The State of Our Union
Part 2 of Affairs of State
1: Public Scrutiny, Private Resolve
Months had passed since that private meeting in Marc’s suite. As spring rolled in, so did campaign season—Marc’s official announcement that he’d seek a third term made headlines, and suddenly every move was under a microscope.
We appeared together in public—first at a charity gala, then a concert, and finally sharing a table at a state dinner—all carefully planned by AJ to position Governor Recchi’s campaign for what was coming.
There had, of course, always been whispers about a handsome bachelor governor who refused questions about his personal life. But his repeated proximity—and undeniable connection—to a photogenic young officer ignited the gossip into a wildfire of mainstream questioning.
The media caught on fast, as AJ predicted, and he took the reins, carefully coordinating interviews. At first, the responses were cautious and measured; over time, they became more direct, shaping the narrative with precision.
Then the front-page headline, timed almost to the day with his re-election kickoff: “Recchi Comes Out, Shakes Political Landscape.”
Marc was still firmly in his second term and the front-runner in what promised to be a bruising re-election bid to his third and final term. But the confirmation of what was long suspected hit his campaign in a deep-red state like an earthquake.
What Marc and I, perhaps, had underestimated was that my existence—our relationship—gave focus to the story. Maybe we were hopeful. Or naive. I liked to think that at worst, we were in love.
The immediate fallout for Marc was a daily barrage of media scrutiny, polite but relentless, prying at a life he’d kept private. Even at events unrelated to his campaign, there was a constant buzz beneath the surface of every public appearance.
For me, Harris Keaton, a twenty-four-year-old Navy lieutenant, the pressure was more insidious. In the months since our meeting, I’d gone from yeoman to lieutenant thanks to an accelerated commissioning program and the Navy’s urgent demand for fresh officers. It was a rapid rise, but one that came with heavy expectations—and scrutiny.
My life had been discipline, deployments, the relentless pursuit of excellence. My sex life had been fleeting and discreet. But now, whether thousands of miles away or stateside for a few weeks, the consequences of my association with Marc began to surface.
My participation in officially sanctioned veteran outreach events, where a young, decorated officer advocating for military families was typically seen as a positive, non-partisan endorsement, was now fraught.
Just yesterday, I stood on a small platform in a brightly lit gymnasium, where a modest crowd of veterans and their families had gathered, drawn by the promise of free coffee and a chance to hear about local initiatives. My dress whites were crisp, my posture impeccable.
“The men and women of our armed forces,” I began, my voice deep and clear, effortlessly filling the large space, resonating off the high ceilings, “give us their best. They leave home, they face unimaginable challenges, and they return with stories and scars, both visible and invisible.” I caught the quiet approval of older veterans and the curious glances of their kids—an increasingly familiar power to command attention and inspire.
“Governor Marc Recchi understands this.” Adding his name was a self-indulgent flourish of mine. One I knew would bite me in the ass. “His administration’s initiatives for mental health services, for housing assistance, for seamless transition back into civilian life—these aren’t just policies. They are fulfillments of promises to those who kept us safe.”
Being put front and center had been a hallmark of my short career, and had fueled my unusually rapid rise. I understood why—young, decorated, with a strong jaw and gray eyes, from the Academy onward, the Navy had cultivated and crafting my clean-cut, inspiring image. I was their poster boy, a carefully shaped ideal to rally behind, moved through the ranks rapidly, and put out in public in situations normally reserved for those above me.
But beneath the surface, I was meat in the machine—used, as much as I sometimes was, by men with baser desires. The same face and body that drew admiring salutes and camera flashes also attracted looks that lingered too long, hands that sought more than a handshake.
The Navy’s designs on me weren’t so different from theirs. Both saw me as something to be owned, showcased, exploited. Both wanted control—one for public image, the other for private pleasure. And occasionally, both.
Afterwards, shaking hands, a familiar figure approached: Captain Davies, affable —paternal—from Regional Command. We’d had what might be called a friendly relationship. But on this day his square jaw was tight. “Lieutenant Keaton,” he said, his voice low, drawing me in close as he gripped my hand a little too firmly. “A commendable presentation. Very… presentable. Other than your violation of partisan activity.”
I cleared my throat, not expecting the bite to come quite so soon.
“Are you unfamiliar with restrictions on partisan public advocacy in uniform? Let alone at a Navy sanctioned event? We value impartiality. The appearance of partisanship can have unforeseen consequences—affecting placements, evaluations, even careers.” His eyes flickered over my uniform and back to my face, a barely concealed warning.
I met his gaze, jaw set. “Sir, with all due respect, I’ve reviewed the directives carefully. I believe my participation is well within my civic rights and the Navy’s guidelines. Governor Recchi’s initiatives directly benefit the military community. My endorsement is of those policies—not overtly partisan.” I paused, holding his gaze. “And as an officer in whom the Navy has made considerable investment, I assure you, sir, I am fully aware of the optics involved. My actions are considered and always reflect positively on the service.”
Davies’s eyes narrowed, a shadow of something sharper flickering. “You know, Lieutenant,” he said, voice heavy with sarcasm and something darker, “the Navy has a way of… showcasing its assets. Handsome, young, decorated. Your ascent is a double-edged sword, not a license.” His voice lowered. “Out of respect for past…intimacies, I’ll do you the favor of not having heard that little speech of yours this time. But don’t rattle that saber with me again.”
His gaze held mine. The uniform might be mine, but the game was bigger than me—and so was the unspoken threat.
Nothing so crude as a court-martial, not even a formal reprimand, but the subtle, insidious penalties: being passed over for choice deployments, finding myself in less desirable locales, or having a glowing performance report inexplicably downgraded from “outstanding” to “excellent.”
These quiet administrative nudges, seemingly innocuous, could derail a career as effectively as a direct order. My presence, even if cleared by official channels, was pushing the line, putting my career, my very ambitions, at risk.
I was no longer the soft kid who’d blurted out his deepest desire on camera. The uniform now fit me like a second skin, molded to a body I’d forged through grit and determination. My face, once boyishly soft, had sharpened, and my eyes held a different kind of fire—one born of experience, not just aspiration. I understood the power of an image, the carefully curated projection—and for once I intended to use it for my own purposes.
Every whispered caution, every disapproving glance, only hardened my resolve. This wasn’t just about politics anymore. It was about… loyalty.
2: The Cost of Visibility
Our rare private meetings were lifelines in a sea of political sharks. My heart skipped a beat when he met me at the door of his official residence—not a hotel suite this time; the stakes were too high for discretion.
He wore a blue shirt fitted perfectly over his powerful shoulders. His tie was loosened, and a five o’clock shadow darkened his jaw. The boyish charm remained, but a new weariness had settled over it. The polls were bad; the media relentless. Stress gnawed at him.
"Harris," he said, his voice a low rumble, devoid of its usual public polish. He pulled me into a quick, tight hug—more controlled than either of us wanted, but there were eyes everywhere. His body, always solid, felt harder now with stress, muscles taut under the thin fabric of his shirt. He buried his face in my shoulder for just a moment, and I could feel the tension radiating from him, a subtle tremor of desire and relief.
If I could have carried the weight for him—his weight—I would have done anything required. But all I could do was be there with him.
We sat in his study, staffers passing in the halls—their presence keeping us from tearing each other’s clothes off. No one would ever know the restraint we practiced in those days.
He showed me the latest internal polling numbers, his finger tracing the plummeting lines on a graph. "It's all about the 'character issue' now," he murmured, his eyes fixed on the numbers, not me. "They don't care about the bills I've passed, the lives we've touched. Just... this." He gestured vaguely at himself, at us.
He turned up with cheer. “It’s just the game. We’ll be fine.”
I reached across the desk, covering his hand with mine. His fingers twitched, then gripped mine—a break in our superficial control. "It's not just this, Marc," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "It's you. It's who you are, and that's why they elected you in the first place."
He looked at me then—really looked at me—and I could see the fire that still burned in his eyes. Weary but undefeated. He’d drag himself and me both, the whole damn state, over the victory line. If we only let him.
I moved around the desk, pulling him up, pressing myself against him. Staffers be damned. My hands found the small of his back, the solid curve of his lower spine, urging him closer. His lips grazed mine, control fading. Our shared desire flared, quick to ignite.
A grin spread, challenge and playfulness in my voice. "Let me help you forget, just for a little while…sir."
His gaze sharpened at the word.
He understood the invitation. It was a secret shorthand—not role-play, but a comfortable, sexually charged language between us that dated back to that first, awkward encounter.A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest, and his blue eyes crinkled at the corners. "Alright…son. For a little while, let's forget."
Without a word, I started unbuttoning my Navy uniform shirt, shedding the rigid expectations of my rank and service. The cool metal of the buttons against my fingertips, the crisp fabric giving way, felt like peeling off a second skin, revealing the man beneath the uniform.
He mirrored my actions, his fingers deftly untying his loosened tie, pulling it free, then unbuttoning his own shirt. The crisp white fabric of my uniform, then the sleek blue shirt, fell away, leaving us in our undershirts, the marks of our public lives discarded around our feet.
I slid my hands under his, feeling the familiar landscape of the firm planes of his torso, the catch of breath that clenched a belly that still held the strength of a wrestler. He hadn't let himself go, not an inch, despite the pressures. My own disciplined muscles flexed in response to his touch, the flat lower abs tightening under his exploring hands.
We heard footsteps in the hall and he shifted, withdrew his hand. But I knew then that the most crucial support I could offer wasn't political advice, but physical comfort, a reminder of the man beneath the public persona. He needed to be seen for who he was, to let the guard down. I steered his hand down to the hardened proof of my desire, a demanding throb against his palm. I knew I could give him that.
We moved from the study to his bedroom, followed by a swift shedding of the last layers of our public identities. His hands found my ass as his lips met mine, our mouths open, tongues tangling. We fell into the bed, where he pinned me to the mattress, and I welcomed the weight of him, the hard press of his cock against my belly.
He held my wrists back with one hand as the other spread my cheeks, teasing my hole. He slid a spit-wet finger inside, then another, working me open with an expertise that left me sighing. "Ready for me, Harris?" he rasped, his voice rough with desire. I could only nod as he kissed me hard.
His first thrusts were slow, measured, and I wrapped my legs around his thick waist, pulling him deeper, letting him fill me with the length and girth of his cock. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his breath hot against my skin. "God, Harris," he rasped, his voice thick, "I missed you so much."
His strokes grew faster, harder, a hard driving pace. Our bodies slammed together, the slap of sweaty flesh, the heavy breathing, the low grunts filling the quiet room. His climax filled me with a hot, pulsing rush of cum, and mine followed quickly—a shared shudder that left us breathless and entwined, a temporary peace settling over us.
Lying there, our breath coming back, I turned to him. “Thank you, Governor Recchi,” I said, and laughed. He did too. And then I added, surprising myself. “Future… President Recchi.”
He paused, studying my face like he was weighing the seriousness beneath the joke. Then he kissed me, and I felt his cock stiffen against my thigh, ambitious as the rest of him.
3: The Pragmatist’s Plea
Late the next morning I saw AJ. He gestured me into one of the quieter rooms tucked away in the Governor’s living quarters. The shift in role to Campaign Director had only added to the invisible burden he seemed to carry.
I saw him there only rarely, and assumed the encounter was no accident.
His Australian accent was sharper than usual. “Harris, I’m not going to beat around the bush. Things are bad. Quite bad. The latest tracking numbers are in. The story isn’t about Marc’s policies anymore. It’s about him. And it’s about you.”
My jaw tightened. "I'm just supporting the Governor, like any other citizen. And he’s…entitled to a private life. To some comfort and affection."
AJ gave a humorless laugh, closer to a choked cough. "You’re not that naive, Lieutenant. You're not 'any other citizen.' You're a decorated Navy officer, young, handsome, and you had a very public moment with the Governor six years ago that everyone in this state remembers. Now you're a symbol. A living, breathing piece of campaign collateral. And the opposition is using you to burn Marc's career to the ground.”
He pulled out his phone, his thumb swiping furiously, then shoved it into my hand. The screen flickered to life, showing grainy, amplified footage. It was that day—the Q&A session, six years ago. A younger, softer-looking me, all awkward angles and a face still carrying some baby fat, standing there with my cowlick sticking straight up. Marc, so striking, so potent in his crisp shirt and rolled-up sleeves. That easy, magnetic smile.
The video zoomed in on our faces, distorting them, turning us into predator and prey. His voice, warm and deep: “Tell me, Harris, what do you want to do when you grow up? Who do you want to be?” My blurted answer, young and earnest: “You.” The shocked laughter, then Marc’s gentle, rescuing smile.
But the clip looped, the camera cutting between my flushed, hopeful face and Marc's crinkling eyes—before a snarling, venomous overlay, cut in: "Governor Groomer, preying on our children’s innocence."
The words, "Governor Groomer," hammered into my skull. The casual malice of it, the twisting of an innocent moment, made my stomach clench. I felt a flash of protective fury for Marc, seeing him reduced to this vile caricature.
"We didn't get together until six years later," I said, my voice tight, forcing myself to speak. "When I was a Navy officer, not a boy. I was twenty-four."
AJ snatched the phone back. "And do you think anyone gives a flying fuck about that, Harris?!" he snarled, his voice rising. "Let me tell you something, by the time you're on defense with a charge like that, you've already lost! That footage, that single exchange, is now in every single right-wing attack ad. And on repeat! We can't counter it without validating the smear. We can't run on his record if we're constantly defending his character and your… history."
“Marc did nothing wrong,” I said, a slight tremor to my usually steady voice. “You.. we…”
AJ held the phone up to my face, shoving it, the image of young Governor Recchi searing my vision. “Are you telling me there was nothing going on here? Even I can see it in your eyes—God DAMN it!”
He threw the phone against the wall, not hard enough to break it, but with a sickening thud. He ran a hand over his sweaty head, dragging his fingers through his hair, leaving it standing on end.
"I believe in Marc. I've been with him from the beginning. His policies are good. He genuinely cares about the people of this state. His plans for a third term—for low-income families, for immigrant communities, the work on trans protections—do you think his Republican opponent, Governor Serling, if he wins, is going to see those through? Not a chance in hell. Your policies don’t matter if you can’t be in office to implement them.
“And you, Harris. You're jeopardizing your own career. Your ambitions. The Navy has a very dim view of officers who become... political liabilities. You could lose everything you've worked for—the respect, the promotions.
“The state might accept a gay governor, but not like this. Not with you. You're too much of a target, too much of a liability. They’ll never let this go. Your history—it’s too tarnished. If you really want to help Marc, truly help him... you need to get lost. Not just for the campaign—for good."
The words hung in the air, a cold, hard truth. AJ wasn't a villain; he was a desperate man fighting for a cause he believed in, willing to make the hard, politically expedient choices.
Just then, Marc appeared, striding into the room, his expression flat. He'd clearly overheard the last part. "No," Marc said, his voice flat, cutting through the tension. He looked directly at AJ, then at me, his blue eyes holding mine with an unwavering intensity.
"No more sacrifices. Not like this. My life, my relationships—that's not what this campaign is about. It's about my record. It's about the voters. And it's up to them." He turned to me, his eyes holding mine with an unwavering intensity. "I'm not going to sacrifice myself for that, Harris. Not again. Not ever."
4: The View from the Top
Hours later I found him in the Governor’s office, standing by the tall windows, silhouetted against the city lights. I’d come looking for Marc but found Governor Recchi instead, even with his sleeves rolled up, shirt untucked.
His posture was taut—a man carrying the weight of an entire state on his shoulders. I stepped up behind him. “Marc.”
He turned, surprise flickering in his blue eyes at the sight of me dressed as I was. His fingers brushed the pressed collar of my jacket, thumb lingering on the precise trim of the military cut. His eyes darkened with admiration and desire.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you in full dress, Lieutenant?” he grinned. His eyes narrowed, admiring me in my uniform—the weight of it, the discipline it represented, the man who wore it. The moment stretched taut between us.
“It’s time for me to go,” I said. It wasn’t necessary for what came next, but I was armoring up. Steeling myself.
“So soon?”
I nodded. He turned back to the window. The illuminated nighttime streets of the capitol shimmered like a web, and we stood together at its precarious center.
“I hate it when you leave,” he admitted, facing away.
I rested a hand on his hip. He flinched slightly, then softened against me as his breath shuddered out. “Sir,” I whispered.
At his deep inhale, I slipped a hand beneath his shirt, feeling the heat and strength of his lower back beneath the fabric, the tension there. Slowly, deliberately, I undid his belt and let his slacks slide down over his firm ass. Then his briefs, pushed down over his hips and sturdy thighs, exposing him to the chill of the room and the weight of my touch.
“Fuck,” he whispered, as I pressed my fingers to him, his back arching in invitation.
Yes, sir.
I spat into my palm and rubbed it into the cleft of his ass, then drew my fingers back to my mouth for more, catching the rank scent of him on my skin. I held it to my nose as I audibly unzipped my fly—to reveal just that much of myself—my cock fully hard, poised to meet him.
“Fuck me,” he growled, leaning against the glass, eyes closed in profile.
I drove into him in a slow single thrust, only my spit to ease it—no artifice between us this time. As always, it felt like coming home being in the hot nest of him, deep in that remarkable body, his wrestler’s build undeniable.
The muscles in his broad shoulders and thick neck flexed, the hair on his chest and belly soft under my grasping hands, spilled down into the curve of his hips and rose again in the crack of his ass. The crisp lines of my uniform jacket brushed the small of his back as I pulled him closer, the stiff fabric a stark contrast to the warm skin beneath my fingers.
My thrusts were measured—efficient, even. And he knew it. “Fuck me like you mean it, God damn it,” he demanded, his voice raw.
I answered with the force of my body—no gentleness, just brutal strokes, each driving deep. “Fuck yes,” he grunted. “Like that.”
I did as instructed, with one hand on his shoulder, the other on his hip, steadying him against my thrusts, butting him into the glass where his face pressed hard against the cold window. His breath fogged the glass again and again with each gasp I shoved out of him.
My hand slid around to stroke his thick cock, slick and pulsing precum, coaxing guttural moans from deep in his chest—the governor, reduced to just a man undone, filled with me and pleading for more.
His muscles tensed and released as I tried to etch it all into memory—the power in the body he surrendered to me, the sounds of his gasps and grunts. The way his head pressed against the glass, hands splayed.
He groaned out loud as the tension mounted. His mouth opening to a soft O, he arched into me, fingers sliding down the glass, gasping as his climax spilled, hot against the window. I fucked it out of him—the shuddering release that left him trembling in my arms.
But I wasn’t done. I pulled him tighter, my hips slapping into him. Every last thrust was an unspoken protest of love, I hoped he’d understand in time. I shoved in, hard in his soft guts, grunting and filling him with my load, almost whimpering. The aftershocks alone almost took me down.
For a long moment, we stayed joined, against the cold glass. Chests heaved, the fabric of my jacket rasped against him as our breaths eased. The capitol outside kept its endless watch, but inside, time slowed to the shared pulse I could feel inside him.
Then I pulled away—quick and deliberate. I pressed my half-hard cock, still smeared with his essence, into my pants. My hand trembled as I zipped up, another wall erected. I knew my uniform was marked with our sweat and more, and didn’t care. The lingering remnants of our last fuck were all I’d take with me.
As I watched him pull his pants up, AJ’s words echoed: “Are you telling me there was nothing going on there?” I couldn’t. Not really. I had wanted Marc from the moment I saw him in person—an undefinable pull that I hadn’t fully understood at eighteen, but which had only deepened over the years. I always would.
Marc might be unwilling to sacrifice himself, but I knew what I had to do. This was the only path forward—for him, for his career, for everything he’d built.
I reached the door. Marc’s voice, rough and raw, stopped me. “If you’re doing what I think you’re doing… Harris. Don’t. He’s wrong. He’s wrong. I can’t do this without you.”
I froze, hand on the knob. The words caught in my throat, tangled up with everything I’d never said. My hand tightened on the cold metal, my only answer.
5: Nine Months Later
I killed the engine in the hotel’s underground garage and let the silence settle. The city was a faint hum above the concrete. I sat there a minute, hands loose on the wheel, not quite ready to move. My hair had grown out for the first time in years, my old cowlick sticking up in the rearview—wild and ungovernable as ever. I ran a hand through it and almost laughed as it sprang right back. With this deployment done, maybe I’d finally let it grow out for good.
I grabbed my duffel and headed for the elevators, boots echoing on the concrete. In the mirrored doors, I caught my own reflection: older, face leaner, shadows under the eyes. In civvies, I looked less like Lieutenant Harris Keaton and more like the kid from those old clips, before the medals and the uniforms and the headlines. Maybe that was my real self, after all.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and thumbed through the news—poll numbers, grainy attack ads, and, as always, that old Q&A footage: me at eighteen, baby-faced, without a clue what my future held. My answer looped under some ugly caption. I watched for a second, then shut it off and looked up. In the mirrored elevator wall my own face rose—a little more battered, still standing. This deployment had left its marks, too.
The elevator dinged. I stepped out into the hush of thick carpet, the distant thrum of something big happening just out of sight. I counted door numbers, the weight of my duffel a comfort. For a second, I imagined opening the door to an empty room, no one waiting—the version of the story even I expected. Then I turned the knob.
The suite was alive with light and noise: TV screens, staffers, the sharp burst of AJ’s voice. Maxine looked up, breaking into a grin. Ellis nodded from behind a barricade of coffee cups and pizza boxes. There were another dozen key staffers too—much of the rest of the team in the ballroom on the ground level, keeping the supporters spirits up.
AJ spotted me from across the room and called out, “Keaton! Where the hell have you been hiding?” The smirk on his face said it all—he’d signed every one of my marching orders.
I dropped my duffel by the door, rolling my shoulders. “Oh, I don’t know, AJ. Maybe Mason, then Dayton, then back here through a five-hour traffic jam—ring any bells?”
He barked a laugh, already half-turning back to his laptop. “I’m a right cunt in a campaign. But glad you’re back.” His voice softened, almost gentle. “Go on. He’s been waiting for you.”
I couldn’t help the smile. This was our rhythm—his relentless drive, my willingness to go wherever he pointed. In this deployment, AJ was the officer who kept sending me back out.
My leave from the Navy was the only way to make this work—a special request granted against the norm, a calculated concession on their part, serving their own purposes, and only by coincidence mine.
It was a hard choice, but what I was doing here felt even more real, and nearly as exhausting. In fact, my training at the Academy had served me well—a test of heart and endurance. I didn’t falter.
Across the room, Marc caught my eye—and the rest of the world dropped away. He sat perched on the couch’s edge, sleeves rolled, facing the TV. I sank into the cushions beside him. After a moment, he turned, and when he saw me, his shoulders eased, his mouth curved into a slow, real smile. He looked tired, older, and impossibly handsome.
“Missed you this morning,” he murmured, thumb brushing my knuckles. “Bed was cold. Coffee was terrible.”
“Sorry I’m so late.” I squeezed his hand. “Last rally downstate. Traffic was a bitch.”
“Tomorrow we sleep in. Win or lose.”
AJ’s voice cut through the nervous murmur. “TURN IT UP! TURN IT UP!”
The TV volume swelled, and a banner flashed across the screen. “With 86% of precincts reporting, and key districts just in, we are prepared to project a winner in the most hotly contested gubernatorial race in the nation—”
Marc’s grip tightened on my hand and I turned to look at him. The TV light flickered across his face, and for a moment, it was just the two of us, waiting to find out what kind of future we’d fought for.
And then they announced.
END
To be concluded in the third and final installment, First Mate.
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Patreon.
