Deceit

She had spent four years near that same office working in the first Thomas Carstairs' administration. When he won re- election she was retained but moved to the Vice President's staff. During eight years in the White House she was an invisible staffer.

When it came time to hire staff for the Montrose administration, the Carstairs' political operatives were sent packing but those non-political staff professionals who wanted to keep on working were welcomed. Lang found herself back in the West Wing. Invisible.

But in the last administration she was not entirely invisible. She spent the last three years of the term as the Vice President's lover. At least, that was how she saw herself. But to the Vice President, his cronies and even to his wife, Lang was "nothing more than my li'l whore." She never knew.

Lang had wanted to see the Vice President succeed to the Presidency and felt sure he would. Not only did she love him but also she idolized him as a great, compassionate "man of the people." Of course, as his lover, she would be by his side and in his bed while he was President. She would also be a part of a great mission to help America and humanity itself.

Then came the rise of Peter Montrose that brought the eventual fall of her idol. The last six months of the campaign the Vice President had discarded her and she had cooled on him. When Peter Montrose won office and needed experienced staff, she saw the opportunity revived to be a part of a "great mission to help America and humanity itself."

And all was fine in Lang's world until her old obsession re-surfaced.

The now former Vice President, like all the high-ranking White House officials involved in the conspiracy against Peter Montrose, got word of Mitchell Cahill's evidence and the President's plan to deal with the conspirators two weeks before their day in the Oval Office. So did the former Vice President's wife.

In a quirk of morality and ethics, it didn't bother the Vice President's blue blood wife that he was having sex with Marilyn Lang. She never liked sex that much anyway so she was relieved that someone actually wanted to be "pawed and drooled on" by her husband. But planning murder, actually, getting caught planning murder, was an unforgivable sin. She threatened divorce.

The night after Katherine Miles raged at her husband, Winston Miles showed up late at the door of Lang's Georgetown apartment.

"Winston?"

"Marilyn, can I come in? Please."

"Of course."

Lang hurried to open the locks and chains. Winston Miles nearly fell in the door. The smell of bourbon was strong in the air.

"Winston, are you drunk?"

"Hmmmm," Miles placed his arm around his former lover, "just a wee bit.

"Did I wake you, Lynn?"

"Well...uh..."

"Let's go to your room."

The former Vice President lurched toward Lang's bedroom pulling her with him. When they got near the bed Winston flung Lang's small body onto the bed and proceeded to strip.

"Winston! Jesus! What do you think you're doing?!"

He still had his boxers and his socks on but his erection was prominently poking through the fly of the boxers. "I'm going to fuck my li'l whore. In my 20 years of public service, you are the best whore I've ever had. I'd give you a medal if I could. Instead, I can only give you this," Miles smiled lewdly and wagged his erection at her and then pulled his boxer shorts off.

"Winston! No! No! How can you call me a whore?!"

"Cause honey, that's all you ever were to me. That's your forte in life, I think. That's all you'll ever be."

Lang was stunned beyond words and deeply hurt.

Drunk or not, the former Vice President covered the distance between where he was and the bed with amazing speed. He pushed her down on her back, pushed her thighs open with his legs and pulled the spaghetti straps of her night gown slip off her slim shoulders to get at her breasts before she knew what was happening.

His erection was rubbing against her belly as he pushed her higher on the bed and tried to kiss her face and neck. Finally Lang got enough control of the situation to catch his face in her hands, "Winston, baby, I don't have my diaphragm in and I think I'm very fertile right now! Please, baby, let me get it in or let me suck you off! Come in my mouth...please!"

"Tempting as the offer is, my sweet little whore, I want that delectable cunt. Now! You can suck me later. So," he added cheerfully and in his mind, reassuringly, "fuck your diaphragm baby! I'll take care of you."

He pulled her head savagely back by the hair and as she grimaced and gave a short scream at the pain he penetrated her.

She was dry so the first penetration was not very deep and painful but as she lay passively beneath him, resigned that he was going to take her, he kept thrusting until she was warm and slick. When he slid fully inside her she gasped at the sensation and hugged him to her body.

"Don't come in me baby, please." she pleaded in his ear - but the pleading was less now that he was "back" for her; all his comments about her being a whore attributed to his drunkenness. He didn't mean those mean things. She was the woman who sustained him in his high office, not that patrician bitch to whom he was married. He really loved her or he wouldn't have come to her, to her bed, her body, if he didn't.

He pressed her hard onto her back with his body and took her mouth with his in a sloppy wet kiss, tasting of bourbon and cigarettes, "Don't worry, baby, I'll take care of you," he whispered.

Several more thrusts, several more gropes of her small breasts and wet kisses later and Winston Miles grunted and stiffened. At first Lang, remembering old times, took the grunt with pride: she had made him come. But then she remembered he was forcing her and she was without protection. Suddenly thoughts of love were crowded out by the indignity of her position and the possibility of becoming pregnant.

"Winston! No!" She pushed him off her. He lost his balance and fell backwards onto the floor - laughing.

"God damn! But that was some good, baby!" He was red faced and breathing hard. Suddenly he made a face like he was in pain and groaned.

In a flash Lang was off the bed, she let her slip fall to the floor from around her waist and she went to him, kneeling beside him. "Winston! Winston! What's wrong? Are you in pain?"

"Ah, sweet little Lynn," he said slowly as he ran his hand behind her head and interlaced his fingers in her hair, "just Mr. Willy is in pain." He pushed her head down to his semi-erect cock. "Why don't you make him feel better?"

Lang fell into his lap. She did not resist him and she took his cock gently with her mouth. Once she had him hard he carried her back to the bed where he could fuck her face like he wanted.

Winston Miles was not so drunk that he couldn't come again and after twenty minutes of thrusting in and out of her mouth, sometimes causing her to gag and choke, he erupted into her mouth, his sperm frothy and bitter tasting.

He held her by the hair and forced her to take most of the load in her mouth until it ran out the corners of her mouth and then, the last weak spurt or two was aimed at her face. He released her, letting her cough and gasp for breath as he went toward his pile of clothes on the floor and began to dress.

"You're leaving?" Lang stammered between coughs.

"Yeah, Katherine will be missing me. Do you need anything darlin'?"

He had his pants on by this time and before Lang could respond he took two $100 bills from his wallet and tossed then on the bed beside her. "Oh, here's another. Just for the tip. You're a damned good fuck."

Lang picked up the bills and looked incredulously at them.

"Maybe we'll do dinner next week? Would you like that, baby?"

"Uh...sure. Winston, I...I love you..."

"And I love you too my li'l whore. Three hundred dollars worth tonight," he laughed cruelly and still quite drunkenly. "I'll let myself out."

And he was gone.

Lang curled into a ball on the bed and wept bitterly. She felt violated and for the first time in her life she felt cheap. She felt like a cheap whore.

Winston never did call her for dinner. He never came back.

In the following weeks she thought often of exposing him, of accusing him of rape. She wanted vengeance. And at night, sometimes while she was at work, she would fantasize and masturbate about Peter Montrose falling in love with her. At least with the President he was single and there was hope for marriage despite the fact that she knew he was sleeping with Cynthia Green. Ms. Green wouldn't be a problem though, she thought reassuringly.

But weeks later, the day CNCBS broke the news of Winston Miles killing his wife and committing suicide, Lang felt sick to her stomach. She didn't make it to the washroom down the hall from her office before she threw up.

At first she chalked her sudden sickness as shock over his death. Her colleagues knew she had been on Miles' staff so they understood and sympathized. Green felt cared for. But her attitude toward the current President changed abruptly when the early pregnancy test she took a few days later indicated she was carrying Winston Miles' child.

It was Montrose's fault that such a great man, the man who loved her, the man who depended on her strength, fell. Montrose would have to pay. The nature of her fantasies changed abruptly.

~~~~~~~~~~

Green was walking from the Oval Office to the White House Mess for lunch when here PDA beeped. It was a text message from her control.

She was ordered to a meet that evening. The coordinates decoded to a suite in the old Watergate Hotel.

It had been close to 70 years since the Watergate Complex became infamous and set the stage for the downfall of President Richard M. Nixon. Now, it had lost its infamy and glory. Senators and House members no longer lived in the complex. It was occupied primarily now by Capitol Hill staffers and Third World diplomatic personnel and the occasional mid-level mega-corporation managerial type.

The hotel particularly had suffered the ravages of age. Green had been in seedier places but not many. She remembered one, the Ramallah Intercontinental, where Madagascar Hissing cockroaches ran along the headboard as she bagged a Sumerian diplomatic courier.

She was here to finally meet her control, the person in spy parlance who supervises or controls an agent. As she knocked on the door of one of the suites she was ready for anything - except the person who answered the door.

"Come in."

"You're my control?" Green blurted out.

The woman, dressed only in a short, silk kimono, laughed, "Surprised?"

"Yes."

"Well, come in and I'll explain."

Green followed the woman into the suite.

"Have a seat."

The woman sat in an overstuffed chair; Green took a seat on the sofa across from her. As the woman sat down, she opened her robe exposing her naked body.

"You like, Cynthia?"

Green was staring at the woman's body and at the same time frantically trying to figure out what was going on.

"Uh...well, uh, yeah. It's nice. I like your breasts. But, uh, are you pregnant?"

"You still don't recognize me, do you?" the woman laughed.

"Well, uh, you're Marilyn from Appointments."

"No...Think back. The summer my lover Yuri gave you to me and I was your mistress."

"Misha? Green asked, surprised.

"Yes! I've changed quite a bit but I think you can still fall in love with me like when we were at the Red Sea."

Still fall in love with her? Yuri was Marilyn's lover? My god, she was delusional! Green thought.

"And, of course, if not right away, maybe a little training with my whip and a little hard fucking will bring you around."

Green resisted the temptation to ask what planet Lang was on at the moment and played along. What in Hell did Marilyn/Misha like to be called when they were sex playing?

Green suddenly slipped into a submissive posture and demeanor, "Of course, Mistress Sheba."

Marilyn/Misha laughed, pleased that Green seemed to be coming around and that she had remembered the name she made Green use when she was with her.

"Be a good little bitch and come to bed with me. Pleasure me."

"Yes, Mistress Sheba, I would like that. But what about Central's mission?"

Green stood up, dropped her kimono to the floor and started for the bedroom. "Come on little bitch. We'll go over the mission after you have pleasured me."

"Yes, Mistress Sheba."

Green stood by the bed. Green was facing her, waiting for the smaller woman to make the first move or give a command. Lang reached up to Green and began unbuttoning Green's blouse. As Lang exposed Green's skin she slowly and appreciatively caressed it, like she was petting a pet.

Green involuntarily shivered as Lang ran her fingertips lightly across Green's collarbones and down across the sensitive skin of her chest above her breasts. Lang quickly unhooked Green's bra and ran her palms over Green's nipples and the fullness of her breasts and then down across Green's belly.

"Turn around, little bitch," Lang half-whispered.

Green complied and Lang reached up and pulled Green's blouse off her shoulders, taking her bra with it too. Green's back was a roadmap of whip welts that brought Green an exquisite sense of pain and pleasure as Lang slowly caressed and inspected them.

"He whips you."

Lang ran her fingertips around Green's waist as Lang came around to once again face Green. "I won't let him whip me. He begs for it but I won't let him," Lang said with pride.

Won't let who whip you? Green's mind screamed.

Lang took one of Green's hands and placed it on the slight swell of her pregnant belly, "He gave me a child; this is his. I asked him for it. The President can't resist my desires."

Green ran her fingertips over Lang's belly and up to one of Lang's breasts. "Mistress Sheba, the President did this?" Green asked in a tone of awe.

Lang pulled back from Green's touch and crawled into bed leaving Green standing beside the bed in just her skirt and shoes. She smiled smugly at Green.

"The President fucks you in Blair House and you give yourself to him like the cheap whore you always have been. But he loves me. I allow him his indiscretions with you because he is so needy and he has this base need to feel like he's powerful. But in our bed in the Residence he worships me. He knows who holds the power."

Green stared wide-eyed in amazement, a look that Lang interpreted as a look of awed admiration. But the look was far from admiration. If it weren't for the fact that Green needed to know what was going on in this spy game Lang was playing and the fact that Lang appeared so sincere, so sincerely insane, Green would have laughed out loud.

When Green and the President were not at Blair House she shared his bed in the Residence. Cheap whore I always have been? This was laughable Green thought. Green, Yuri - Green's lover - and Marilyn, then living in a kibbutz and going by the name of Misha, spent a grand total of 10 days at a resort on the Red Sea. During which time she gave herself to Lang simply to please Yuri.

"Now, finish stripping my little bitch," Lang spread her legs lewdly, "and come please me." "Yes, Mistress Sheba." Green looked at the floor and slowly kicked off her shoes, unbuttoned her skirt and pulled off her panties. She stood naked, eyes down, for Lang to inspect her.

Lang's tone was nastily superior, "So, it's true. The President said he forced you to debase yourself and shave your pussy. I didn't believe him. I will not shave for him. Now come."

Green felt her face burn with anger. The President forced me? Debase myself? Jesus Christ! She had just about had enough of this clearly unbalanced woman but she had to play this out. She slowly and sensually slid on her belly onto the bed and between Lang's legs. As her face neared Lang's sex, Lang reached down and took Green by the hair and pulled her the remaining inches to her sex.

It did not take long for Green to make Lang come. Green slid up and laid her face on Lang's belly, panting. "Mistress Sheba...may I...may I make love to your body?"

"Mmmmm, certainly, little bitch." Lang was luxuriating in the feeling of her orgasm, idly running the tips of her fingers along her lower lip.

Slowly Green slid her body up and over Lang's, taking time to kiss and caress Lang's slightly swollen belly, her breasts, and her throat. Green was even with Lang's face now. Green kissed Lang's lips slowly and tenderly. Their tongues met briefly and Lang sucked at Green's tongue then licked her own moisture from Green's lips.

The languor of their lovemaking was suddenly broken. Lang's eyes flew open.

"Oh! Oh! Oh my god! What have...?" She felt a pinprick in her neck and then her body felt very strange as if she had touched an electrical wire.

Lang's body convulsed and twitched and she tried to pull away from Green's embrace but Green held her tightly. "No. No. Shhh, Marilyn, it's okay," Green whispered in Lang's ear, "The strange feeling will pass in a minute. I'm holding you, it's okay." Green lightly kissed Lang's face and whispered calming words. She smoothed Lang's hair. "Don't be afraid."

Soon the twitching gave way to fine trembling and then, with a sigh, Green felt Lang's body sag in her arms and completely relax.

Green shifted her body so that she was cradling Lang's body in her arms and against her body.

"Marilyn, can you hear me?"

"Yes." Lang's response was a whisper and slightly slurred.

"Marilyn, tell me what my mission is."

Lang opened her eyes and tried to look around. There was a dull look of panic in them.

"Marilyn, lover, it's okay. You're safe in my arms, okay?"

"I'm afraid. Please...please don't hurt me."

"I'm not going to hurt you. Don't be afraid. Tell me my mission."

"You are to kill the President Saturday night so that he is not found until Sunday morning. When you have done this, contact me and I will give you a safe house to go to."

"Central wants me to kill the President?"

"Yes."

"But you love him."

"I must follow my orders from Central."

Mind control? Green wondered.

"Why do they want him dead?"

"I don't know. I just follow my orders from my control."

"Who is your control?"

"I...I don't know. We've never met. I use the standard contact protocol."

Shit! Green thought. Someone was using Lang and she was quite confident it wasn't Mossad Central. She needed to find out who it was. While Green was thinking through scenarios Lang's mouth sagged open and a little drool ran onto Green's breast.

Green looked down at Lang. Lang's eyes were not closed but they were glassy; the neurotoxin Green had given her put Lang into a deep state of sleep and it would be hours before she could wake her.

"Shit!"

Green eased Lang out of her arms, got out of bed and covered Lang with the comforter then collected her clothes. She sat on the end of the bed to dress and had just slipped her panties on when she heard a noise in the sitting room. Quickly she grabbed her pistol from her bag and went to the door of the bedroom, opening it slowly.

"Christ, you are good."

Mitchell Cahill sat on the sofa, a drink in one hand and his silenced pistol in the other.

Her body shielded by the doorframe, Green looked at Cahill and coolly said, "I've been wondering when you were going to turn up. Are we going to shoot it out now or are we on the same team?"

Cahill took a sip of his drink, laid his pistol on the sofa and leisurely reached for and lit a cigarette as if he were pondering the question Green had posed and was formulating an answer. "Hmmmm. Same team, I think. That okay with you?"