The Incumbent

The worst part of Wesley Robles on a bad day is that it doesn't look that different from Wesley Robles on a good day: there's calculated indifference just waiting to snare the incautious. But just before the eruption there's a hint in the angle of his chin and the almost playful cast of his eyes, just barely crinkling at the corners. Otherwise, it would be a complete shock when he slams both hands on the table and levers himself up viper-quick. No doubt many of the other congresspersons and congressional staffers are caught of guard, but Colin Peters just furrows his eyebrows and readies himself for the storm. 

"It might be that because I speak a little slower than you do, Mr. Peters, that I strike you as a simpleton. I assure you that is not the case," Robles says. "Now you've spoken around the issue at hand quite capably, and I have no doubt that you're as gifted as they come at circumlocution, but I'm going to have to ask you to get to the point before I take my pension. Are the amendments—which we've spent a considerable chunk of our terrestrial lives working toward—secure?"

Colin swallows. "No, Representative Robles." 

"Must be my ears are acting up. Can you repeat that?" 

"The committee couldn't agree, so the amendments, as it currently stands, may be in jeopardy. But—" Colin tries to move to protect himself, but Robles grows to fill even the slightest space and relentlessly seeks the spotlight: in this he is no different than a weed.

"And there we have it. The agenda I sent has been obliterated by the fractious political machine yet again, and worse still, by the incompetence of our allies. Representative Peters? Anything else to add to my heartbreak?"

Peters clears his throat and shakes his head. He takes the loss with as much grace as he can afford himself and Wesley Robles takes his bloodthirsty ire elsewhere. Colin doesn't find It surprising that Robles was once called "an attack dog without a leash" in a quote from an anonymous Washington insider for a national piece, nor that Robles found that insider and got him fired a month after the article ran. 

Robles, the minority whip, doesn't exactly exude tact, but rampant fear can keep order just as well as smiling diplomacy.

The rest of the meeting goes by without another public execution and when it's adjourned, Colin stands and goes to slip off, but Robles stops him. 

"Peters, before you run off; I still have a dinner with you on my calendar for this evening. Is that still a go?"

"Of course, Representative Robles." 

Robles gives a mock frown. The affable patrician mask, then.

"Don't let a little public spanking throw you off. Have to tan all the hides evenly, otherwise they'll stop writing vampire fan-fiction about me. But to you, it's still Wes," Robles says, as he scans through his something on his phone. "See you tonight, Peters." 

"Colin. It goes both ways, Wes." 

Robles looks at him over his glasses. "Of course. Isn't that what I said?"

---

Colin spends the rest of the afternoon in meetings then takes out a chunk of time to answer constituent emails. He doesn't get out of the office until six and manages, blessedly, to get in a half hour at the gym. Colin played hockey in college and has tried his level best to hold onto his solid, trim athlete's frame even more than a decade out of school. His looks have earned several tongue-in-cheek insults about his mid-western manner and corn-fed good looks. He's been called "boy wonder" on cable news several times, but they keep inviting him back to fill their endless thirst for talking heads. His father says it's all in his smile. Colin has no doubt that being blond and white has something to do with it, too.

He showers and drives over to the hotel where Robles has invited him. It's not typical to meet at a hotel suite, but Robles has money outside of his congressional budget and he's not shy about using it. When Colin shows up at the four star hotel the shockingly beautiful South Asian receptionist greets him by name and gives him a guest key to Robles' suite. 

"Enjoy your evening, Congressman," she says. 

Embarrassingly, he gets half hard and is thankful for the protective layers afforded by a colder-than-usual D.C. winter. 

Robles' suite is as excessive as a cynic might imagine from a Washington power player: two bedrooms, a full office, and a dining room where a spread of takeout and several bottles of wine are lying untouched. As Colin enters, Robles is walking by, having an intense phone conversation in hushed tones. He gestures for Colin to sit before disappearing into another room. Robles doesn't explain the young man already seated at the table, scrolling through his phone. 

"Hi. Colin Peters, and you are?"

He pegs the young man, working on a brown beard, to be about twenty or so. He has bright green eyes. Cute, but skittish. He stands and extends a hand. "I'm Louie. Uhm, Louie Pendleton." 

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Pendleton."

He smiles at that and confirms Colin's assessment: still young enough to be impressed by being addressed as an equal. Colin wonders if he's an intern or if this is bring-your-son to work day. He chases that thought up by wondering who could mate with someone as hot and cold as Wesley Robles and live to tell about the experience. 

Then, as if summoned by the internal shit talking, Robles appears. "Apologies. Apologies. Fucking press never get it right, do they?" 

"Busy inventing the news?" Colin asks. 

"Someone has to. Sit, Colin. You've met Louie?" 

"I've recently had the pleasure," Colin says, once the three of them are seated. 

"College student. He's got two eyes, which is saying something in this town. He'll have a future if he can keep 'em open." 

"Thank you," Louie says, shyly. 

Robles smiles and Colin smiles, but the statement isn't a compliment: it's a prophecy of doom. There's nothing to be done about it, though: Colin didn't come here to fight some stranger's kid's battles for him. 

Robles puts both elbows on the table and leans forward. He has a changeling face that's easy to miss in a crowd. When he's smiling and engaged, he's actually almost handsome, but when he's coming down like a sack of bricks those neutral features become violence personified. He chats aimlessly about a new initiative that he believes is dead in the water while Colin politely disagrees. Eventually Robles gives him a wary glance before his face splits into a wide grin. 

"Idealistic fuck," Robles says. Colin just shrugs. Robles laughs even harder. 

As the three of them eat and drink, Robles goes off on one of his favorite subjects: Washington. 

He ends a sermon on corruption with: "Why we stole all of the hyenas on the Serengeti and deposited them into Washington, D.C., I'll never know." 

"What's an ecosystem without predators?" Colin asks. 

Robles points at him. "Ha! Predators. Funny. If only we could hunt something besides air time." 

Colin switches gears. "Alright, so repartee aside: what am I doing here, Wes? Are we talking about re-election?"

Wesley Robles dabs at his mouth with a cloth napkin. "We talk a lot about loyalty in our party. As if it was assumed or simple. But the reality is that loyalty is messy, isn't it? People can be loyal to one thing over another. The reason you're here, why we're all here, is to bind ourselves together, so to speak." 

"Are you going to ask me to prick my finger?" Colin asks. 

Robles gives the wolf's grin. "I want you to fuck, Louie." 

Colin laughs, reaches for his wine glass, and takes a sip. He puts it down and Robles' face hasn't changed. Sweat prickles at the collar of his white, starched shirt. 

"There's no better currency in the district than secrets, Colin. By the time you leave here today, we'll have one to share: one way or another." He puts a hand on Louie's shoulder and the younger man relaxes under his touch. 

"I'm a married man," Colin says, his jaw tight. 

"Even better. Having something to lose is preferable." 

"I'm not that kind of person, Wesley. You can't ask this of me." 

"I can ask whatever I please. Or did you think my aid would come cheap? Did you know your opponent in the re-election fight has already secured $10 million in funding. Ten million dollars buys a lot of air time. I can't promise you matching funds myself, but I know where you get them. As you might imagine, I've been at this a while…" He massages Louie's shoulder, but maintains eye contact with Colin. "Long enough to know when a man's about to fold."

Colin licks his lips. He knows he's not special: he married young, like everyone did in his town. She's lovely and he loves her, loves his son. He's happy in his life and faithful…

He licks his lips again. He's not blind: he's noticed the glances he gets at the gym from other men, his finger has hovered over the download button on the hookup apps. He's always itched to know if he'd clean up like he suspects he would. Louie is looking at him like he's an ice cream sandwich in D.C. summer. 

He's faithful, always has been, but this is a question of power. 

"At least twenty," Colin says. His voice, at least, doesn't betray him. 

"Twenty? Dear boy, you're dreaming small. I can introduce you to some friends of mine whose billfolds will make you wet," Robles says, as he stands. "Now, I'll let you get acquainted, gentlemen. I have some calls to make."

"Wait? You're not—" Colin says, suddenly flabbergasted.

"Staying for the show? No. I thought this once I might afford you some of that mid-western courtesy I'm always hearing about. I'll check out the next matinee." 

"Next?"

Robles gives him a look that's almost pitying. "You ask for twenty million dollars and you think this is a one-off? No one's that expensive in this town."

Then he's gone and Colin is left with Louie who sits across the table from him and smiles shyly. 

"Sorry you got roped into this," Colin says. It's not particularly sexy as openers go, but it's been a long time since he's had to come on to someone besides his wife and, if he's honest, she's usually the aggressor. 

"I don't mind. It's not the worst thing I could be doing with my time. And you're handsome, so it's easier." 

"You've done this before?"

"If I say yes, does that make this better or worse for you?" Louie asks. Colin laughs; Wes Robles was right, this one is sharper than he looks.

Colin stands and goes across the table while Louie sits with his hands in his lap. He seems so young suddenly. 

"How about we go avail our host of his hospitality?" Colin says, and stretches out his hand.

---

Colin Peters was late to his own wedding. After combating a series of minor disasters, he'd been driving to the chapel with his best man in tow and they encountered a woman who'd blown a tire and ended up in a ditch. It was a fairly busy road and someone else would have probably stopped eventually, but Colin was pulling onto the shoulder before he'd even had time to think. The woman was alright and his bride-to-be ended up working the whole thing into her vows. 

"Colin will do the right thing. It's like breathing for him. He just does it. Every time," she said, tears in her eyes. 

Colin fucks Louie so hard he scares himself. It's like he suddenly finds a well of aggression and violence in his stomach that stretches out and infects him. It infects his hands—as he grips the younger man's ass hard enough to leave angry red marks; his hips—as he thrusts his cock to the hilt inside the grunting man's hole; his mouth—as he tells Louie over and over to take his cock, to take every fucking inch of his cock, to submit to a real man's fucking cock. 

By the time Colin flips Louie onto his back, Louie has tears in his eyes. Colin, suddenly finding his center, pauses. "I'm sorry. It's too rough. I shouldn't—" 

But Louie wraps his legs around Colin's waist, wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand, which exposes his pale wrists. Inexplicably, Colin grows harder inside him.

"Don't stop. Please. I'm so close," Louie says. Begs. 

"Ok. Keep doing that then," Colin says. He's picking up steam again. 

Louie, sprawled out on the bed, helpless, shaking, looks up with soft brown eyes. "Doing what?"

"Begging." 

---

Weeks pass and support for the Peters congressional run materializes in spades. 

By day, Colin watches as his campaign meets then exceeds its quarterly funding expectations. A high-powered Manhattan-based marketing firm takes up his cause at less than half their normal rate. The excitement of the campaign jumps and they pull in record donations alongside a growing volunteer base.

By night, Wesley Robles adds events to Colin's calendar and he comes without question. He doesn't see Louie again, but there's no shortage of Louies, Wes assures him. This proves prescient. 

Wesley likes to watch and Colin finds that he doesn't mind being watched. In the back room of a D.C. restaurant, Colin gets his dick sucked by a scruffy young restaurateur whose massive cock hangs out of his tight jeans. 

"I can't believe it, man. You're hotter than you are on TV," the guy says. 

"Wait til' he cums all over your face," Wes interjects. He's leaning against a stack of boxes watching with eagle sharp eyes as Colin slides in and out of the restaurant owner's dripping mouth. His hand is down the front of his pants and he makes no move to disguise his masturbation. "I don't know what they're feeding them out west, but the yield is substantial." 

The scruffster—you know the type: tattoo of two crossed meat cleavers on one bicep and a knitted skull cap pulled over his curls—takes a hit from a bottle of poppers and goes back to sucking Colin off. He moans and groans. Colin keeps feeding him dick until the guy starts up with a chorus of grunts and shoots all over the floor and the hem of Colin's form-fitting slacks. It's enough for Colin to start to cum: he pulls out of the warm wet mouth and paints the guy's face with a prodigious load. 

Wes doesn't make any noise, but when Colin looks over there a fresh wet patch spread down the front of his khakis. The restaurateur just wipes the semen from his face and sucks his fingers clean while muttering "Shit" over and over. 

Outside of the assignations, the political realities haven't changed. Wes is the minority whip and when it comes to securing votes, he's as ruthless as ever. He's not afraid to use the full force of his office on Colin either, despite their arrangement, and Colin tries not to take it personally when he's targeted. He reminds himself that it's all just smoke and mirrors. 

One night Colin shows up to an appointment in a hotel nearly an hour outside of D.C. He knocks on the door to a room. Wes opens it and lets him in. There's not much to the room, besides the bed and a man sleeping on it. There's a phone on the bedside table, a bottle of tequila, and a little prescription bottle of pills.

"What the fuck is this?" Colin asks. 

"Something new, even for me," Wes answers. "He wants you to fuck him. Unconscious. But check the phone: there's a message giving his consent for a number of sex acts. He lists them out. Quite thorough." 

"Unconscious people can't consent to sex," Colin replies. 

"And yet…" 

Colin looks at the bed. The man sleeping there looks familiar. It takes him a while to place the face. Kyle something-or-another. He's the fucking CEO of a social media company. The social media company.

"I don't think—" 

"Exactly. You don't think. You do, Colin. That's why you're here and that's why you'll win re-election, because despite your high-minded ethics, you're as fucked up and broken as the rest of us. You want to win because winning feels good. Well, guess what? This will feel good too, once you let yourself warm up to it. Eat his ass. Fuck him. Seed his hole. He wants to be desecrated. For a quarter of a million in funding—from his personal fund—and preferential ranking on their site, I think it's worth getting a little dirty, don't you?" Wes is already rubbing his crotch.

Colin feels something that he can't quite name. It's not a terrible feeling, but a wide one. Disorienting. It takes up the whole of him this vertiginousness. He feels as though if he accepts this, he will accept anything. They mark us, the lines we cross, and still, he undoes his tie and climbs onto the bed. 

It's strange at first, to rub his fingers against Kyle's hole and not get feedback. No shiver or soft grunt of pleasure. It's weird, but Colin accepts it. The man doesn't stir, but Colin stays quiet, hesitates to even breathe as he tentatively pulls apart Kyle's cheeks and extends the tip of his tongue to the sleeping man's hole. He tastes neutral, only the slightest hint of musk, but it's enough to provoke Colin to dive further, deeper. He reaches down to undo his belt and set his cock free. 

I am a good person, he thinks. After the election things will go back to normal.

He recites this in his mind as he licks and sucks. He continues obsessively reaching for it, as though it's a shield to protect him from his worst impulses. As he's lubing his dick, as he's sinking into the drugged man's heat, as he's pumping away for Wes's camera. 

"A little longer," Colin mutters. 

Colin wishes it was harder to cum inside the unconscious man, but the reality is that he gets off on it. He likes the feeling of Kyle's body moving only with the force of his strokes. He enjoys the soft snores that barely change no matter how gentle or rough he fucks. It's easy to push himself over, to cum inside of this stranger whose face he knows from web interviews and who only knows him from TV. There's something sordid about planning to get fucked by someone who you'll see on the news while being unable to access specific memories of the exchange. Later, Kyle will watch video of how Colin finally hunched over his body and buried his dick as deep as it would go and filled him with cum that until a few weeks ago he'd only shared with a single other person in the whole world.

Wes stops recording once Colin cums, but the elder statesman stands on the bed and jerks off over Kyle's inert body as a bonus. He shoots all over the sleeping man, all over the bed, and even the wall beyond the headboard. 

"Adds value," he says. "Want to piss on him? I'm going to." 

Colin declines himself, though he stays to watch. 

---

At his re-election party, Colin wears a navy suit with a cream shirt and an American flag pin on his lapel. His hair is freshly cut and he gives a sheepish smile to the camera that feels authentic, but has been rehearsed for days with his media team. 

"Thank you, thank you," he says, trying to quiet the raucous cheers and chants. "Today's success is not my success. It's the success of a team that has thrown everything into a campaign that they believe in, into values that they believe in. I never thought I'd be a politician. My parents are a schoolteacher and forester. Humble holidays in the Peters house, I can tell you that." He pauses for the laugh. "The idea that I'd stand in front of people and tell them how I think this state and this country should look and run, seemed crazy. But I took this on because I believe there is a better way. We can be a better country, but we have to fight for it. Sacrifice for it. And I'm ready to give everything to this fight. So are you with me? Are you gonna' join this fight?" 

The crowd's response is rapturous and Colin drinks it in. He thanks a laundry list of people, including his family and his wonderful wife. He saves his final thanks for Congressman Wesley Robles, who couldn't attend, but without who's aid Colin doesn't think he would have won the election, much less won by fifteen points. 

When he leaves the stage it's to a whirlwind of well wishes. He glad-hands constituents and promises change and prosperity. 

He rides the high. Initially, he doesn't hear from Wes, who's busy with a nightmare showdown with the administration and has sequestered himself in the capital.

A few days later Colin receives an email that reads: 

C. 

Congrats on the victory. Sorry I've been slow to acknowledge it, but our democracy is currently imploding, as you may have heard. I trust you got the champagne I sent. I know your wife doesn't drink, but the bottle is worth more than that relic you drive around to appear humble. I'm sure you'll find some way to enjoy it. On Monday you'll be receiving another gift. I trust you'll know what to do with it. 

This was a hell of a win. Soak it in.

Wes.

Colin reads the email and forgets about it until he shows up in his office and his secretary announces an unscheduled meeting. The stranger introduces himself as Thomas Freer-Grant, a freshman Congressman, newly elected. He's got an expensive haircut and a tailored suit and a winning smile. 

"Mr. Robles suggested I come introduce myself. He thought you might be interested in mentoring me. I have to say: I'm excited to learn from you, Congressman Peters." 

Colin shakes his hand. A strong grip. Good. 

"Well then, Thomas, if Wes sent you then I trust we'll have a lot to talk about. If you want, Shelly can take your jacket and we can head into my office and get started? After you."

Thomas accepts the offer, passes the suit jacket to Colin's secretary, and walks into Colin's office. Colin hangs back for a second to watch the way Thomas's suit pants cling to his muscular ass which bounces visibly with each step. 

I'll stop after this, he thinks, he swears.

BENJI BRIGHT © 2020-2022.

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