Red, White, & Ruined

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Prologue: The Shaping of Jenna

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Jenna Whitmore had always known her purpose. It was stitched into the hems of her debutante dresses, whispered between handshakes at fundraisers, and carved into the marble of her father's Senate office: Legacy. Family. America.

At nineteen, she was majoring in Political Communications at Liberty Grace University and could quote Reagan faster than she could undo a bra strap - though she'd never needed to. Her figure was what polite Southern society called "willowy," and what her roommate Mallory called "tragically flat." Not that Jenna cared. Not until *he* said something.

He was an intern. Anonymous. Handsome in the forgettable way most of her father's hires were. Catalog model handsome but precisely as vacant in character. At a cocktail mixer, he leaned too close and murmured over the rim of his bourbon,

"You'd be perfect if you just had a little more... presence up top, y'know? Rich guys don't marry flat girls. They fuck them and forget them."

Jenna laughed politely, then she excused herself to the bathroom. Looking at her reflection until the porcelain tiles blurred, she saw it clearly. She was smart, sure, and confident, but none of that was a substitute for the one thing every guy she'd ever met looked for first: a girl who was fucking stacked.

That night, alone in her dorm room, she made a list and titled it FIXES, underlining it twice. Top of the list:

1. Get breast implants. Big ones. Round. High. Unmissable.

She told herself it was strategic. Her daddy had always emphasised her role in the political process. He spoke, but she had to keep them around to listen. If she wanted her daddy to win - in politics, or anything else - she needed the kind of silhouette that silenced rooms and opened wallets.

By July, she was in Miami taking a vacation, officially, but unofficially because it was away from the political media.

By August, she had found the surgeon she wanted - discrete, expensive, at the top of his field.

By September, she had become the ideal woman.

But ideals, as she'd learn, are easily corrupted - and some changes can never be undone.

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Chapter One: The New Jenna

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The first thing she noticed was the tightness. Not pain, exactly - just a heavy, unfamiliar fullness across her chest, like someone had strapped weighted pillows to her ribcage, then asked her to lie still.

Jenna blinked through the dim hospital light. Her throat was dry. Her skin, clammy. And under the gauze and compression bra, her new breasts throbbed. Not with pain, but with presence. High, tight, enormous.

She let her head fall to one side. The curtain rustled in the soft breeze of an over-air-conditioned room. Machines beeped quietly.

Her fingers twitched, then crept upwards - hesitant at first, now bolder, trailing up from her waist to cup the bandaged swell of her breasts. Her breath caught. They were so... there. Even wrapped and hidden, they dwarfed her hands. Jenna had always been petite, but next to these things, she felt it.

She swallowed. The memory flickered: the surgeon's smile, the size chart, Mallory giggling over an Instagram filter.

"Go big or go home, baby," her friends had said. Oh, god, why had she listened to them?

Her thumb brushed a curve, and she gasped. Not from sensation - they were still mostly numb - but from the idea of it. Porno proportions on an all-American girl. They were hers now.

Heavy. Round. Obscene.

A hot pulse ran between her legs.

"Oh!" She yelped.

She shouldn't be turned on by this. It was cosmetic. Practical. Strategic. A power play. She wasn't even planning to keep them once she'd actually found a man, but... they bounced, even through the wrap. She shifted, and the movement dragged against her skin, tugging something primal awake. Her legs pressed together.

"You'll look like a bimbo," Mallory had laughed during the sizing consult. And Jenna had smiled, then chosen the biggest option on the chart. But now, staring at the ceiling, breath shallow, pussy aching, she realised something that made her moan softly into the silence:

She didn't just like looking like a bimbo. She wanted to *be* one.

Perfect. Sexual. Plastic. Owned.

Not a Senator's daughter, not a political legacy - just tits and lips and curves all wrapped in pink. A living wet dream. A thing men whispered about and women envied.

A nurse entered the room.

"Oh good, you're awake. The procedure went swimmingly. Can I get you anything?"

Jenna smiled sweetly, her beauty radiant and obvious even without make-up on. She asked the only question she could think of right now:

"Does this surgery offer lip fillers?"

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Chapter Two: Nothing Fits

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Three weeks later, Jenna stood in front of her bedroom mirror and stared at a stranger.

The bruising had faded. The swelling, mostly gone. What remained was - even to her - stunning.

Her breasts sat unnaturally high, two impossible hemispheres perched atop her chest, daring gravity to challenge them. Round, perfectly shaped, yet huge - they didn't just alter her silhouette, they had redefined it. Everything about her seemed smaller by comparison. Her waist, her arms, her thoughts.

She hadn't planned to look like a porn star. Not exactly. But beauty standards being what they were, well, it was tough not to.

She pulled her old sorority formal dress from the back of her closet. Pale blue satin. Modest, tasteful. It had zipped up like a dream last spring. Now? She could barely get it past her hips.

"No, no, come on!" she muttered, tugging the fabric up over her new chest. It bunched beneath her breasts, caught in the curve, refusing to rise. She pushed, squeezed, lifted - nothing. She felt like she was trying to slip a basketball into a sock. When she finally wrestled the dress into place, her nipples were just about covered but her tits spilled out of the top like foam from a shaken can. The neckline was obliterated. The bodice puckered like it had been stitched for a doll. The zipper in back refused to meet.

She turned sideways. Her profile was... cartoonish. Like a doodle sketched by a man with a porn addiction.

And still, she didn't take it off.

Her breath caught. Her nipples hardened beneath the thin lace bralette she wore underneath. She hadn't worn a real bra in days - none of them remotely fit, and she liked the way the bralettes almost failed to contain her. Like they'd given up trying.

Jenna stared at her reflection. Even after a few weeks she was still fascinated. One hand drifted to her breast. She lifted it slightly. It barely even moved - it was too firm, too perfect. Her lip trembled.

"I look like..." she whispered. Then she didn't finish the sentence, because the truth was sitting too heavy on her tongue. I look like a fucking sex toy.

Her thighs clenched. She stepped back, turned again, watched the way the new weight pulled her posture forward - hips tilted, ass pushed back, like her whole body had adapted to be looked at. Touched. Used. She pressed her palm flat against the curve of one breast, then slid it down over her waist, to where the dress clung, hot and tight.

And when she whispered, "Good girls don't dress like this," her reflection just smiled back at her. Eyes wide and vacant. Cheeks flushed. Lips parted and swollen, like her mouth existed just to obey.

"Fuck..." she whispered. "Maybe I'm not a good girl anymore..."

In seconds she was cross-legged on her bedroom floor, the too-tight dress peeled halfway off, bunched at her waist like a discarded promise. One breast hung free--round, artificial, obscene. The other strained against the lace, half-visible, squeezed into submission.

Her phone screen was dark, handset discarded beside her. She usually got off reading filthy stories, but this time she didn't need to. Her imagination was filthy enough now.

She rocked gently, thighs slick, one hand down the front of her satin panties, the other desperately gripping the curve of her breast like it might anchor her.

Every time her fingers circled her clit, she locked eyes with her reflection. That stranger. That... thing.

Those glassy eyes, those flushed cheeks, those inflated lips parted like they were made for sucking cock. Her body was ridiculous. Pornographic. Fake. She rubbed harder with every word she thought, and she couldn't stop.

"Fuck..." she gasped, one hand now clutching both tits together, pressing them together, squeezing them around some imaginary cock. She looked down at her own chest and nearly came. "This isn't supposed to be me," she whispered, "this is what a dumb slut looks like."

The orgasm felt like... betrayal.

Her back arched. Her mouth opened in a silent scream. Her whole body pulsed, bucked, gave in. Her pussy clenched around nothing, needy and used. She rode it out like a punishment--eyes wide, tears pricking her lashes, the echo of shame already pounding through her skull.

And when it was over, she scrambled.

Panties yanked back up. Dress thrown in the hamper. Bralette kicked under the bed. She wiped herself with a makeup wipe like she was cleaning off her sins.

She didn't dare look at the mirror.

Instead, she grabbed her phone, opened her browser, and typed three words with shaking fingers:

"bimbo fashion haul"

Lingerie ads bloomed across the screen like flowers. Latex, mesh, sheer dresses, pink crop tops with rhinestone lettering. Every link she clicked made her pulse jump.

She added six items to her cart.

Then seven more.

Then a pair of glitter heels she had no business wearing.

Jenna exhaled, slow and hard, her finger hovering over the "Place Order" button.

"New body, new rules," she whispered.

Click.

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Chapter Three: The Fundraiser

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The invitation had said cocktail attire, but Jenna had other plans.

Her new dress was crimson - tight, glossy, and criminally short. The neckline plunged like she was wearing it for a dare. Every inch of her tits was on display, squeezed together so high and round they looked sculpted. She wore no bra. She didn't need one.

She teetered into the ballroom on designer heels high enough to hurt, legs long and gleaming, hair in loose, perfect waves. Her lips were candy-apple red. Her clutch was covered in rhinestones. Her back was arched, her ass round, her shoulders back. Her tits poised to enter the room before she did. She was begging to be noticed, even if her mind was still pretending this was strategic.

"Jenna?"

She turned.

It was Congressman Yates - one of her father's political allies. Middle-aged. Married. He blinked like he'd just been slapped in the face.

"You look... so different," he said, adjusting his tie.

She smiled sweetly. "I filled out."

He chuckled nervously. She placed her hand on his bicep.

"Can we count on your support?"

His eyes never made it above her chest as he nodded.

All night it went like that. Men she'd known for years spoke to her like they'd just met her for the first time. Louder. Slower. Flirtier. Their hands lingered longer at her waist. Their wives watched from across the room with eyes like knives.

Even the waitstaff stumbled around her. One boy spilled a tray of prosecco on himself when she had bent forward slightly to grab a canapé. She couldn't help but laugh.

Jenna floated through it all like a hologram - seen but not believed. Her body felt hot, electric. She caught glimpses of herself in mirrors and windows, hips swinging, tits swaying, lips parted in a practiced smile. A walking ad for a lifestyle she'd never admitted wanting.

At one point, she ducked into the restroom just to make sure she wasn't dripping arousal down her own legs. Looking in the mirror, she turned sideways and watched the dress stretch tight across her ass, the curve of her breasts obscene even in profile.

Someone knocked on the door.

"Miss Whitmore? Are you alright?"

She dabbed her lipstick with a tissue. Smiled.

"Yes," she purred. "Just needed to... adjust."

When she stepped back into the ballroom, every man turned to look. And Jenna let them.

The big moment, however, happened just after midnight as the party was winding down. Her father had already congratulated her on her assistance. He was proud of her, he had said, perhaps for the first time ever. Jenna had never felt satisfaction like that before. These tits had made her visible, even to him.

Most of the guests had filtered out by now, buzzed on champagne and weary of small talk, but Jenna lingered - red dress painted to her skin, a lowball glass of something she had barely tasted warming her palm.

The man approached her from the side. Older. Wealthy. One of her father's top donors. She didn't remember his name, only that his watch probably cost more than her tuition.

"You're Whitmore's girl, right?" he asked, voice low and velvety. "Jenna?"

She smiled politely. "That's me."

He leaned in. Too close.

"You look incredible tonight. Really. I mean that."

Her smile tightened. She'd been collecting compliments all evening - most clumsy, some downright lecherous - but this one had teeth. He glanced around, then slipped a business card from his jacket.

"My hotel's across the street. Suite 1809. I'd love to get to know you. Properly." As she moved to politely place the card in her clutch with the others, she was startled to find a folded hundred tucked under it. Her smile dropped. Heat flushed her chest - not desire. Embarrassment. Rage. Shame.

"You think I'm a hooker?" she hissed.

He shrugged, unfazed, powerful enough to know he could easily get away with this. "Of course not. Just thought you looked like someone who would appreciate my... generosity. I know your father does, after all."

With that, he was gone. Suddenly the party felt over.

Jenna slunk back to her hotel room, a little tipsy, a little depressed, a little confused. She had slipped off her heels to walk home barefoot in the balmy evening heat - it was warmer than usual for DC in October, though it always seemed to be these days. Her father's oil executive friends saw to that, she smirked to herself.

By comparison, her hotel room was cold. Sterile. Illuminated only by the minibar light and the glow of the city through the window.

Jenna sat on the edge of the bed naked. Her dress was draped over a chair, still warm with her body heat. The heels tossed to one side.

She held the hundred-dollar bill between her fingers, the insult still stinging, her pulse still pounding.

But her pussy was so, so wet.

She closed her eyes and relived the moment - his eyes flicking down her body, the card, the folded cash. That awful assumption. That offer. Like she was something he could have. Like she was something HE could afford.

Her thighs clenched. She should feel violated. Degraded.

Instead, she felt powerful.

Desired.

Used.

She lay back on the bed and reached between her legs without thinking, breath catching as her fingers met slickness. She imagined walking into his suite. The way he'd open his wallet before anything else. The way he'd touch her like she belonged to him - for an hour. Maybe two. Not buying - renting. Just for the night. Like you'd rent a limo, or a diamond necklace.

She squeezed her tits together between her arms then tucked the hundred between them, careful not to let it drop as she writhed under her own fingers. Her free hand squeezed one of her tits, pinching the nipple hard. She bit her lip. Her hips rolled.

She imagined what he'd want for the money. A blowjob? Of course. Slipping his cock between her big fake titties? Naturally. What the fuck did he think she'd do for a hundred measly dollars anyway? Didn't he know how much she was worth? She imagined him bending her over the bed, unceremoniously squeezing his cock into her ass while she gripped the hundred tightly in one fist.

She came. Hard.

When it was over, she took the hundred and tucked it into her bag.

She didn't plan to spend it.

She just liked knowing it was there.

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Chapter Four: Blue Balls

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The hotel bar was dim and upscale - mahogany, leather, and low jazz. Jenna had changed into something subtler than she had been wearing lately, but only just: a black dress that clung like a second skin, thin straps and no bra, peep-toe heels tall enough to make her calves pop. She wore no name tag, no political affiliations - just glossed lips and a scent that whispered sin.

She slid onto a stool near the end of the bar, crossed her legs, and ordered something sweet. Peach, again. She liked the taste of indulgence.

Then she saw him.

He was seated two spots down - black suit, no tie, sleeves rolled. Mid-thirties, clean-cut, sharp eyes. She recognized him instantly: Senator Andre Miles. A junior senator from Maryland and former civil rights attorney. The youngest rising star in the Democratic party.

Her daddy hated him.

But Jenna's thighs pressed together involuntarily under the bar.

He didn't notice her at first. He was typing something on his phone - focused, unreadable. She watched him in the mirror behind the bar. His shoulders were broad. His bare forearms tensed when he moved. His hands... big. Masculine. Like they'd grip. Hard.

She looked away, flustered, and took a sip of her drink. Then she cleared her throat gently.

He looked up.

Their eyes met.

He smiled.

"Good evening, ma'am."

His voice was warm. Grounded. Not like the men who whispered filth at her dress or tried to buy her attention. He looked at her face, not into her cleavage.

She leaned in just slightly. "Evening."

"You here for the summit?" he asked, gesturing at her drink.

"Something like that," she said, coy. "I guess I'm involved in politics."

He laughed softly. "I think that's how we all feel around here."

Her guard dropped almost instantly. They talked for twenty minutes - easy conversation, light flirting, but he didn't cross any lines. He hadn't asked her name, but she didn't offer it. And when his fingers brushed her wrist reaching for his drink, she felt it like static - sharp, forbidden, addictive.

Jenna knew what this was.

Maybe he thought she was some unattached bombshell drifting through DC, an aide, maybe a consultant. Not the daughter of Senator Whitmore. Not conservative royalty. Not the kind of girl raised to despise everything he stood for. He didn't know what was under her dress - what she'd done to herself. How far she'd already fallen. But she wanted him to find out.

She let her knee brush his.

"You know," she said, voice like honeyed sin, "you're even more handsome in person."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Have we met?"

She smiled. Bit her lip.

"No," she lied. "But I've seen you on TV, and in the papers."

In her mind she was already on her knees for him -- dress peeled down, his cock in her mouth as she swallowed the future her family would never approve of.

"Would you like to see more?" he asked.

She blushed, then smiled. She would.

They snuck upstairs quickly. Perhaps they should have gone separately, but she didn't think anyone would be watching. Her hotel room door clicked shut behind them, like a vault sealing them away from the outside world.

Senator Miles stood just inside the threshold, one hand still on the knob, watching her. Jenna tossed her clutch on the dresser and turned slowly, backlit by the city lights that spilled through the window. Her dress clung to her like body paint. The curve of her breasts was outrageous - high, proud, wrong, in a way that made his pupils dilate. He'd noticed them at the bar. How could he not? But up here, in this light, they were all he could look at.

She stepped towards him. No words. Just the subtle shift of her body as she reached up and tugged the thin straps off her shoulders, letting the fabric slide down in a silken hush. It puddled at her feet. She was naked underneath, looking every inch the sex doll she had built herself to be.

Miles inhaled sharply.

Jenna's chest rose, tits forward like an invitiation - taut, artificial, massive. The kind of body you paid for. The kind of body that got judged. She was waiting for it - his disapproval, his hesitation, maybe even his disgust.

Instead, he stepped forward and kissed her.

Hard.

His hands cupped her waist, slid up, found the curve of her ass and squeezed like he couldn't help it. She moaned into his mouth, grinding against him, his erection already thick beneath his slacks.

"You're..." he murmured between kisses, "insane. You're perfect." She smiled. Bit his lip.

"You don't even know who I am," she whispered.

"Don't care."

That made her ache.

He backed her toward the bed, lips moving from her mouth to her throat to the curve of one overstretched, hypersensitive breast. His breath was hot on her skin. When his tongue circled her nipple, it was so sensitive that she gasped. No-one but her had touched them yet and now this man... this Democrat... was the first.

Her hands were already at his belt. She needed him now.

And as he pushed her down onto the mattress and knelt between her thighs, Jenna felt a wave of wet, forbidden pleasure wash over her.

She was going to fuck a Democrat.

A Black Democrat.

And Daddy was picking up the bill.

And when his tongue touched her pussy, soft and focused and good, she knew she was going to come like a goddamn traitor.

He moved her around the bed like she mattered. He didn't toss or flip or shove - just placed, like something rare and fragile, like she was delicate. His hands were large, strong, and careful as they slid down her sides, pausing reverently at the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips, the impossible shelf of her tits.

Jenna's breath was fast, her arousal complete. When he looked at her, he really looked at her. Not just at the plastic curves, the enhancements, the fuckable fantasy. He looked at her like she was a woman he wanted to know. To memorize. To worship.

"You're beautiful," he said.

Not hot. Not sexy. Not bangable.

Beautiful.

She placed one arm on his neck and whispered:

"Please... I need you."

Then he entered her.

Slow. Deliberate. Deep.

Jenna gasped, one hand gripping his forearm as her body stretched around him, slick and stunned. He was thick, warm, present - not rushing, not panting, just there. With her. For her. She stared up at the ceiling, eyes wide, her perfect mouth open in a silent moan. No one had ever fucked her like this.

The boys she had been with before were all bark - aggressive, performative, desperate. They wanted to win, not connect. They used her like she was proof of something -- of status, of ownership, of conquest. Most of them had barely noticed she was there until she had bought some new fake tits, and even those that had seemed to forget her halfway to orgasm.

But Andre was listening. With his hands, with his hips, with his breath. Every movement was a question. Every thrust, an answer.

Jenna found herself clinging to him, whimpering softly as he built a rhythm that made her toes curl. Her tits bounced with every push, her body trembling beneath his. She should've been embarrassed, overwhelmed - but she wasn't. She was safe. And so, so full.

"You like this?" he murmured into her ear. "Being touched like this?"

She nodded, too breathless to speak.

He smiled against her throat. "Good. You deserve to be treated right."

That undid her.

The orgasm hit hard, sudden, shattering. Her body locked, clamped, pulsed around him. She came with a cry--raw, helpless, real - and he held her through it, lips at her neck, arms around her like she was worth something more than just her silhouette.

When he came, it was with a groan into her shoulder and a final, deep thrust. He didn't collapse. He stayed inside her, strong and still, heartbeat pressed against hers.

And in the silence after, she thought:

My father would disown me for this.

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Chapter Five: The Second Night

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She told herself she'd leave it at one night.

But the next evening, Jenna found herself at the bar again -- same time, same seat, same gloss on her lips. Only this time, she knew what she was doing. And when Andre appeared -- surprised, pleased, cautious - she smiled like she'd already got what she wanted.

"I wasn't sure I'd see you again," he said, sliding into the stool beside her.

"And yet here you are too," she smiled.

"What can I say, I'm optimistic about the future," he joked. She giggled.

"Can I just... I want to thank you for how you treated me," she said. "It's never been like that for me."

His hand found her thigh under the bar. She didn't flinch.

"It was special for me too." he grinned.

They didn't make it through two drinks before she pulled him upstairs.

This time was different. This time, she wasn't passive. She wasn't wondering what he saw in her. She knew. She stripped slowly, letting her tits bounce free from her dress like they were being offered. He took her from behind first - gripping her hips, deep strokes that made her vision blur. Then she pulled him down, rolled him over, climbed on top and sat on his thick cock like it was where she belonged.

She wanted him to watch her bounce -- wanted him to know she was doing this to him, not the other way around.

And when he was close - eyes dark, mouth slack, hands clutching her ass as she milked him with her body - that's when she leaned down, brushed his ear with her lips, and said it:

"My name's Jenna. Jenna Whitmore. I'm from Georgia."

He froze. His breath hitched. His cock twitched inside her.

"You're--"

"Senator Whitmore's daughter," she announced, rolling her hips and kissing his neck. "His pride and joy. His future legacy. And I'm letting you fuck me raw in a hotel bed he paid for."

His eyes locked on hers.

Then he thrust up hard, grabbed her hips, and fucked into her like it was defiance.

"Fucking hell," he growled. "You want to, what, teach him a lesson?"

She moaned, head thrown back, her chest jiggling as she rode him wildly.

"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, yes, please-"

He came inside her with a groan like thunder, pulling her down tight against him as he emptied himself into the one girl he should never have touched. She came with him, shuddering and soaked. Owned by the man who stood for everything her father hated.

"I should be mad." He told her, sternly. "But I don't care who you are out there. In here..."

He rolled on top of her, ready for round two. She parted her thighs. Then finished his sentence:

"I'm yours."

They fucked all night. Every way, every angle, until they were both spent. Then they slept.

Jenna woke up tangled in hotel sheets, mascara smudged, thighs sticky, her body humming with the aftershocks of a night that had no business being that good. Andre was gone. He'd left a note. Polite. Brief. He hadn't asked for her number. It felt like she was a mistake he was grateful for, but still a mistake.

And still... she pressed the note to her chest like it meant something.

She showered slow, let the water wash away the evidence but not the feeling. Then she dressed in something modest. White blouse, pencil skirt, low heels. She stepped into the elevator, trying to feel like Jenna Whitmore again, like the events of the last two nights had been an aberration. A lapse.

But the second she hit the lobby, her phone buzzed.

A message. From her father's chief of staff.

"Need to speak ASAP. Call me."

Her stomach flipped.

She stepped outside before dialing, the city buzzing like static around her. He picked up on the first ring.

"Jenna." His voice was tight. Clipped. "Tell me it's not true."

"What?"

"Room 719. Senator Miles. TWO NIGHTS IN A ROW?"

Her heart stopped.

"How do you--"

"Security footage. Lobby cams. The press hasn't seen it yet--and thank God, neither has your father. But we have eyes everywhere. Jesus, Jenna. What were you thinking?"

She didn't answer.

There was a pause. Then, softer:

"Do you want to ruin your father?"

Whitmore had already been slipping. The last fundraising cycle fell short. His debate prep team kept quitting. The media whispered about declining health. The campaign's grip was loosening - Jenna knew her betrayal was a thread that could unravel everything.

"If we found out, so could someone else. The only reason we aren't giving it to the press right now is because his career might survive it, but your father's wouldn't. Stop being such a stupid tramp or we'll have to..." he paused, too cowardly to say it out loud. "resolve it ourselves."

Her pulse roared in her ears. She looked up at the hotel - the windows, the bar, the place where she finally felt alive. And she thought: if that's how it's going to be, then fine.

Then she hung up. She didn't go home.

Instead, Jenna booked a suite at a new hotel, under a different name. She made a burner Instagram. New nails. New hair. Platinum blonde, slutty pink tips. She posted a photo that night - crop top, tongue out, cleavage for days. Then she sent it to everyone she knew. It was captioned "Not daddy's girl anymore."

Within hours... the DMs flooded in.

One of them was from Andre.

Just two words:

"Is this real?"

Her reply?

"Come find out."

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Chapter Six: Blacked Out

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She waited.

Hair straightened. Lingerie on. Body oiled just enough to glisten. She looked incredible. Not that anyone was looking at her.

Jenna Whitmore sighed. She sat alone in the suite's king-sized bed, legs crossed, breasts pushed high in a lace balconette bra, phone screen dim and empty. Andre hadn't replied. Not since that last message.

Come find out.

She'd meant it. She still did.

But no-one was knocking at the door, and she couldn't exactly send a message through his secretary.

By midnight, her wine bottle was empty and her cunt was aching. She tried to distract herself - Instagram, Twitter, even reading news about her father's latest talking points - but it all felt stupid. Hollow. The only thing in her head was the way Andre had looked at her while her was buried balls deep inside her cunt. The way his voice had sounded when he made her come.

She was horny now, out of her mind almost, and there was no-one here to take care of it. If anyone actually could take care of it the way Andre did. She wondered, briefly, about heading down to the bar and grabbing some new guy, but that would mean changing, flirting, potentially without success - it could take hours.

And there was porn right there on the hotel TV. She'd seen it before when she'd stayed here in the past, one of the few times she was in DC on her own money. Back then she'd been disgusted - what were people using these rooms for? - but now, well...

Her pedicured hand gripped the remote and navigated to the x-rated selection. Scrolling down the list, one caught her eye...

Category: Interracial - Sponsored by BLACKED.

She hesitated.

Then selected it.

Then bought one.

And another.

It wasn't long before her room echoed with soft moans and slick sounds and the rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh.

The women on screen were like her - spoiled, sculpted, submissive and dolled up in expensive lingerie. They were bent over glass tables, their pale thighs shaking as they took cock after cock from men like Andre. Powerful, confident men with massive dicks.

She spread her legs. Her hand slid into her panties and her fingers met soaked, slippery heat.

The first touch made her whimper.

The second made her grind.

She didn't even pretend it wasn't about him. About the way he filled her. The way he treated her like something worth fucking right. She pictured him watching this video with her, sitting back in a suit while she played with herself like a good girl, showing him she'd learned her lesson.

That's was what she was made for. To be taken. Chosen. Used, yes, but valued in the using.

Her orgasm built fast. Dirty, desperate, shame-laced, she gasped through it, one hand on her artificially inflated breast, the other slick and pumping between her thighs. The moans from the screen surrounded her. Affirmed her. Just like his cock had.

And when it was over - when she collapsed into the pillows, trembling and breathless - she whispered to no one:

"I'd let him breed me."

It became a nightly ritual for her, stroking herself to pornography. Usually interracial, usually while picturing Andrea, and always while dressed up and naked. She fantasised about him arriving at her door to find her like that. Taking her silently but without hesitation.

It wasn't enough though. She needed more than thoughts, so she kept thinking about buying herself a sex toy. It would be her first ever. She knew proper women didn't keep such things in the house, and it's not like anyone had ever cared if she was satisfied or not. But now that she was on her own, a little indulgence to pass the time seemed reasonable. After all, Andre was staying silent, distant - perhaps gone forever.

Maybe she'd scared him off. Maybe he regretted it. Maybe he never thought about her again.

But she couldn't stop thinking about him.

So one night, tipsy on cheap white wine and ready to make bad decisions, Jenna opened a private browser and typed in exactly what her body craved:

"Realistic black dildo, big, curved, soft silicone, heavy base"

The results flooded in - slick, glossy, overwhelming. She scrolled until one caught her eye. It was thick. Veined. Almost too real. Curved like she remembered him feeling inside her. The reviews were breathless. And when she saw the name, she almost laughed.

it was called "The Dre."

She stared at it, heart thumping.

She hit "next-day delivery" and bought it.

The box arrived plain. Unmarked. Safe. Brought to her door by the concierge who almost certainly knew what she was doing in there. But when she opened it, the blush hit her hard.

Inside was a monster - gorgeous and terrifying. Smooth, heavy, perfect. It looked like a cock designed to ruin her. It slipped out of the box with a thud, heavier than she expected.

She traced the shaft with her fingers, lips parted. Her pussy pulsed.

The note inside read:

"Well done on choosing The Dre, our thickest, darkest, sexiest dildo. 100% of women polled say that once you try Dre, you can't stay away."

Her breath caught.

She didn't remember the site saying that.

She held it like it might shatter if dropped. Laid it on the sheets beside her and stripped slowly - top, panties, jewelry - everything but the stockings and heels. Part of her felt stupid for dressing up for a sex toy, but it seemed fitting. And hey - being stupid was her thing now.

Then she kneeled on the bed, spread her legs, and stared down at the silicone beast like it might speak. Her fingers found her pussy, already slick and hungry. She rubbed slow, teasing herself, whispering:

"You didn't want me back, Senator? Then I'll take what I need."

She spit on the toy. Guided it to her entrance. It pressed against her lips with a weight that made her thighs shake.

And when she slid it inside, inch by glorious inch, she moaned. It barely fit. Fuck, she thought, maybe I was too enthusiastic!

The porn was already playing - another BLACKED scene, of course. Blonde girl, big tits, body bent, stuffed full and moaning through mascara tears. Jenna watched from her knees, sucking on two fingers like she was learning, not watching. The moans synced with hers as she bounced on the big black dildo, squeezing it, pretending it was him. With each thrust it went a little deeper, she stretched a little wider, until she gloriously, finally, felt its balls touching her. She'd taken the whole thing.

Now that she knew what was possible, she set up her phone on the side table - angled low, just enough to catch the arch of her back, the spread of her thighs, the swell of her breasts. Not for anyone. Just to see it for herself. To see if porn of herself looked as good as the stuff on TV.

At first she had eased it in slowly, her cunt tight and trembling, stretched around its width. She had whimpered as it sank deeper, one hand bracing on the mattress, the other gripping the base like a handle. Now she took the whole length, deep, pressing her perfect round tits together. Slapping them. Imagining his hands on her, treating her roughly, taking her like a slut.

"Fuck!" Her eyes fluttered closed.

The girl on the screen was being wrecked too. Hair pulled, tits mauled, moaning like she was born to be used. Jenna thrust harder, matching the rhythm. She watched herself ride the toy in the reflection of the window, tits swinging, hips working. Her skin flushed. She was in heaven.

She wasn't pretending to be anyone else. This was her now.

She angled her hips and moaned louder, half-laughing, half-crying, so close - her body losing rhythm, her thighs slapping against the mattress with every thrust. Her pussy made wet, obscene sounds against the toy. Her orgasm built like a wave of heat and shame and power, and when it broke, she cried out, shaking, clenched around every inch of silicone, soaking the sheets, her voice high and raw and helpless.

She fell forward, still full, still twitching. The phone kept recording. And when she finally caught her breath... she saved the video.

For herself, of course.

Jenna was still sprawled on the bed, her body flushed, her cunt dripping around the toy she hadn't bothered to pull out yet. Her skin shimmered with sweat and slick. Her hand hovered near her phone, fingers twitching, wondering whether to replay the video or delete it before she did something stupid.

But before she could do either, her handset buzzed.

Unknown number.

Blocked ID.

No name.

Just a message:

"You looked so much better on your knees."

She gasped. The toy slid partway out with a wet sound as her thighs clenched. She stared at the screen, blood pounding in her ears. Another message arrived before she could type.

"That toy you're fucking? I saw what the name was. Are you missing anyone specific?"

She swallowed. The room was suddenly too hot, too still. She had thought the new phone was clean. No backup apps, no sync. But apparently, somewhere in the tangle of burner numbers and burner identities, she'd left one auto-sync toggle on. Rookie mistake. Fuck. Anyone could have seen it.

Another message:

"You film yourself because you want someone to watch. So send it to me. Show me how far you've fallen."

Her hand trembled. Not with fear.

With need.

Who was he? Andre? Someone else? Someone who had seen her? Someone who wanted her?

She didn't know.

She didn't care.

Because the ache between her legs was back. This time, it wasn't just about being filled.

It was about being watched. Being owned. This was exactly what a sex toy needed. Deserved.

She typed back:

"What do you want?"

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Chapter Seven: Blackmailed

----------------------------------------------

She had barely pressed send when her phone buzzed again.

"Relax. I'm not going to ruin you."

Jenna stared at the screen, heart pounding, thighs still wet from the last orgasm. The toy still lay beside her on the sheets. Slick, glistening, evidence.

"I'd never tell your father what a perfect little slut you've become. How you order the same type of porn every night while dodging his calls. But if I wanted to, don't you think I could?"

She sat up, pulled the sheets around herself like they could protect her. But it was already too late. She was exposed, even clothed. Whoever this was, he had seen her - raw, open, herself. She thought this was her sanctum, but she should have guessed there was no escape. Who could it be? A journalist? The concierge? That old fucker Congressman Yates from the party? The list was longer than she liked, and DC was a small town already. Hell, the way she'd been screaming the place down, it be anyone on this side of the hotel.

The phone buzzed again.

"I saw the video. I've saved it, in fact."

She covered her mouth.

"You sent it to the cloud? Amateur move. Very poor opsec, little star."

Little star.

The nickname made her thighs twitch.

"Don't worry. It's safe with me. As long as you keep being good."

She was shaking now, but it wasn't fear. It was that electric, trembling high again. It was the thrill of being known--and the danger of someone else holding the leash.

Another buzz:

"Answer when I call. No video. Just your voice. Tell me what you bought. Tell me how it felt. And if you do it right,

I'll let you come again."

Her hand slid under the sheets.

Not even touching yet. Just the idea of him hearing her, using her own secrets to train her. And not because he hated her - because he understood her. Because he knew what she needed.

She didn't even type a reply. She just stared at the phone. And when it buzzed, she didn't even think before hitting "Accept."

His voice was low. Calm. Electric. Not one she recognised, but he was clearly disguising it. Fuck.

"You've been a very bad girl, Jenna."

She inhaled sharply. "I know."

"You sent me a video of you fucking yourself with a toy named after your father's political rival, while watching porn that made your pussy leak all over your sheets."

She whimpered.

"Tell me what you are."

Her throat was dry. "I... I'm a slut. I fucked myself with Dre. On camera. While watching interracial porn and thinking about... about being..."

"Louder."

She bit her lip, then obeyed. "I fucked myself thinking about being bred by a black man."

"And what were you watching?"

She flushed. "BLACKED. A blonde getting ruined. Like me."

There was a pause. Then:

"You're going to touch yourself. Slowly. One finger only."

Her hand drifted down.

"You don't come unless I tell you. If you do, I'll leak the video. Understood?"

She gasped. "Yes. Please."

"Well done, little star."

The words hit her like a shockwave. She was wet already - slick, swollen, needy - but the control made it unbearable. He guided her with his voice: circle your clit, stop, touch your tits, slower, let me hear you whimper. Press them together. Get on your knees. Taste yourself.

No visuals. Just sound. Just the edge of being watched without seeing. There was no idea too filthy for him. He told her what to imagine. His hands, his cock, his voice right at her ear as he made her say things she'd never say in daylight.

"Tell me how tight you are."

"Tell me what you'd let me do to you if I was there."

"Tell me what you're afraid you want."

"Tell me what you'd let me destroy if I asked."

She sobbed out answers between moans - begging, filthy, honest.

And when he finally said "Come for me," she shattered. Screaming. Crying into the pillow. Coming so hard it felt like surrender.

There was silence on the line.

Then his voice again, lower than ever:

"You're mine now."

And she knew it was true.

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Chapter Eight: The Stranger

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As much as she enjoyed playing dumb, Jenna wasn't so far gone that she was going to let anyone have total control over her. She knew that whoever was watching her was watching the hotel room, so by night she did what she was told, and by day? By day, she played detective.

Concealer, soft curls, pastel blouses buttoned just high enough to keep attention lingering instead of leering. She "bumped into" techbro cybersecurity consultants using different aliases. She sipped cold brews in dark co-working lounges and asked vague questions about "accidental cloud uploads" and "dictionary attacks." No one suspected the woman with tits like hers was looking for information on how to trace someone.

She ended every night back on her knees.

Not literally - not always - but emotionally? Completely. Every night around 11pm, her phone buzzed. No caller ID. No warning.

Only his voice.

"Say what you are. Who you are."

"My name is Jenna Whitmore and I'm your obedient slut."

"Now tell me what you're wearing."

"Lip gloss. Those Louboutins you sent. Nothing else."

Sometimes he made her come quickly - one finger, soft circles, a whispered affirmation and she was a puddle. Other nights, he edged her for hours. The days got blurrier. Her mind, filthier.

She checked mirrors for lipstick and microphones. She reread every message for hidden clues. She started keeping a list of who might have access to her cloud: her father's aides, interns, her ex, the concierge. Maybe even...

No. Surely not Andre. She would have given herself to him, he didn't need this cloak and dagger shit.

But his name stayed in her mind every night. Moaning. Begging. Worshipping.

She dug through her phone logs, cross-referenced timestamps with hotel wi-fi records, even flirted with the tech staff at her father's PAC. Nothing.

Until one morning, in her burner email, a message appeared:

You're getting closer, Little Star. It makes me hard.

I'll be at the gala dinner tonight. Wear white. Call me on this number. If I answer, we'll meet in person. If I don't... this is over.

She didn't reply.

But she did put on a white dress. Cut right up her thighs. No bra, obviously.

Just in case.

As she entered the gala, the chandelier light made her skin bright, like a doll's. Jenna stepped through the double doors of the Carlisle Room, heels clicking, tits lifted, smile set, and the room fell into a hush just long enough to notice her. That was the thing about these galas: everyone was watching and no one said what they meant to your face.

She could play that game now.

The white satin gown clung to her hips, plunging low enough to show the shelf of her breasts and high enough to flash bare thigh with every step. Her hair was curled to perfection. Her lips a glossy nude. No jewellery. No shame. Just a $12,000 clutch with a secure Bluetooth tracker inside and a burner phone set to vibrate.

She wasn't here to mingle.

She wasn't here to flirt.

She was here to hunt.

Because someone in this room was watching her in ways the others weren't. Someone knew how she sounded when she begged, how she sounded when she came. Still, she smiled at men she loathed. Laughed at donors who might be blackmailers. Kissed cheeks that could have watched her suck down a dildo named Dre until its balls rested on her pillowy lips and mascara-blackened tears streamed down her face.

Her pussy was still sore.

Her mind was sharp.

And somewhere in this room was the man who had made her into the slut people thought she was.

She was going to find him.

And if he wanted her on her knees again - well, this time he was going to have to earn it.

She was so focussed on finding the man on the phone that she almost didn't notice when she bumped tits-first into one of the attendees, spilling his drink all down his suit, and her ample cleavage.

"Oh! Excuse me, I'm so clumsy, Mr..."

"We've met." said Andre. There he was. Senator Andre Miles, in a slim-cut navy suit and perfect calm, wiping his drink off his suit.

"Hello Jenna." She was stunned. Thankfully, aside from the champagne dripping down her dress, she looked flawless. Her eyes were already scanning him - his neck, his wrists, his pockets. She was so entranced she forgot to talk, and perhaps he mistook that for frostiness. "Let's go talk."

They wandered outside where it was quiet. The conversation was cordial. Polite to a fault.

He was warm, intelligent, polished. He asked about her work, her family, her thoughts on the summit. He made no mention of the hotel. Of the bar. Of the invitation he'd ignored. Had he actually ignored it? Maybe it wasn't even him behind that account. She was so confused, desperate to learn the truth. Eventually, she took the plunge.

"I have to ask you something."

He raised an eyebrow.

She swallowed. "Did you send me those texts?"

He blinked.

"What texts?"

Her heart fluttered. "The ones about the video. About... about Dre."

His face didn't change.

"I think you're mistaken."

Then pulled out his phone and placed it on the table, scrolling through the call history. Clean. Suspiciously clean. No missed calls. No unknowns. Just glossy political order.

"Sorry Jenna but I think someone's playing a game with you. Whoever you're talking about, it isn't me. You know why I can't see you. I'm afraid, unless you've got a major update to your geneology, that the reason hasn't changed."

Jenna sat frozen. Shame bloomed in her chest. Fuck, how could she be so stupid.

He smiled, reassuring. "I hope you find out who it is."

Then he rose. Buttoned his jacket.

"Let me know if you ever want to talk about... anything else."

He turned, and started to walk towards the lobby. This was her only chance. Her hand trembled as she picked up her phone. She dialed the number she'd been sent. She didn't expect anything but she had to know.

But then just as Andre reached the exit - there was a faint buzzing.

He paused.

His hand slid slowly into his inner jacket pocket.

And pulled out a second phone.

Not the one he'd shown her.

Not the one she'd seen.

Another one.

He looked back over his shoulder.

Their eyes met.

And he smiled.

Just a little. Just enough.

Then he answered. A pause.

"Good evening, little star."

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Chapter Nine: The Line Between Us

----------------------------------------------

The Potomac was quiet that night--moonlight silvering the water, city lights flickering soft across the ripples. They walked side by side, no press, no aides, no distractions. Just the sound of her heels on the sidewalk and the unspoken weight between them.

Jenna kept glancing at him.

At the pocket where the second phone had vanished. At his hands--too casual. Too still. Finally, she broke.

"Why did you lie to me?"

He didn't stop walking. "I didn't lie, Jenna."

"You showed me a fake call history. Denied it was you. Then you answered when I called. You knew."

He gave a small shrug. "You didn't ask me the right question."

She exhaled, frustrated. "Don't be such a *politician*. Why won't you just admit it?"

He stopped walking then. Turned toward her. The light caught his face--half-shadowed, unreadable.

"Because once I say it out loud, it changes."

She stared at him. "Changes what?"

"Everything," he admitted.

Silence.

Then she whispered, "I need to hear it." His jaw clenched, just slightly. "I need you to tell me it's you. That you saw the video. That you heard me come. That you made me."

He sighed. Then confessed.

"At first I didn't know if you were real," he continued. "You could've been bait. A setup. Your father's camp would love a scandal. I needed to know you weren't acting. So I pushed. I watched. And the more you gave me... the more I wanted. I hated treating you like that, but I'm still... I'm still a man."

Jenna's eyes narrowed. "So how did you get in? My cloud--my files."

He hesitated.

"You used the same email for your hotel loyalty account as you did for your PAC internship profile," he said. "Same password base, too. You just changed the number at the end."

Her stomach dropped.

"You guessed it?"

"Basically," he replied. "I wouldn't be a very good politician if I didn't do some checks, you know? I had to know if it was actually you."

She stared at him. Shaken. Not angry. Not even ashamed. Just... exposed. Again. And yet she was a little excited to have caught his attention - you don't hack the accounts of someone you aren't thinking about.

"And when you saw it?"

"I watched you fall," he said quietly. "And I couldn't look away."

"So why all the games? I'd have given myself to you!"

He stepped closer.

"Because Jenna. I had to be sure. It could have been a plot, some kind of mind game. I couldn't let that get in the way of my work. It's too important. No matter how I feel."

"So... you DO feel... for me."

He looked away.

"I want you to know what you're asking of me, Jenna. You're the sole daughter of a white, upper class senator who would rather see me swinging from a tree than sitting at his table, much less kissing his daughter. Even if it was real, I couldn't let you ruin your life for me." He was staring into the distance now.

"Your father's building his re-election campaign on purity. Tradition. The idea that the world's moving too fast, and he's the one thing standing still. I've built mine on progress. Equity. I'm the face of everything he tells his voters to fear."

She looked at him. "And you fucked his daughter in a hotel room like she was a cheap hooker."

He winced--but not with shame. With memory.

She leaned closer. "So what are we doing?"

Miles turned to face her, expression hard. "We're stopping."

Her smile faltered.

He looked away. "It can't continue, Jenna. I shouldn't have touched you once. Let alone twice. You're dangerous. This is dangerous. I can't protect you from what would happen if it got out--and I can't protect me either."

"But I don't want protection," she whispered.

"I know," he said. "That's why it has to stop."

A long pause.

Then: "What if I don't stop?"

He turned sharply.

Jenna uncrossed her legs. Slid off the bench. Sank to her knees in front of him--on the cold stone, like a confession. Her eyes met his. Steady. Unblinking.

"I'm not asking you to want me," she said. "I'm giving myself to you."

His breath hitched.

"You said I'd beg," she whispered. "So let me beg."

Her hands reached for his belt.

He caught her wrists--but his grip trembled.

"Jenna..."

"I don't care about campaigns," she said. "I don't care about image. I care about this. About being yours."

She pressed her cheek to his thigh. Nuzzled against his heat.

"I don't want to be anyone's legacy. I want to be your toy."

He groaned--low, pained, wrecked. Still holding her wrists. Still trying to fight. For a second, he looked like he might break. Then, quietly:

"Get in the car."

She looked up. "What?"

He pulled her to her feet. His voice was hoarse. Final.

"Now."

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Chapter Ten: Educated Submission

----------------------------------------------

He didn't take her to his house. He took her to her room. Back to the same suite she'd bought the toy in. Where she'd moaned into pillows and filmed herself dripping for a stranger she now knew was him. Neither of them spoke in the elevator. Barely looked at each other, even. But when the door clicked shut behind them, he turned to her.

"You understand what this is now," he said. "There's no coming back."

She nodded once. She stepped out of her heels and pulled off her clothes without breaking eye contact.

"I know," she whispered. "I don't want to come back."

He stripped her with reverence, not haste--unhooking her bra like it was the last lock on a vault, dragging her panties down slow until they fell to the floor.

Then he bent her over the edge of the bed. No warning. No buildup. Just his hand at the base of her neck, his other guiding his cock to her soaked, swollen entrance--and then he slammed into her like he had every right.

Jenna screamed with pleasure. She practically came on the first thrust. And he didn't stop.

Her body bounced with every stroke, tits swinging, makeup smearing. She babbled into the sheets--half-sob, half-giggle, bimbo mind breaking wide open.

"You like being used like this?" he growled, fucking her deep.

She nodded violently, drooling on the sheets. "Yes! Yes, fuck, yes, make me yours--"

"You like being my whore even though your friends would call me a threat? Your father a disgrace?"

"Yes!" she sobbed. "I love it--I love it!"

"You think this is progressive?" he asked, hand gripping her ass as he drove into her harder than anyone ever had.

"It is!" she cried. "I get to choose! I get to be whatever I want and I want to be your fucking cum dump! You think I'm too dumb for it? I want to be!"

She came again--full-body, legs trembling, cunt squeezing him like she'd never let go.

He pulled out just before finishing, flipped her over, and painted her tits with heat and weight and proof. Her tongue lolled from her mouth. Her mascara ran. Her thighs stayed spread, twitching.

And when he leaned down, kissed her forehead, and whispered, "You'll never want anyone else after this,"

"That's the point," she whispered. "Make me impossible to reclaim."

He flipped onto his back and she sat on top of him, riding his thick black cock like she had that dildo. His cock may not have been quite as big, but it was so much more real. She was fucking him, fucking a black man, her tight white pussy bare around his cock. She put her hands on his chest, squeezing her big fake tits between her arms, nipples hard and pointed as she took what she needed from him.

She was so close.

Oh fuck, she thought, here it...

And then he stopped her. Hands firm on her waist. She couldn't bounce. Couldn't do anything but squirm.

"Please," she moaned.

He didn't answer. He just held up his phone, opened a notes app, and showed her a single line of text.

"Say it while you come."

She blinked. Her body throbbed. Her pussy was aching--ready.

"You're going to fuck yourself on me," he said quietly. "And you're going to say what I tell you to. Not once. Not half-hearted. Loud, until you believe it"

She nodded.

And then she read the first line.

"Equity... is not oppression."

He released his grip on her, allowing her free movement.

"Again. Louder."

"Equity is not oppression!" she moaned, grinding down on his cock.

"Good girl." He reached up and she felt his hands all over her, running up her waist, squeezing her big fake tits, claiming every inch of her.

She was close. So fucking close. And then...

"Fuckkk, please, not again, I'm so close Andre!"

He held up his phone.

She didn't need to be told.

"My body, my choice."

"There she is," he smiled. He released his hands. "Keep going."

"My body!" she moaned as she slammed down onto his cock, "My choice!" she bounced on him, sliding her cunt tight over his perfectly curved cock.

This time it was building. She felt the sweat dripping off her. The heat rising in her. She was ready. So ready. So...

He stopped her again.

"Oh fuck, please, Andre, I need it! I need you!"

He flicked down on his screen and held the phone up to her.

"One more."

"Oh fuck, Andre, you can't... I shouldn't..." she felt a mixture of shame and shock as she read the words on screen.

"Say it and you get to cum, Jenna. As many times as you want. It'll prove to me that you're ready. That you're not a setup. That all of this is real. Isn't that what you want?"

It was.

She took his phone off him, set it to film, and then handed it back. She wasn't just going to prove it to him, she was going to prove it to the world, if necessary. With this caught on camera there'd be no going back, no pretending anymore. She wanted this. She WAS this.

Andre looked at the screen, at her porn-star body riding his cock, her blonde hair plastered over her face, her face twisted in ecstasy as she started to move on him. And then she said it. Quietly at first. The white daughter of a racist senator fucking a Black democrat, and moaning the phrase they hated most...

"Black lives matter."

She felt so good saying it. She said it louder.

"Black... Lives... Matter."

A thrust. A tremble. her pussy was quivering now.

"*Black lives matter--fuck--black--lives--fuck--matter--black... fuck... black!"

She came.

Hard.

Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes as her body shook around him, her voice ragged and ecstatic. But he didn't stop her. She came again, sobbing, laughing, breaking open under the weight of every phrase, every thrust, every truth she'd been trying to ignore.

And when it was over--when she lay spent and soaked and smiling--he leaned in close, kissed her temple, and whispered:

"Now, Jenna. Let's get elected."

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Chapter Eleven: The Fallout

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Senator Whitmore sat in his study, steam curling from his coffee. Decaf, his aides insisted, because of his heart.

His aide entered without knocking. A manila folder under one arm, a newspaper in hand.

"Sir."

Whitmore didn't look up. "What is it now?"

The aide set the Washington Chronicle on the desk. "There's a problem."

Front page. Above the fold.

"MILES RISES: A New Kind of American Love Story."

Whitmore looked. Right there was a photo of Senator Andre Miles with some blonde bimbo on his arm. That alone made him angry, but then he looked again.

"What the..."

That bimbo. That was...

"JENNA?"

His daughter stood on the Capitol steps. Her hand on Andre's chest. His arm possessively around her waist. Her smile radiant. Her neckline, decisively bimbo. Her gaze, unyielding.

Whitmore stared at it. Jaw tightening. Knuckles whitening. His face reddened.

His eyes dropped to the quote below the headline.

"We're proof that change isn't just possible--it's personal. Our love is progressive, interracial, unconventional. That's exactly why it matters. We believe in a world where everyone belongs--even girls like me, who were raised on fear, but chose freedom instead."

In a small box beside the main story, a columnist scowled from the page: "Is This Feminism or Fetish?" The subheader asked: "When performance replaces principle, who owns the narrative?" Whitmore didn't finish reading. He was too busy choking on his own shattered legacy. He turned the page.

There she was again, in the feature spread.

Long interview. Full photo shoot. Flawless. He scanned the text.

"My father's politics are a relic. They weren't built for everyone. They weren't built for me. I don't hate him. I just won't inherit his prejudice. I'd rather be useful than obedient."

Whitmore's hands trembled.

"She denounced me."

His aide stayed silent.

"SHE CALLED ME RACIST" Still no answer. He flipped to the polls. His name, collapsing. His base, fractured. His support, bleeding. He looked up, eyes wild. "Where the hell are we on ratings?"

The aide exhaled. Quietly. Almost apologetically. Then shook his head.

"No bounce. She's taken it all."

Whitmore stared down at her again. Lips glossed. Neck marked faintly. Dress tight. Smile sharp. And beside her? The man who'd fucked her into power. He began to sweat. His shirt felt too tight. He loosened his tie and stumbled to the window.

"I can't..." he spluttered. "Call... a doctor..." he wheezed, clawing at his collar. "She's ruined me."

His aide ran out of the room as Whitmore slumped to the ground.

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Epilogue: American Dreamgirl

----------------------------------------------

Senator Whitmore lived, at least, but between his trashed ratings and his decimated physical stamina, he had no choice but to stand down. In his place, Maryland elected its first openly lesbian Senator, and she ensured that by the end of her first term his programs had been dismantled and replaced with new, progressive reforms.

In the following years, Jenna stood beside Senator Miles. He made policy, she made headlines. Their quick marriage was the talk of the tabloids, but everyone loved them. When the tapes of them leaked, they refused to be ashamed. What began as scandal became strategy. Her curves drew attention--her clarity kept it. She rebranded herself as a woman reborn: shameless, sexy, smart enough to know that power didn't mean pretending to be someone else. It meant choosing exactly who she wanted to be--and letting the world watch.

Her speeches went viral. She spoke about choice, transformation, pleasure as politics. About being raised in a system that feared bodies like hers and desired them anyway. About breaking free.

"People think I've been brainwashed," Jenna told Vox. "That I'm some bimbo puppet mouthing slogans I don't understand. But let's be honest: nobody listened to me when I was quiet, polite, and obedient. They listen now. Who cares if they're staring at my tits while I explain policy? Fine. I'll make them come and make them care."

Jenna and Andre launched an initiative together: The New American Bond--interracial, interclass, interparty. About love and power without apology. Republican leadership branded her a disgrace. Meanwhile, their daughters followed her on TikTok.

Her friend, Mallory - the one who had gotten her into this whole mess with her enthusiastic endorsement of the BIGGEST tits around - became a close confidante. She followed in Jenna's footsteps, the first disciple of a new political movement.

Jenna Whitmore never returned to her father's side--not in private, not in public, not even for optics. Of course, when the first grandchild was born they invited him to visit, but never heard back. The last photo of him to make the papers showed him at the edge of a post-election gathering just after the candidate he backed had lost. Red-faced, drink in hand, watching the TV screen across the lawn, he looked small and insignificant.

What the photo didn't show was the screen he was watching. There was Jenna, clad in a stunning blue dress, a pearl necklace tight around her throat, and cleavage you could park a bike in. Smiling, dripping, triumphant, she introduced her husband:

"Please welcome a man who is more than a politician. He's my match. America's match. The first person who ever taught me what freedom felt like. Your new commander-in-chief: President. Andre. Miles!"

The crowd roared.

She kissed him like no one was watching.

Everyone was.