"Are you ready for this?" Ann asked.
Milo licked his lips. For some reason his mouth was suddenly drier than the morning after a bourbon-and-benzedrine bender, an experience with which he was intimately familiar. More intimately familiar, well, actually, than actual intimacy. He managed to curl his lip into a contemptuous sneer. "Bring it on."
"Follow me, boy," she said, grabbing the red silken tie that hung loose about his neck. One of the young men who frequently buzzed around him had tied it, but he'd refused to actually tighten it. That wasn't his image. That wasn't him. Ann used it like a leash, pulling him out of the tiny little media closet to which her texts had guided him. The corridor was cold concrete coated with thick off-yellow paint, the floor that industrial mottled grey all hotels and conference centers used to hide any unfortunate, incidental stains.
"We're really going to do this?" Milo said, surprised that his usually strong voice, his only real tool, threatened to crack. He told himself it was only the dryness in his throat.
"You are," Ann said. "I planned on it the moment I saw you. You looked like the kind of man who needs this sort of thing. Just like Dinesh." She pushed open the final door so hard she may as well have kicked it and hauled him into the main conference hall.
At three in the morning, the lights were down low, just enough to keep someone from tripping over a step. The hall, which hours ago had been filled with the raucous glee of hundreds of delegates on the penultimate night of nominations, now lay silent. Milo looked up at the ceiling, where nets held back the balloons that would drop tomorrow night.
Ann led him up the stairs. The wide platform beckoned. The podium waited. "Here?" he said.
"Here." She hauled him around until his back was to the auditorium. He faced her. In all the years he'd been watching her on the television, admiring her, learning from her exactly to inflame in enemies, he'd always admired her strong neck. "Down," she said, and pulled on the tie again.
Milo fell to his knees. She wore her trademark black dress, the one that just covered her thighs. She reached down and grabbed his hand, pulled it up under her skirt. "Find it."
His hand found the cold, blunt dildo waiting. His heart beat faster as his fingers told him how big it was, how textured, how veiny. With one hand she pulled up the hem of her skirt and revealed it to his eyes. She grabbed his head and pulled him closer. "Suck."
Milo felt himself tremble inside ass that rubbery, big black fake cock reached his lips. The cold, flavorless plasticene thing smelled faintly of kerosene and lust, and he opened his mouth and slobbered on it. With both hands she grabbed his head and pulled him onto her cock. "That's it. Good boy," she murmured. "Good boy."
His heart leapt at her skill, that ineffable mixture of kindness with her voice and cruelty with her hands. He was hers to command, he realized, something he had never thought with any other woman in his life. The dildo pressed against his throat and his body convulsed in a desperate desire to keep breathing, and she relented. "Up. Turn."
He obeyed. She grabbed his hands again and put them on the podium. He looked out into the auditorium. The cameras of a hundred news outlets, most of them run by untrustworthy liberals, were watching this moment with, he hoped, cold, unpowered eyes. This room, this massive room where tomorrow their master, their god emperor, would be proclaimed as their leader and savior, was entirely Milo's and Ann's, tonight. She yanked down his pants.
"What a fine lily-white ass you have, Milo," she said, and the jeering admiration made his own cock stir. "Shall I give it what it wants?" Her hands, her strong, broad hands, caressed his asscheeks. "Do you want it?"
"Yes," he whispered.
"Yes, what?" she snarled.
One hand slapped his ass so hard he almost fell against the podium. "Try again, idiot child."
Another hard slap. "Closer."
"Better." He heard a metal tink as she snapped the dildo firmly into the forward ring of its harness, and another snap was the familiar bottle top of lubricant. At least she would be that kind. The cold wet head pressed up against his asshole. She wasn't kind; his anus spasmed as the cock sank into him and he realized that the lube was that kind laced with capsacin and clove, the kind that made his hole burn, that hurt. He whimpered, "Oh, Daddy, oh, Daddy..."
"Yeah, Daddy's here," she said, her hands grabbing at hips. "Take Daddy's cock. You love Daddy's cock, don't you?"
"Yes, Daddy, yes, daddy!" His asshole was inflamed, his guts filled with that massive dildo. "Fuck me, Daddy, fuck me."
"Do it, Milo. Come. Leave your mark."
Milo grabbed his cock and began to beat it. It didn't take more than a few strokes from the two of them working in concert before he groaned loudly, sinking to rest his forehead on the podium where tomorrow a speech would be laid, a message delivered. His head sagged with relief as he ejaculated all over the platform floor.
Ann stepped back. He stood there, his knees barely holding him up, his body quivering, his asshole burning, his cock dripping semen. He heard a few tinkling sounds as she did something to put away the dildo. Finding strength in his arms, he pushed himself upright and turned. He looked down at the deliquescing blob that evidenced his own transgression. He was still staring at it when her heeled shoe blotted it from his eyes.
"We should get out of here," she said. "But at least tomorrow, you'll get to sit in the audience and you'll know that both your Daddies have stood here and ground your worthless cum into the floor." She grinned. "Right?"
He closed his eyes and saw it. The crowds. The screaming. "Make America Great Again!" they would chant. And then the orange-skinned, blond-haired man he called Daddy would stand there— stand here, where he stood this very moment— and his feet would be positioned over the smear of his seed. Milo shivered with exhilarated anticipation.
"Get some rest, Milo," she purred. "You've got a big day tomorrow."