Fic: Breaking Point & Beyond The Edge
Title: Breaking Point
Author: Rachel
Pairings: Hillary Clinton/Sarah Palin
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Hillary Clinton and Sarah Palin belong to no one but themselves, unless there's something very kinky going on behind the scenes. These fictitious writings are in no way intended to offend, slur, defame or imply anything about the people involved. They are simply characterizations meant to entertain. I have no connections to said people, or any of their endeavors. Hopefully that covers everything.
Summary: Sarah goes to Hillary for advice and gets more than she'd bargained for.
Words: 1537
Notes: I'll split these up for LJ, but I figure all in one post for here. A little schizophrenic on the moods, maybe, but they're prompt drabbles, so I'm gonna allow it :P There's one here that didn't get finished in time to be posted at the Porn Battle, too.
Breaking Point, RPFS, Sarah Palin/Hillary Clinton, wilderness confusion - 1537 Words
It was comical, really. The first time she'd called you, you'd gritted your teeth and forced out the pleasantries, wanting to smack her with something heavy every time she suggested that your failed, self-laid road to the White House, and her -hopefully doomed - super-highway were the same thing, wondering if it would really be so wrong to wish that the next time she went hunting, it would be with Cheney and, well, everyone knows the risks of doing that. With every "aww shucks" and "gosh darn-it" your frustration had risen, until you were wondering if hitting yourself with something heavy might be the more effective answer.
The next time, she'd needed help. She wasn't coping very well with the sharp end of Washington politics, and you'd laughed at her, openly, when she asked you to help her. "Why would I do that?" had been your exact words, and she'd rambled on, losing herself down corridors, dead-ending, turning back on herself, making it impossible to follow the conversation. Until you remembered what she looked like and that she was a Republican, you couldn't work out why she was the VP pick. It's a bad state of affairs when you make George W Bush look like an enlightened man, but, somehow, they'd managed to find Palin. Amazing. The Fargo-esque accent had eventually driven you insane though, so you'd made an excuse and almost slammed the phone down, your head hurting from almost 45 minutes of trying to follow a nonsensical conversation, rubbing your temples as you tried to breathe slowly. How on Earth was it possible that that woman could - potentially - be the first woman in the White House? You'd been saying, it can't be any woman, it had to be the right woman, and this was not the right woman. But... she was perfect to fire up the Republican base, and possibly sway some of the female and college boy vote to their side.
And, you had to admit... she wasn't bad to look at.
After that, you'd been informed every morning for two weeks that the McCain campaign had requested that you meet with her, and in the end, you'd agreed for two reasons. It would get them to shut up, and, she should provide an entertaining distraction for a little of your day.
When she arrives at your office the day - and very awkward time - you'd requested, she walks in like she owns
the place, just like on the campaign trail, and immediately your ire is raised. Something about the woman, despite the things that should be attractive, rubs you completely the wrong way. The accent, the hair, the perkiness, the informal approach "Can I call ya Hillary?" indeed.
What was happening in the world? Was it really possible that even in the media-driven land of the blind, no one could see just how wrong it would be to hand the Alaskan any power. Even Governor of Alaska was too much power to let this woman have, let alone Vice President - or, God forbid, President.
You let her babble on for a few minutes, leaning on your desk, the fingers of one hand resting lightly on your cheek, curling slightly beneath your chin as you study her. Pretty, yes, that's true, but something calculating is in her eyes, something cold and almost predatory - though you don't think it's in that low-down dirty way. Not that you'd ... necessarily... complain.
"So anyway, Hillary, I was thinkin'" What happened to the 'g'? What was wrong with the 'g'? And thinking? Her? Unlikely, you decide as she starts rambling down one of those long aimless corridors, no escape button in sight. "If maybe you could tell 'em to, y'know, back off, lay down the pitchforks."
"What?"
"The liberal media. They like you."
"Were you watching the Primaries?!" You can't help the surprise. They like you? The media likes you? The same media that assassinated you, because, apparently it's still okay to attack a woman on the basis of her gender, there's nothing to stop them doing that. You could take it though, you didn't let them break you. The question was: would she?
"To be honest, I don't really pay much attention to what goes on in the lower 48. Just the same old Washington politics. We do things differently in Alaska."
"Hmm. I'm sure you do." She misses the undertone of scorn in your words, apparently, because she's off again, meandering through the maze of words and issues she seemed to have learned from flashcards without any comprehension of context or meaning. You barely listen, thinking about anything, anything, to provide a distraction.
That is until she says one of the few things that could possibly make you lose your iron-clad self-control. "I think female solidarity might be a good thing here." Only she says it with a real emphasis on the 'r' that drives you crazy. "You know, you, you, there's a glass ceiling and if you help me we can shatter it. It's time to get a woman in the White House, doin' things the right way."
You calmly stand, walking round to lean against your desk, facing her, knowing that there's something dangerous in
your eyes that she's apparently blind to. She continues "I mean, just because you failed doesn't mean it's impossible. Someone's gotta pick up that slack."
Before you know what you're doing, you have her pinned to the wall, your faces just inches apart, the fury roaring in your head as fire runs through your veins. "Let's get one thing straight. You will never be me"
Then your lips are on hers, harsh, demanding. The younger woman rips her head away, panting. "I'm closer to the White House than you." Your grip on her shoulders tightens, and she hisses. The pleasure you feel at that doesn't come as a surprise. The months of being knocked back, derided, doubted because you're a woman - a capable strong woman - and the indignity of Bible Spice being lauded by those same people because she 'thinks' like a good woman is supposed to make this almost instinctive. You need to reassert your control, the indisputable fact that you are better than she could ever hope to be. Even if she's the only one who knows that this happened.
"I will personally see to it that you never, ever get even close." You lean in again, and she bites your lip before tracing it with her tongue, and you fight each other for control of the kiss, even as you're slowly walking her backwards, turning to push her down on your desk, ferocious, hungry, the anger that runs through you countering an equally heated burn, pushing you on, wanting to shut her up, just, shut her up. Her hands tug at your hair, rough, and you bite down hard enough to draw blood, sliding your hand beneath her too-low-cut blouse, squeezing her ample breasts roughly, nothing but the complex mixture of lust and contempt in your mind, ripping the shirt from her shoulders, enjoying the skin revealed to you as her hips thrust towards you, shameless.
So much for Conservative Republican. You wonder briefly what else about the Hockey Mom bluster is just a facade, but then you're caught up in much more pleasurable things, pinching, twisting, biting, tearing off her pants and turning her over, fucking her from behind, your fingers sinking easily into wet heat, your thighs pushing them deeper with each thrust, Palin moaning "Oh, God" over and over again. You can't help smirking at the epithet falling from her lips. The God she believes in condemns exactly this, condemns her enjoyment of a woman's touch. You wonder how she'll justify this. She shudders, and you don't ease her return to earth, sliding away from her, pulling her from the desk, stepping around her, pushing her to her knees, leaning backwards as you grab her hair, pulling her close. Telling her to fuck you, knowing that you're completely in control. Her tongue works against your pussy, insistent, a little too much pressure but still pretty good, getting off on the power of having a woman this right-wing on her knees, her sobs mixing amongst the moans as you know she submits. It doesn't take long before the rush overtakes you, and you pull her away, watching as she wipes her face with the back of her hands and licks her lips, her hair a tangled mess, her make-up destroyed. Tearstains across her face as she realizes what she's done, how very counter to her "stringent" belief systems she has just behaved.
As the aftershock hits, the image enough to prolong the shiver a little more, you wonder exactly how truthful she was being when she said that 'living a gay lifestyle' was something she chose not to do. You'd always figured it for ignorance... but you have a feeling now that you aren't her first woman.
Pulling your clothes back into place as you watch her try to process what she's done, you smirk. "Little Beltway advice for you... fuck 'em or get fucked."
And you walk out of your office, head held high.
Title: Beyond The Edge 1/1
Author: Rachel
Pairing: Hillary Clinton/Sarah Palin
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Hillary Clinton and Sarah Palin belong to no one but themselves, unless there's something very kinky going on behind the scenes. These fictitious writings are in no way intended to offend, slur, defame or imply anything about the people involved. They are simply characterizations meant to entertain. I have no connections to said people, or any of their endeavors. Hopefully that covers everything.
Summary: Nearly two years later, Sarah was still seeking you out. Sequel to Breaking Point, which can be found in this set of drabbles.
Words: 2356
Notes:For spanking/paddling on my kink_bingo card. Card here (all completed squares link to the relevant story). Unbetad. I'm not sure that this lives up to the original, but hopefully it's okay. :/ And that.... is a BINGO. Fuck yes. Though I'm definitely still going for the blackout, it's nice that I can claim some points at least if I don't get them all done.
Beyond The Edge 1/1
You'd been certain that your first encounter would be the last, had been sure that the memory would fade, especially when she went back to Alaska, beaten, and you'd moved into an office at the State Department. You'd thought her star would burn out and you'd never see or hear from her again. But, as the months passed and her voice became more prevalent, as she'd become the spokesperson for the furthest right-wing elements of the Republican party, you'd discovered that it was impossible to wipe the image of her on her knees before you from your mind.
Neither, it seemed, could she.
The urge to call her out on her hypocrisy grew strong sometimes, her hateful rhetoric towards something she clearly feared in herself too much to take. On those occasions, it was only your own reputation that held your tongue in check, that stopped you from screaming her secrets for all the world to hear. She stoked the fires of hatred with glee, teaching intolerance through the undercurrents of her words.
Yet still, she sought you out.
Your old office held the memory of her bent across your desk while your fingers slammed into wet, clenching heat. Your new one added images of her in your lap, rising and falling against your hand; her hair a tangled mess as you drove into her on the floor; the sound of her sobbing moans as her fingers tugged your hair, her body held up by the cold metal of the filing cabinets in the corner.
Sarah Palin loathed herself for wanting you; you could hear it in her speeches. The feeling, you'd assured her as her tongue did things to your body her supporters would never dream, was entirely mutual, harsh whispers punctuated by deep moans as you held her tight to your body.
After one particularly vitriolic speech, you knew what was coming. You'd learned quickly that she'd had a pattern, that the more her speeches spoke the hate-filled thoughts of her most fervently right-wing fanatics, the more she was thinking about you; your hands and your tongue. With the travel your job required, the responsibilities you each had to your families, her trouble in finding reasons to be in Washington or New York, time together wasn't exactly easy to come by. Maybe that was for the best, for both of you, allowed you to keep pretending that the relationship between you was nothing more than fire and passion, but her frustrations manifested themselves in strange ways. You knew she followed your location closely though, so it was far from a surprise to open the door to your DC hotel room in dead of night to find her standing there. You couldn't reveal your happiness at seeing her - that would ruin the power-play between you - so you covered it with annoyance that wasn't entirely feigned. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Just like always, she pushed past you into the suite, and you turned, your eyes following the lines of her body, your blood thrumming loud in your ears as you took in the perfect curve of her hips, the jeans that accentuated the shape of her ass, making up for the fact that you couldn't see the shapely length of her legs beneath the slight flare of the denim. She was frighteningly confident, always, even in situations where she had no right to be. She spun on the heel of her undoubtedly overpriced boots, laughing knowingly as you tore your eyes away, trying to look disinterested. “I think you know.”
Pulling on a mask you knew you'd perfected, poise and control slid across you like a comforting blanket, “And you think you deserve it after that speech last week?” The urge to crook your fingers around the word 'speech' was hard to resist, but resisting temptation was always something you'd been good at. Your control barely ever slipped, and when it did - that day in your office when Sarah freaking Palin pushed you to breaking point definitely included - it's always been worth it.
Concern flickered across those deep brown eyes for a second before she retorted, “I have a reputation to protect.” You took a second to admire the confident set of her jaw, the defiant tilt of her chin, the way she never backed down until you forced her to, feeling the excitement at the familiar thrust and parry fizzle across your skin.
“You're a hypocrite.” You watched as her eyes drifted to the loosely tied silk gown that you knew left little to the imagination, tried not to smirk, pulled it tighter around your body.
“Like you're any better.” She over-accentuated the 'r' as always, digging deep as though she were a frontier woman and if she looked deep enough there was gold to be found.
You rolled your eyes, feeling the annoyance creep around the edges of your demeanor, even as your palms almost itched with the urge to strip her bare, to silence her with your lips. To show her that neither one of you was in any position to condemn others for being brave enough to openly embrace what they wanted, what they needed. Instead, you drawled, “Oh, let me count the ways.”
“What's your public stance?” she challenged, a little more Fargo coming through in her accent, setting your nerves on edge, pushing you closer to the inevitable.
“Not that it's 'unnatural' and 'immoral'. Methinks the half-term governor protests too much.”
You knew she was guaranteed to take exception to that, knew it would push her into goading you... knew she was looking for the excuse that would allow her to justify what she came to you for with the fact that she didn't start it. And she did. “At least I won my election.”
And dammit, it worked. You hadn't realized she'd stoop that low, probing at the wound that still hadn't quite closed, and as your lips descended on hers, you knew that not expecting it was your biggest miscalculation. After all, it was exactly the kind of thing that had pushed you to this the first time.
You controlled the kiss, thrusting your tongue between her lips, but she fought you for dominance every step of the way, your teeth clashing with hers in the ferocious passion that pooled between your thighs as you pushed her back towards the bed. Her hands slipped beneath your robe, squeezing roughly at your breasts, and you groaned against her mouth, feeling her answering moan roll through you like thunder.
It seemed to take too long to strip her bare, but the quickly dwindling rational part of your mind knew it could only have been a minute, maybe two, before you were pushing her onto the mattress, pressing your body along hers, feeling the heat of her through the thin fabric you still wore. She rocked up against your body, shameless wanting, and your hands gravitated to her chest as you plundered her mouth, fingers tweaking rock-hard nipples, pulling eager, sobbing moans from her throat with each almost painful twist of your hand.
Wanting to make her beg for it, you pulled away, raising yourself from her body to sit on the edge of the bed. Feigning reluctance, you murmured, “I don't think we should do this,” impressed by your own ability to make your words sound convincing.
She stood, positioning herself before you, gloriously naked, and it took every drop of your self-control not to drink her in as her hands came to rest on her hips. “Don't be ridiculous.”
You shook your head. “Clearly, you think it's wrong. So we should stop.” Inwardly, you wince at how trite your words are, how obvious it would be to a smarter woman that you're playing her.
Fortunately, Sarah Palin isn't a smarter woman, and she falls for your act, groaning her frustration before responding. “Oh my goodness! You really don't get it? I'm fightin' to protect the constitution!”
Eyes narrowed, you turned your face back towards her, burning the image of her into your mind. Pert, full breasts, a flat stomach, supple skin... she was a sight you saw too often in fantasies, a wet dream you'd never have admitted to brought to life. It almost made up for her overwhelming idiocy. Almost. What actually did make up for it though, was the way she so easily ceded control of these situations to you, even when she thought she was leading. “Is that the same constitution that says all men are created equal? Or some twisted form of it that apparently they only teach the crazy population of this country?”
She floundered, evidently uncertain, that familiar panicked look overtaking her face. You'd seen her try to cover it in a multitude of ways, but you weren't going to give her the chance to hit on whatever talking point you'd set off in her mind. As entertaining as it was to watch her try and link her memorized spiels to the topic at hand, you had other plans.
Before she could find anything in what you sometimes thought of as the wasteland in her head, your hand shot out, grasping her wrist, pulling her forward until she tumbled face-first into your lap. She gasped, taken by surprise, her reaction exactly what you'd expected; an indignant squeal, followed by a soft moan as you let your hand drift low, running over the soft globes of her ass. “Hillary...”
You cut her off. “You know, when I was a kid, they'd make lessons stick this way.” Before she could ask what you meant, the flat of your hand smacked lightly against her ass. It wasn't hard enough to hurt, but she flinched against you, shifting your hand to brush briefly against the wetness that coated her thighs, radiated warmth. She moved back into the contact, mewling her pleasure, and you continued, “Not yet.”
She whimpered her disapproval, a high keening that ran through you like liquid heat, her hips wriggling as you maneuvered her until she was resting face down against the bed, spilled across your lap, her ass in the air, the heat of her center obvious through the thin layer of fabric that covered your own. She didn't object though, and that was all you needed. On that first day, you'd learned that she'd never expressly give consent to the things that happened between you. Instead, her body did it for her, her willingness to continually come back to you telling you that she wanted the physicality as much as you did, if not more.
You started gently, the strokes more of a caress against tender skin than any real smack, and it wasn't long until she was pushing back into the contact, forcing the strikes to increase in intensity with the movement of her own body. As her moans echoed into the room around you, you added force to the strikes, every now and then dipping your fingers down into slick heat, your hand soaked with her arousal by the fifth slap. The smell of sex surrounded you, her groans and whimpers calling to your own libido, your words raining like the contact of your hand against her skin. “If your precious tea party could see you now, what do you think they'd say? They wouldn't care about your words, Sarah... you'd be the enemy before you knew it. If anyone ever found out about this... do you really think it's smart to alienate the only people who'd be on your side?”
You knew she wasn't really listening to you from the gasping moans that emanated from her lips, the rocking of her hips as she ground down against your lap, looking for relief for the pressure building at her core, the way she encouraged harder impacts by meeting your hand halfway. You weren't even really listening to yourself, each time you touched her sending ripples of arousal through your own body, and you knew you were as wet as she was.
Your free hand reached beneath her, rolling each nipple between finger and thumb and reveling in the deep groan that rewarded the action before switching hands, the one that was previously spanking her parting her legs, searching out the source of the slick heat that enveloped you.
Vaguely, you noticed that the words pouring from your lips were no longer chastisement for her transgressions but a running commentary on how hot and wet she was, how much you wanted to fuck her until she was screaming your name, until she wouldn't be able to move without remembering your touch.
Your fingers sought her clit, rolling over it easily, rubbing softly, in contrast with the impacts of your palm on her ass, and moments later, you got your wish, your name an epitaph on her lips as she shuddered against you. You kept drawing circles around the sensitive nub as your other hand stroked gently across her reddened cheeks, the heat from her body pulling a groan from your own throat as you realized that she'd be remembering this for days, every time she moved. She moaned again as a second orgasm rocked through her, a soft, sobbing whimper slowing your fingers, her voice hoarse as she murmured, “Too much.” It was too bad. You'd really wanted to draw a third release from her body.
You withdrew your hand, resting it with the other, biting your lip as you glanced down to her arousal shining on your fingers. Her body relaxed, boneless against you, and you drew soothing patterns up and down her back as her breathing slowly returned to normal. When she shifted slightly, her strength beginning to return, you pushed at her legs until she sank to her knees on the floor.
With a wicked smirk, you tugged at her hair, pulling her face between your legs as the other hand drew the hem of your robe higher, giving her room for what she knew you wanted.
She obliged. Several times.
Author: Rachel
Pairings: Hillary Clinton/Sarah Palin
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Hillary Clinton and Sarah Palin belong to no one but themselves, unless there's something very kinky going on behind the scenes. These fictitious writings are in no way intended to offend, slur, defame or imply anything about the people involved. They are simply characterizations meant to entertain. I have no connections to said people, or any of their endeavors. Hopefully that covers everything.
Summary: Sarah goes to Hillary for advice and gets more than she'd bargained for.
Words: 1537
Notes: I'll split these up for LJ, but I figure all in one post for here. A little schizophrenic on the moods, maybe, but they're prompt drabbles, so I'm gonna allow it :P There's one here that didn't get finished in time to be posted at the Porn Battle, too.
Breaking Point, RPFS, Sarah Palin/Hillary Clinton, wilderness confusion - 1537 Words
It was comical, really. The first time she'd called you, you'd gritted your teeth and forced out the pleasantries, wanting to smack her with something heavy every time she suggested that your failed, self-laid road to the White House, and her -hopefully doomed - super-highway were the same thing, wondering if it would really be so wrong to wish that the next time she went hunting, it would be with Cheney and, well, everyone knows the risks of doing that. With every "aww shucks" and "gosh darn-it" your frustration had risen, until you were wondering if hitting yourself with something heavy might be the more effective answer.
The next time, she'd needed help. She wasn't coping very well with the sharp end of Washington politics, and you'd laughed at her, openly, when she asked you to help her. "Why would I do that?" had been your exact words, and she'd rambled on, losing herself down corridors, dead-ending, turning back on herself, making it impossible to follow the conversation. Until you remembered what she looked like and that she was a Republican, you couldn't work out why she was the VP pick. It's a bad state of affairs when you make George W Bush look like an enlightened man, but, somehow, they'd managed to find Palin. Amazing. The Fargo-esque accent had eventually driven you insane though, so you'd made an excuse and almost slammed the phone down, your head hurting from almost 45 minutes of trying to follow a nonsensical conversation, rubbing your temples as you tried to breathe slowly. How on Earth was it possible that that woman could - potentially - be the first woman in the White House? You'd been saying, it can't be any woman, it had to be the right woman, and this was not the right woman. But... she was perfect to fire up the Republican base, and possibly sway some of the female and college boy vote to their side.
And, you had to admit... she wasn't bad to look at.
After that, you'd been informed every morning for two weeks that the McCain campaign had requested that you meet with her, and in the end, you'd agreed for two reasons. It would get them to shut up, and, she should provide an entertaining distraction for a little of your day.
When she arrives at your office the day - and very awkward time - you'd requested, she walks in like she owns
the place, just like on the campaign trail, and immediately your ire is raised. Something about the woman, despite the things that should be attractive, rubs you completely the wrong way. The accent, the hair, the perkiness, the informal approach "Can I call ya Hillary?" indeed.
What was happening in the world? Was it really possible that even in the media-driven land of the blind, no one could see just how wrong it would be to hand the Alaskan any power. Even Governor of Alaska was too much power to let this woman have, let alone Vice President - or, God forbid, President.
You let her babble on for a few minutes, leaning on your desk, the fingers of one hand resting lightly on your cheek, curling slightly beneath your chin as you study her. Pretty, yes, that's true, but something calculating is in her eyes, something cold and almost predatory - though you don't think it's in that low-down dirty way. Not that you'd ... necessarily... complain.
"So anyway, Hillary, I was thinkin'" What happened to the 'g'? What was wrong with the 'g'? And thinking? Her? Unlikely, you decide as she starts rambling down one of those long aimless corridors, no escape button in sight. "If maybe you could tell 'em to, y'know, back off, lay down the pitchforks."
"What?"
"The liberal media. They like you."
"Were you watching the Primaries?!" You can't help the surprise. They like you? The media likes you? The same media that assassinated you, because, apparently it's still okay to attack a woman on the basis of her gender, there's nothing to stop them doing that. You could take it though, you didn't let them break you. The question was: would she?
"To be honest, I don't really pay much attention to what goes on in the lower 48. Just the same old Washington politics. We do things differently in Alaska."
"Hmm. I'm sure you do." She misses the undertone of scorn in your words, apparently, because she's off again, meandering through the maze of words and issues she seemed to have learned from flashcards without any comprehension of context or meaning. You barely listen, thinking about anything, anything, to provide a distraction.
That is until she says one of the few things that could possibly make you lose your iron-clad self-control. "I think female solidarity might be a good thing here." Only she says it with a real emphasis on the 'r' that drives you crazy. "You know, you, you, there's a glass ceiling and if you help me we can shatter it. It's time to get a woman in the White House, doin' things the right way."
You calmly stand, walking round to lean against your desk, facing her, knowing that there's something dangerous in
your eyes that she's apparently blind to. She continues "I mean, just because you failed doesn't mean it's impossible. Someone's gotta pick up that slack."
Before you know what you're doing, you have her pinned to the wall, your faces just inches apart, the fury roaring in your head as fire runs through your veins. "Let's get one thing straight. You will never be me"
Then your lips are on hers, harsh, demanding. The younger woman rips her head away, panting. "I'm closer to the White House than you." Your grip on her shoulders tightens, and she hisses. The pleasure you feel at that doesn't come as a surprise. The months of being knocked back, derided, doubted because you're a woman - a capable strong woman - and the indignity of Bible Spice being lauded by those same people because she 'thinks' like a good woman is supposed to make this almost instinctive. You need to reassert your control, the indisputable fact that you are better than she could ever hope to be. Even if she's the only one who knows that this happened.
"I will personally see to it that you never, ever get even close." You lean in again, and she bites your lip before tracing it with her tongue, and you fight each other for control of the kiss, even as you're slowly walking her backwards, turning to push her down on your desk, ferocious, hungry, the anger that runs through you countering an equally heated burn, pushing you on, wanting to shut her up, just, shut her up. Her hands tug at your hair, rough, and you bite down hard enough to draw blood, sliding your hand beneath her too-low-cut blouse, squeezing her ample breasts roughly, nothing but the complex mixture of lust and contempt in your mind, ripping the shirt from her shoulders, enjoying the skin revealed to you as her hips thrust towards you, shameless.
So much for Conservative Republican. You wonder briefly what else about the Hockey Mom bluster is just a facade, but then you're caught up in much more pleasurable things, pinching, twisting, biting, tearing off her pants and turning her over, fucking her from behind, your fingers sinking easily into wet heat, your thighs pushing them deeper with each thrust, Palin moaning "Oh, God" over and over again. You can't help smirking at the epithet falling from her lips. The God she believes in condemns exactly this, condemns her enjoyment of a woman's touch. You wonder how she'll justify this. She shudders, and you don't ease her return to earth, sliding away from her, pulling her from the desk, stepping around her, pushing her to her knees, leaning backwards as you grab her hair, pulling her close. Telling her to fuck you, knowing that you're completely in control. Her tongue works against your pussy, insistent, a little too much pressure but still pretty good, getting off on the power of having a woman this right-wing on her knees, her sobs mixing amongst the moans as you know she submits. It doesn't take long before the rush overtakes you, and you pull her away, watching as she wipes her face with the back of her hands and licks her lips, her hair a tangled mess, her make-up destroyed. Tearstains across her face as she realizes what she's done, how very counter to her "stringent" belief systems she has just behaved.
As the aftershock hits, the image enough to prolong the shiver a little more, you wonder exactly how truthful she was being when she said that 'living a gay lifestyle' was something she chose not to do. You'd always figured it for ignorance... but you have a feeling now that you aren't her first woman.
Pulling your clothes back into place as you watch her try to process what she's done, you smirk. "Little Beltway advice for you... fuck 'em or get fucked."
And you walk out of your office, head held high.
Title: Beyond The Edge 1/1
Author: Rachel
Pairing: Hillary Clinton/Sarah Palin
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Hillary Clinton and Sarah Palin belong to no one but themselves, unless there's something very kinky going on behind the scenes. These fictitious writings are in no way intended to offend, slur, defame or imply anything about the people involved. They are simply characterizations meant to entertain. I have no connections to said people, or any of their endeavors. Hopefully that covers everything.
Summary: Nearly two years later, Sarah was still seeking you out. Sequel to Breaking Point, which can be found in this set of drabbles.
Words: 2356
Notes:For spanking/paddling on my kink_bingo card. Card here (all completed squares link to the relevant story). Unbetad. I'm not sure that this lives up to the original, but hopefully it's okay. :/ And that.... is a BINGO. Fuck yes. Though I'm definitely still going for the blackout, it's nice that I can claim some points at least if I don't get them all done.
Beyond The Edge 1/1
You'd been certain that your first encounter would be the last, had been sure that the memory would fade, especially when she went back to Alaska, beaten, and you'd moved into an office at the State Department. You'd thought her star would burn out and you'd never see or hear from her again. But, as the months passed and her voice became more prevalent, as she'd become the spokesperson for the furthest right-wing elements of the Republican party, you'd discovered that it was impossible to wipe the image of her on her knees before you from your mind.
Neither, it seemed, could she.
The urge to call her out on her hypocrisy grew strong sometimes, her hateful rhetoric towards something she clearly feared in herself too much to take. On those occasions, it was only your own reputation that held your tongue in check, that stopped you from screaming her secrets for all the world to hear. She stoked the fires of hatred with glee, teaching intolerance through the undercurrents of her words.
Yet still, she sought you out.
Your old office held the memory of her bent across your desk while your fingers slammed into wet, clenching heat. Your new one added images of her in your lap, rising and falling against your hand; her hair a tangled mess as you drove into her on the floor; the sound of her sobbing moans as her fingers tugged your hair, her body held up by the cold metal of the filing cabinets in the corner.
Sarah Palin loathed herself for wanting you; you could hear it in her speeches. The feeling, you'd assured her as her tongue did things to your body her supporters would never dream, was entirely mutual, harsh whispers punctuated by deep moans as you held her tight to your body.
After one particularly vitriolic speech, you knew what was coming. You'd learned quickly that she'd had a pattern, that the more her speeches spoke the hate-filled thoughts of her most fervently right-wing fanatics, the more she was thinking about you; your hands and your tongue. With the travel your job required, the responsibilities you each had to your families, her trouble in finding reasons to be in Washington or New York, time together wasn't exactly easy to come by. Maybe that was for the best, for both of you, allowed you to keep pretending that the relationship between you was nothing more than fire and passion, but her frustrations manifested themselves in strange ways. You knew she followed your location closely though, so it was far from a surprise to open the door to your DC hotel room in dead of night to find her standing there. You couldn't reveal your happiness at seeing her - that would ruin the power-play between you - so you covered it with annoyance that wasn't entirely feigned. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Just like always, she pushed past you into the suite, and you turned, your eyes following the lines of her body, your blood thrumming loud in your ears as you took in the perfect curve of her hips, the jeans that accentuated the shape of her ass, making up for the fact that you couldn't see the shapely length of her legs beneath the slight flare of the denim. She was frighteningly confident, always, even in situations where she had no right to be. She spun on the heel of her undoubtedly overpriced boots, laughing knowingly as you tore your eyes away, trying to look disinterested. “I think you know.”
Pulling on a mask you knew you'd perfected, poise and control slid across you like a comforting blanket, “And you think you deserve it after that speech last week?” The urge to crook your fingers around the word 'speech' was hard to resist, but resisting temptation was always something you'd been good at. Your control barely ever slipped, and when it did - that day in your office when Sarah freaking Palin pushed you to breaking point definitely included - it's always been worth it.
Concern flickered across those deep brown eyes for a second before she retorted, “I have a reputation to protect.” You took a second to admire the confident set of her jaw, the defiant tilt of her chin, the way she never backed down until you forced her to, feeling the excitement at the familiar thrust and parry fizzle across your skin.
“You're a hypocrite.” You watched as her eyes drifted to the loosely tied silk gown that you knew left little to the imagination, tried not to smirk, pulled it tighter around your body.
“Like you're any better.” She over-accentuated the 'r' as always, digging deep as though she were a frontier woman and if she looked deep enough there was gold to be found.
You rolled your eyes, feeling the annoyance creep around the edges of your demeanor, even as your palms almost itched with the urge to strip her bare, to silence her with your lips. To show her that neither one of you was in any position to condemn others for being brave enough to openly embrace what they wanted, what they needed. Instead, you drawled, “Oh, let me count the ways.”
“What's your public stance?” she challenged, a little more Fargo coming through in her accent, setting your nerves on edge, pushing you closer to the inevitable.
“Not that it's 'unnatural' and 'immoral'. Methinks the half-term governor protests too much.”
You knew she was guaranteed to take exception to that, knew it would push her into goading you... knew she was looking for the excuse that would allow her to justify what she came to you for with the fact that she didn't start it. And she did. “At least I won my election.”
And dammit, it worked. You hadn't realized she'd stoop that low, probing at the wound that still hadn't quite closed, and as your lips descended on hers, you knew that not expecting it was your biggest miscalculation. After all, it was exactly the kind of thing that had pushed you to this the first time.
You controlled the kiss, thrusting your tongue between her lips, but she fought you for dominance every step of the way, your teeth clashing with hers in the ferocious passion that pooled between your thighs as you pushed her back towards the bed. Her hands slipped beneath your robe, squeezing roughly at your breasts, and you groaned against her mouth, feeling her answering moan roll through you like thunder.
It seemed to take too long to strip her bare, but the quickly dwindling rational part of your mind knew it could only have been a minute, maybe two, before you were pushing her onto the mattress, pressing your body along hers, feeling the heat of her through the thin fabric you still wore. She rocked up against your body, shameless wanting, and your hands gravitated to her chest as you plundered her mouth, fingers tweaking rock-hard nipples, pulling eager, sobbing moans from her throat with each almost painful twist of your hand.
Wanting to make her beg for it, you pulled away, raising yourself from her body to sit on the edge of the bed. Feigning reluctance, you murmured, “I don't think we should do this,” impressed by your own ability to make your words sound convincing.
She stood, positioning herself before you, gloriously naked, and it took every drop of your self-control not to drink her in as her hands came to rest on her hips. “Don't be ridiculous.”
You shook your head. “Clearly, you think it's wrong. So we should stop.” Inwardly, you wince at how trite your words are, how obvious it would be to a smarter woman that you're playing her.
Fortunately, Sarah Palin isn't a smarter woman, and she falls for your act, groaning her frustration before responding. “Oh my goodness! You really don't get it? I'm fightin' to protect the constitution!”
Eyes narrowed, you turned your face back towards her, burning the image of her into your mind. Pert, full breasts, a flat stomach, supple skin... she was a sight you saw too often in fantasies, a wet dream you'd never have admitted to brought to life. It almost made up for her overwhelming idiocy. Almost. What actually did make up for it though, was the way she so easily ceded control of these situations to you, even when she thought she was leading. “Is that the same constitution that says all men are created equal? Or some twisted form of it that apparently they only teach the crazy population of this country?”
She floundered, evidently uncertain, that familiar panicked look overtaking her face. You'd seen her try to cover it in a multitude of ways, but you weren't going to give her the chance to hit on whatever talking point you'd set off in her mind. As entertaining as it was to watch her try and link her memorized spiels to the topic at hand, you had other plans.
Before she could find anything in what you sometimes thought of as the wasteland in her head, your hand shot out, grasping her wrist, pulling her forward until she tumbled face-first into your lap. She gasped, taken by surprise, her reaction exactly what you'd expected; an indignant squeal, followed by a soft moan as you let your hand drift low, running over the soft globes of her ass. “Hillary...”
You cut her off. “You know, when I was a kid, they'd make lessons stick this way.” Before she could ask what you meant, the flat of your hand smacked lightly against her ass. It wasn't hard enough to hurt, but she flinched against you, shifting your hand to brush briefly against the wetness that coated her thighs, radiated warmth. She moved back into the contact, mewling her pleasure, and you continued, “Not yet.”
She whimpered her disapproval, a high keening that ran through you like liquid heat, her hips wriggling as you maneuvered her until she was resting face down against the bed, spilled across your lap, her ass in the air, the heat of her center obvious through the thin layer of fabric that covered your own. She didn't object though, and that was all you needed. On that first day, you'd learned that she'd never expressly give consent to the things that happened between you. Instead, her body did it for her, her willingness to continually come back to you telling you that she wanted the physicality as much as you did, if not more.
You started gently, the strokes more of a caress against tender skin than any real smack, and it wasn't long until she was pushing back into the contact, forcing the strikes to increase in intensity with the movement of her own body. As her moans echoed into the room around you, you added force to the strikes, every now and then dipping your fingers down into slick heat, your hand soaked with her arousal by the fifth slap. The smell of sex surrounded you, her groans and whimpers calling to your own libido, your words raining like the contact of your hand against her skin. “If your precious tea party could see you now, what do you think they'd say? They wouldn't care about your words, Sarah... you'd be the enemy before you knew it. If anyone ever found out about this... do you really think it's smart to alienate the only people who'd be on your side?”
You knew she wasn't really listening to you from the gasping moans that emanated from her lips, the rocking of her hips as she ground down against your lap, looking for relief for the pressure building at her core, the way she encouraged harder impacts by meeting your hand halfway. You weren't even really listening to yourself, each time you touched her sending ripples of arousal through your own body, and you knew you were as wet as she was.
Your free hand reached beneath her, rolling each nipple between finger and thumb and reveling in the deep groan that rewarded the action before switching hands, the one that was previously spanking her parting her legs, searching out the source of the slick heat that enveloped you.
Vaguely, you noticed that the words pouring from your lips were no longer chastisement for her transgressions but a running commentary on how hot and wet she was, how much you wanted to fuck her until she was screaming your name, until she wouldn't be able to move without remembering your touch.
Your fingers sought her clit, rolling over it easily, rubbing softly, in contrast with the impacts of your palm on her ass, and moments later, you got your wish, your name an epitaph on her lips as she shuddered against you. You kept drawing circles around the sensitive nub as your other hand stroked gently across her reddened cheeks, the heat from her body pulling a groan from your own throat as you realized that she'd be remembering this for days, every time she moved. She moaned again as a second orgasm rocked through her, a soft, sobbing whimper slowing your fingers, her voice hoarse as she murmured, “Too much.” It was too bad. You'd really wanted to draw a third release from her body.
You withdrew your hand, resting it with the other, biting your lip as you glanced down to her arousal shining on your fingers. Her body relaxed, boneless against you, and you drew soothing patterns up and down her back as her breathing slowly returned to normal. When she shifted slightly, her strength beginning to return, you pushed at her legs until she sank to her knees on the floor.
With a wicked smirk, you tugged at her hair, pulling her face between your legs as the other hand drew the hem of your robe higher, giving her room for what she knew you wanted.
She obliged. Several times.