of attention from women. Although the feminist in her would detest that type of arrogance, the lustful needy woman writhing in the bed with her left hand working in her pussy and her right hand eagerly squeezing her alabaster breasts knew that was exactly the type of man she needed at that very moment to make her long burning need of a good fuck go away. Then it happened, the image on the screen cut to the handshake that Hillary and Latrell shared outside the club surrounded by reporters. Hillary could clearly see THAT look on her face as plain as day. The way she looked down at their interlocked hands, almost hypnotized with curious lust as his power coursed through her hand, up her arm and slamming devilishly right into her most erotic regions. Hillary was thankful that her support bra and her heavy red business coat were on to cover her unmistakable signs of arousal. “Wouldn’t that look great in the tabloids” Hillary thought to herself as she felt herself rapidly approaching her own private point of no return. Hillary Clinton imagined it was Latrell’s strong large black hand rather than her’s that was burrowed between her thighs, manipulating her G-spot and clit simulataniously while it roughly went about it devious charge. “OHHHHH...MMMMMMM.AHHH...AHHH.... AHHHHHHHH.....YESS....DOOO .... ..IIITTTT...DOOO..ITTTT TOOO MEEEEEE..! I NEED YOU. ...I NEED YOUUUUU RIGHTTTT ... NOWWWWW..AHH....AHHHHHH.... AHHHH .....I’M GONNNA..I’MM GONNA..I’MMMM CUMMMINGGGGGG ALL OVER YOUR HANDDD..MMMMMM... YESSS...I’LLLLL BE YOUR WHORRRRREEEE..GOD YESSS ...I’LLLL BE YOUR WHORRRRRREEEEE” Hillary cried as her orgasm made her thrash on the bed like a siezure had taken control of her body. Although the words were screamed in lustful release, as she slowly drifted down from her orgasmic heights, she realized she could in fact make that desire come true, that is if she really wanted to... Part 4 to come Thanks for reading!