Special Assistant.
Part 4
By Bald Hairy Man e-mail bldhrymn@aol.com or bldhrymn@yahoo.com
This is an adult story intended for adults. It is a fantasy, so I again remind you that I have done away with the requirements of safe sex, and have included no gestures toward common sense either. These are all new stories. Please e-mail me if you have any suggestions or comments.
I thought about my conversation with Rolf and Marty. I couldn't sleep that night. What was Ronnie-Randall's game? Was he using his cover as a reporter as a way to service his "clients" in the White house? Was he blackmailing his "clients" to enter the White house? My own brief experience with him suggested he was as right wing as they come. Was that true or just a cover?
It seemed likely Randall was mentally ill, or at very least disturbed. Did Randall have an ulterior motive? Would he snap some day and go postal? I had no good answers. My unease with the situation grew over the next few weeks. At first Randall sat at the back of the briefing room and kept quiet. He became increasingly vocal asking questions. More alarming was the Press Secretary's increasing tenancy to call on him.
Fortunately most of the reporters were too self absorbed to notice Randall. I noticed. I hardly knew the Press Secretary, Wally Miller. Wally was far too high in the establishment to care about junior staffers. He called on Randall when he was in the middle of an embarrassing or difficult string of questions. When the regulars began to gang up on him, Wally would call on Randall. Randall would lob a nerfball question at him, with no relationship to the previous questions. Wally would address Randall's question at length, then end the press conference.
The first few times I noticed this, I thought it was accidental, but after a while it became clear all was prearranged. Wally had a prepared ten of fifteen minutes of response to Randall's question. I had access to the RNC's "talking Points" for the week. Typically Randall's questions related to this. Again, I didn't think the reporters noticed.
I could see several reporters glancing at Randall. Several were clearly annoyed, but one or two had a very different look in their eyes. Randal got around. In some ways I admired his industry. He must have been a busy man. He had a web site and seemed to write a column or two every day. He spent all day at the White house and was busy every night and rarely missed a reception, party or dinner.
Randall's industry was a puzzlement until I met Ed Smith. Ed was lower on the totem pole than even I and we went to lunch a few times. Ed had been a hockey player at College. He was big, handsome and macho. He was also sexually experienced with women. He was an English major from Dartmouth and wrote press releases. We got along well and got along even better when we had a chance meeting at the urinals in the Executive Office Building. Ed was hung and he liked my equipment too.
We got together a week later and really hit it off. I was in the closet, but Ed's closet was deeper and darker than mine. On occasion I admitted I liked men, to myself at least. Ed was sexually driven, but in deepest denial. It was sad. He came to my apartment and had a few drinks. He pretended to be drunk and we let nature take its course.
I sucked him and he loved it. Ed shot off easily, but there must have been a quart of spunk trapped in his balls. He went home after shooting off, but he was back a few days later. We had a few more drinks and we 69ed. He learned how to suck. While Ed didn't admit he liked it, he made sure to drain my balls before he left. Ed was a good man, but with this one hang up. He was gay and couldn't deal with that.
A week later Ed appeared at my apartment after a party. He arrived a bit drunk. A few beers later his cock was in my ass. He popped into my ass and shot off within a minute. Poor Ed found his true sexual identity. Ed loved it. He wanted to leave but I made him stay. I told him if he waited he'd get hard again and could fuck me a second time. He didn't want to stay, but the prospect of another orgasm was too much for him to pass up. "Fortunately," I said. "Cocks are gifts that keep on giving."
Ed was grateful I let him in my ass. I almost told him the pleasure was all mine, but kept my mouth shut. He didn't want to offend me, so he stayed. We talked for a while and he told me he wrote columns for friendly reporters. "It's funny, they were supposed to be guidelines, but one guy copies them word for word. I never guessed Randall would do that," he said. "He's an odd bird. He walks in every morning, grabs the columns and leaves. He doesn't even look at them, or say hello."
"Maybe he says hello to more important men," I said.
Ed smiled. "Randall has a good nose for rank," Ed observed. "I don't think he wastes pleasantries on peasants." By this time, Ed was hard again and we had a second session. Ed had been a slam-bang-thank-you-man kind of fucker. He took his time and discovered it was better when it lasted longer. It was better for me too. When he cried out, he was going to shoot, I got him to stop and cool down. I think I got him to the edge two more times before he finally popped.
This was all new to Ed. He had been sexually active in high school and college and was use to quick and dirty fucking. Talking it slow was new to him and he loved it. We talked and Ed told me he thought he could do it again, if I were game. I was, so we continued chatting as his body reloaded.
Officially, Ed wrote press releases. Most of his work was confidential. He provided the raw materials for columnist and reporter to support the administration's policies. If a Senator or commentator was making too many direct hits, Ed would write a grenade to be lobed at him or her by a respected "independent" columnist.
Apparently the Administration had what Ed called "subsidies" for friends. "A little sugar makes the medicine go down," Ed said.
"Is Randall a friend?" I asked.
"I don't know about him. He's someone's friend. I just don't know who. He's the only one who takes everything word for word as I write it," Ed remarked. "He's not known as a writer, so he doesn't have to change it to match his own writing style. As far as I know, he not on the payroll, but there's a lot I don't know. There's a lot I don't want to know either. It's pretty rough and tumble. They don't like to take prisoners."
"I don't move in those circles," I said.
"They like to create spontaneous outrage," Ed said while smiling. "When they get caught in something, they work hard to change the subject."
"Like turning draft dodgers into war heros and war heros into un American wimps?"
"That's it," Ed said laughing. "It takes two things to make that work. Balls and money. We've got both."
"They've got balls as long as real bullets aren't involved," Ed said. "They're mighty particular about their own personal safety. Shit, the head man won't take a question from someone who hasn't been pre approved. Fast thinking isn't his strong suit." Ed was hard again and he took his third trip up the tunnel of love for the evening. He was like a teenager who just discovered sex and couldn't get enough of it.
The third time was the trick. Ed got it right this time. He was relaxed and the drive to climax was muted. He made love. I like to be fucked hard, but this was good too. This time I shot off. Much to my surprise, Ed lapped up the cum. As I said, Ed was a good guy.
Ed stopped by to see me once a week or so, until he resigned. The Press Secretary asked him to do a hatchet job on a congressman who was a friend of his family. The congressman was a supporter of the President, but wasn't obedient enough. That was too much for Ed.
"Things are strange upstairs," he said. "Sometimes I think they ask you to do things just to prove you'll do anything for the president."
"You won't?"
"Congressman Williams is an old friend of Dad. Shit, he's to the right of Attila the Hun, what more can they ask of a guy?" Ed said. "They want total obedience, like Burlingame."
"Randall's their type?" I asked.
"He sure is. I can't see why they like him so much."
"He's a whore."
"Aren't we all?" Ed remarked bitterly.
"I'm not speaking metaphorically. He's literally a whore. He charges by the hour," I replied.
"You're kidding?" Ed exclaimed. "A gigolo?"
"Randall's into men," I said.
"Are you sure about that?"
"Yes," I replied. "I know a dissatisfied customer. He gave me the run down."
Ed burst out laughing. "Damn! I would never have believed it in a million years. He's a hooker? That explains a lot."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"You know how difficult it is to get anyone important to tell you anything. Randall gets closed door appointments with some of the Mandarins," Ed said. "It's easier to meet the Pope than to meet some of those guys. They didn't do that for the Times or Post. It's clear to me now. They're getting blow jobs!"
"The word I got was Randall's a top."
Ed burst into laughter again. "That's what he was doing in those closed door, do-not-disturb conferences. He sure as hell wasn't collecting information for his columns. I write his columns." Ed said. "Do you think he charged them?"
"Can they be that stupid?" I asked. " They have to know they'll get caught."
"Jason, you wouldn't believe what they've got away with already," Ed replied. He left town a few days later. I called Rolf and wanted to talk to him. He told me to come and see him. He didn't say it, but I think he almost said that speaking it in person was safer. When I got to his apartment he asked if I'd take him for a walk. We went out on the streets of Georgetown and walked toward Dumbarton Oaks. It was a bit odd walking hand in hand with a man, but the neighbors knew Rolf.
It was also hard guiding a blind man than I realized. I forgot to warn him of a curb and he almost tripped. I told about my conversation with Ed. He didn't like what I was telling him. Rolf had been around town since the Nixon Administration. He knew what things were done, and what wasn't done. He was shocked.
"I think it's time for you to make your exit from the White house. If this thing blows up, you'll be dead meat," Rolf said. "They'll be looking for a fall guy."
"I'm awfully small fry," I said.
"You may not have noticed, but there's no accountability in this administration. They control every thing in incredible detail until there's a fuck up," Rolf explained. "Then no one knows anything about anything. Only peons get to pay the price." Of course Rolf was right about that. Only underlings take the fall. I was about as under as I could be. I would be a good idea to get away for the shit hit the fan.
Rolf said he was planning to write his memoirs and needed an assistant. I said I'd think about that. After I got home, Marty called me. He had been talking with Rolf.
"Do you mind if I speak to you frankly?" he asked. I told him it was fine with me. "Jason, you aren't devious or vicious enough to work at the White House. You need to get out or they'll destroy you."
"I can take care of myself," I objected.
"Take it from someone who really can take care of himself. You can't." Marty said. "Take my advice and get out." He hung up. After being offended, I realized he was right. No one in the real media knew anything was going on with Randall, but if someone found out, I'd be toast. The next morning I called Rolf and asked for the job. He seemed happy to have me interested. I gave notice and was out of the White house in a few days. There was no going away party.
I didn't know if Rolf's job was a real one, or if I were going to be a glorified houseboy. It was real. He was writing his memoirs and he needed me as a research assistant to fact check his memory and to record his dictation. He stored his records in thirty or forty boxes in his attic. They were basically organized, but I had to go through them in order. I was a history major, so I was interested in his life.
He had a good memory, it was easier than I had thought. I understood why he had been so useful to important men. He remembered everything and he remembered it accurately. For me, he would dictate something, then provide the foot notes. Rolf remembered who was at a meeting and what they said. He remembered the Post or Star covered the event and the approximate date. That made life easy for me.
Rolf maintained a clear separation between my duties as an assistant and my sex life. I appreciated that. I like sex, but getting paid for it wasn't for me. He was more then willing to play, if I initiated it, but he never asked. Once and a while I helped when his regular housekeeper was sick, but we had a good relationship.
For most people working at the White House would have been the high point of their professional careers. Working for Rolf made a dramatic change in my life for the better. Rolf had many friends and associates who remained close to him after he retired. I got points work helping him and soon found I liked his friends and they liked me.
While Marty visited Rolf one day he asked me if I would like to meet some of his friends. "I don't want to offend you Jason, but you like sex for the fun and pleasure of it, not for what it can do for your career, "he said. "I have some old friends who would like that."
"Sex buddies?"
"Friends and playmates," he replied. "More friends than playmates for me. Maybe more playmate than friend to you. They might stretch your horizons."
Rolf laughed. "Are you trying to recruit my assistant for Admiral Billy?" he asked.
"You know him?" Marty asked.
"I met him, but only professionally. He did have a reputation." Rolf said. "They called it the Dreadnought, didn't they?"
"That and they called him Gorilla from Manilla and Attila the Hung," Marty added. He looks like the missing link, but he has a brilliant mind. Jason would like him."
"The mind or the cock?" I asked.
"Both, if you're lucky," Rolf said. "I can't vouch for the cock, but his mind is first rate."
"He was supposed to be the head of the Joint Chiefs, wasn't he?"
"Billy is way too smart and intelligent for the current crew," Marty said. "Well educated, knowledgeable, speaks four languages and experiences in Asia and Europe, he's everything they hate. Billy was way too frank and can't tolerate fools at all. He was dead meat when this administration came into power."
I was interested and a week later I went to visit Billy in his house deep in the Virginia countryside. The house was an old farm built in 1790. It was small, but well restored and the Admiral met me at the door. He was thick and massive like Marty and had a bulldog like face.
"Admiral Miller?"
"That's me. You're Jason?" he asked. I nodded and he asked me in. The Admiral had a deep voice. He had made lunch and we sat down to a simple meal of soup and sandwiches. He was no nonsense but cordial. He wanted to know how Rolf was doing. I told him about the memoirs, conversation flowed easily. After a few minutes I felt comfortable with him.
"Marty told me you liked sex?" he asked.
"Yep, I do," I said. "He told me I'd like you."
"Did he mention I'm big?" Billy asked.
"Oh yes."
"Marty said you had no problem with his. I'm a size bigger," Billy said. "Let me be frank. I like to top, but I hate stopping once I get started. I've attracted some size queens in my time, but some don't seem to be able to take it all."
"Once you're in, it seems pretty clear sailing," I said.
"Let's adjourn to the bedroom," Billy whispered. "We'll see how easy it is." He led me upstairs. The Admiral was in good shape for a man his age, but there was nothing pretty or handsome about him. He was massive with no neck. A thick coat of curly hair covered his barrel chest and gut. I would have guessed he was Greek or Armenian. His cock looked like a birth defect.
He was uncut and hair grew on the shaft. The skin was oversized even for his massive cock. The outline of his bulbous cock head was two inches from the tip of his skin. He had the balls of a billy goat. "This is going to be like getting screwed by a fucking animal," I thought to myself.
"I see you like what you are looking at," Billy said. He stroked my cock. I looked down and saw I was as hard as I had ever been. I hadn't realized it, but I was turned on big time.