Senator Beckinsale And His Kick-Ass Wife free porn video

Senator Beckinsale and his Kick-Ass Wife By Bluedust Hi guys, long time no see! So, those who know me away from the site will know that I've had a lot of personal problems lately, one of the consequences being that my work here dried up pretty drastically. Thanks to everyone who has supported me and encouraged me to come back since that time. I'm hoping to start submitting now on a fairly regular basis. I hope you'll enjoy the work; I've had a few ideas knocking around since I was last here. If you enjoy the story, please comment below! All the best, BD x ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - Lights blind me, clicking cameras deafen me. I grin despite it, trying to mask the terror I feel inside. I ask myself how I've ended up like this, at the centre of the world's attention. The chaos around me seems to create a vacuum, one in which my thoughts can race at a trillion miles a second. I try to think back to the starting point, to the day when all of this began. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - "So how about it, young man? Can we count on your vote?" I tried to jostle my way past the 50-something woman with an insane grin on her face but she was having none of it. She matched my every step, determined to hypnotize me with her bug-eyed stare. Then again, I think she was the one who'd been hypnotized. She was covered from head to toe with "Vote Beckinsale" stickers, her hands spilling flyers like a human dispenser. "Maybe," I muttered. "If you get out of my way. Really, I'm just on my way to see a friend." "Oh! Does HE vote Beckinsale?" "Sure, why not? Excuse me." I managed to squeeze past her at last, but not before she slapped a sticker on the back of my denim jacket. I peeled it off somewhere between marching up the garden path and pressing the doorbell. Justin was quick to answer - fortunately. "Mike," he said, sounding almost relieved. "You came." "Of course I did, why wouldn't I? Come on, let me in before some other lunatic jumps me." He stepped aside, then closed the door behind me. "I guess it is pretty hectic out there," he chuckled. "I'm glad you find it funny. Everyone out there's gone election-mad." "Who are you voting for?" "Me? Come on, Justin, we've not so long been out of high school. Why the hell would I want to start getting mixed up in stuff like that? Maybe some years down the line." "Ah, sure, sure." "What about you? Who are..." I stopped and looked. "Why are you wearing a suit?" "Oh, this?" he replied, sheepishly. "It's kind of the reason I called you over." "You want me to testify on your behalf?" "Ha! No. Um, not this time anyway. I need a favour." "Of course you do. Why else would you call me over?" "Hey! That's harsh!" "But not untrue." "Cut me some slack, man. This is serious." "Okay, go on..." "It..." He looked oddly sheepish. Justin had always been a loudmouth, but I was always seen as the leader back in high school. That was because the chicks always digged me. I have blonde hair and blue eyes, the classic lady-killer look, but also a kind of innocence, you might say. Justin was more rough-cut, with thick black hair and a slight crook to his jaw. "Look man, it'll be easier if I just show you." "Okay...show me." "Right...we can do it now." "Do what?" "Just....hold on." He didn't move. Neither did I; I watched. The first time I thought I saw something happening I told myself I was just imagining it, that it was all some trick of the light. The second time was harder to deny. The third was outright impossible. As much as I wanted to create some plausible excuse for what I was seeing, I couldn't get beyond the evidence of my own eyes. Justin was aging, pushing up into his late 20s and then beyond. He gained a couple of inches in height, while his face gained a couple of wrinkles around the eyes. His suit filled with an impressive physique, and an overall distinguished look took hold of his features. At the end of it all he was either late- 40s or early-50s, I couldn't be sure. "What do you think?" he asked, in a much deeper voice. "You...you..." "Do you recognise me?" "I...of course I do! You're Brad Beckinsale!" "In the flesh! Well, the same flesh, just a little older..." "What is this? Some kind of weird voter trick? Where's Justin?" "I'm Justin, Mike. Brad Beckinsale is my creation." "You...I don't..." My head was swimming. I didn't know what to say. "Why don't you sit down?" "I think I ought to." "I know this seems crazy, a hoax, whatever. Mike, this is magic. I make myself older and act as Brad Beckinsale." "Why though?" "To make a difference. I can't really do it as my...other self." "How though?" "I've always been...smarter than I let on, Mike. I guess I was ashamed of my intelligence. I mean, it's not a great way to be popular, right? But now I have a reason to let it all out, to try and improve everything." "Not that! I mean, how do you...do this?" "Change? Oh, I don't, not really. That's Samantha." "Samantha? Your aunt?" "She's not really my aunt. That was just a cover story while we put all this together." He turned his head. "You might as well come out now." A woman stepped in from the other room and I realised at once that it was her Justin had been asking to start the...spell? Was it a spell? I'd seen Samantha here and there. She was in her late 30s and had long, curly red hair. She was draped in the same kind of robes she always was, like some two-dollar fortune teller. I'd always thought she was odd. Now I knew it. "It's nice to see you again, Michael," she smiled. "Yeah, sure. And you're a....?" "You can call it witchery or sorcery if you like, but there's no real definition for what I do." "I could think of a few words. Justin, what is this? You've got half the population out voting for you." "Most, yeah, but not all. That's why I wanted to talk to you." "I don't think I'm going to like this." It was weird, talking to him like this. He did give off a sense of authority, I had to admit. What was really stupid though, was how easily I was accepting it. I mean, sure, maybe I'd change my mind later and pass it all off as a trick, but the evidence of his transformation had knocked any denial out of me for the moment. Not to mention, I was very, very curious about the whole thing. I mean, you would be, wouldn't you? "My campaign is experiencing a few...issues. I'll be frank with you, Mike..." "I thought you were being Brad?" "Very funny. I need an inside man, someone I can trust with my most intimate affairs. Only the three of us know my secret. That's because I trust you." "Hold up. You're going to ask if Samantha here can change me too?" "It's quite painless," she promised. "Samantha can only alter certain aspects of a person," Justin explained. "Their age, their race, that sort of stuff." "You're out of your mind if you think I'm going to go along with this." "I wouldn't expect you to make a decision right now." He looked at Samantha. "Come to my house tomorrow," she said. "You know where I live. We can discuss things there and then. You need to sleep on this. The idea takes a lot of getting used to, I know." I looked hard at Justin, who looked back in sincerity. I never saw Samantha coming up to me with the scissors. "What are you doing?!" "Just a lock of hair," she said, holding it up. "I'll need to make preparations in case you agree to this tomorrow." "Don't count on that," I replied. I didn't want to stay any longer. None of this felt like the real world. "I'll see you tomorrow....maybe." It was around midday when I knocked on the door to Samantha's house. It was a small house, tucked away between two larger ones at the bottom of a small stairway. Justin answered in his more familiar form. There were a few casual pleasantries exchanged as we made our way to the front room where Samantha was sat waiting. The room was like some kind of witchdoctor's, complete with straw mats on the floors, masks on the walls and dreamcatchers hanging from the ceiling. I felt like I was about to be sacrificed. "I'll get right to it," I said, standing in front of them. "I have no job, and I see a lot wrong with the country I can do nothing about save for maybe cast one single vote. Agreeing to this might be my only chance to do something with my life. On top of that, you're my best friend, Justin. I think you're trying to do a good thing and you've come to ask for my help. I can't turn you down without at least trying first." I looked at Samantha. "Just, not too old, okay?" She smiled. "Not too old." Justin patted my shoulder. "Thank you, man." "We should begin immediately to give the spell time to work," she said. "Please disrobe, Michael." "What?" "Undress." "What?" "You must be unclothed for the spell to work." "Justin wasn't "unclothed'." "I was the first time, man. Don't worry, it's just us here." I was about to say "not in front of you" but then I realised we'd seen each other naked plenty of times before back in the changing rooms after baseball. It was Samantha that should have bothered me more, but then I guess she needed to cast the spell or whatever it was she did. I stripped off slowly down to my boxers, tossing my clothes in a pile in the corner. The room wasn't particularly cold, but I still shivered. "And the shorts, please." "What?" "Unclothed." I whipped them off, covering myself with my hands. I wasn't badly endowed: 5 inches soft and about 6 hard. I wasn't in bad shape either with a shallow six pack and nicely chiselled biceps. Justin was good enough not to laugh, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being laughed at some way or another. Even after seeing Justin change to Brad, I was understandably dubious about this whole thing. Last night I'd concocted in my head some weird scenario where his transformation was all some elaborate trick and I was being set up for the fall of my life. Being asked to strip off did little to alleviate my suspicions. I kept a watchful eye over my shoulder, waiting for the moment when a thousand cameramen would leap out from behind the curtain, along with a grinning man with a microphone. It never happened though, and my faith in Justin remained intact. As for the spell, any doubts about that faded with my body hair. It was nothing outrageous, just sharp little pangs across my legs, arms and chest. It was happening so subtly I had to bring one of my arms right up to my face to make certain they were receding. My limbs began to ache fiercely, becoming tight and at the same time, weak. My six pack melted into what was becoming a flat, smooth belly. I felt a dull rippling sensation all over my body. It was my skin, visibly aging before my eyes. Again, nothing outrageous, but it seemed to lose just a little of its suppleness and....thickness? "What kind of change is this?" I asked, then quickly put my hand to my mouth. My voice had cracked, going high and almost shrill. With my hand around my mouth, I noticed that the stubble there was gone. More than that, my whole jaw felt thinner. My nose had shrunk while my lips puffed at my touch. And then the room started getting bigger. "Make it stop!" I yelped. My new, higher voice went even higher than before, shaming me into shutting my mouth. "Don't be afraid," said Samantha. "You're perfectly safe." An odd jab-like feeling caused me to look down. My nipples were fully erect, puffing out the way my lips had. They were also spreading, covering the ends of my swelling chest like...wait....areolas? I let out a soft, horrified moan. I was growing tits - TITS! My chest was pushing out beyond my control, and once they'd pushed out by about 6 inches they began to droop, hanging to just above my belly button so that my newly- budded nipples were pointing down at the floor. At the base of my widening hips, between my smooth, now-rounded thighs, the worst had happened. I had a stiffy. Not just a semi, but a full-on, rock-hard erection. I could only put it down to the sensations racking my body. It pointed outwards, dwindling and thinning at an impossibly slow rate. "Try and relax," said Samantha. "Being aroused slows the process." "I'm not aroused!" I squealed. I felt a sharp pain from inside my urethra. It felt like someone had slipped a knitting needle inside it. On the other hand, I was absolutely throbbing with pleasure. Not pleasure I wanted, or was enforcing anyway, but pleasure that kept me hard and kept the pain from being too overwhelming. "You're going to have to ejaculate," said Samantha. "I'm not doing that!" "It's okay. You don't have to be ashamed to say you're enjoying the sensation." "I am not enjoying the sensation!" Shit, my voice - I sounded like my mom! My cock continued to bob and strain. Eventually I couldn't take anymore and gently grabbed it. I saw in this instant how small and slender my hand was, and now long my nails were. I needed to be careful here. My first touch brought a stinging pain. I leapt up. My sagging tits leapt with me, slapping down against my naked belly. I was NOT doing that again! I hunched over, standing on the balls of my feet and pushing out my groin. Then using the tips of my fingers I rubbed my shaft. I grunted in animal fashion, my eyes watering. Now Justin was smiling. I whimpered and moaned as my balls tightened. "Yes!" Samantha cheered. "Good girl!" "I'm not a giiiiiiiooooiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrllllllllllll!!!" I made noises I didn't know a person could make, woman or not. For all the pressure, the cumming itself was completely un-monumental. Just a few watery spurts out onto the floor and that was that. And with that, my dulled penis shot up between my legs, balls and all. My pubic hair rearranged itself into a soft, dowdy triangle on the front of my now-flat crotch. "Success!" clapped Samantha. "Explain!" I rasped. I was covered in sweat. Justin was bringing me a gown to wear. It was black silk. "Just try to relax," said Justin. "That's easy for you to say - you still have a cock hanging between your legs! Change me back, now!" "I can't just yet," explained Samantha. "What?!" "Don't worry, I will after a while, but with this kind of spell you have to give it time to settle." "Explain to me why I'm a forty-something woman." Justin put his hands on my now-slender shoulders. "I asked for your support, to be someone close to me that I could trust." "An inside MAN, you said." "A figure of speech." "So what exactly am I meant to be to you?" "Well...my wife." "Fuck off." "I'm serious. My character, Brad, he has a wife, but no-one's ever seen her. There are doubts as to whether she exists at all." "Find yourself a woman." "There's no-one else I trust." "What about Samantha?" "That would raise certain complications," she explained. "And isn't that convenient for you..." "Samantha does a lot for me," said Justin. "More than you can imagine. She can't play the role." "I could support you as a man." "A gay man? I don't think the world is quite ready for that yet." "That wasn't what I meant. I could help you as a man." "A man wouldn't help me in the same way. I need a woman. I need a wife. I need you. It's a lot to ask, I know." "I don't want to be a woman." "Well, you're stuck for a least a few hours, so at least hear us out until then, okay?" I sat down on the couch. The new space between my legs made me want to draw them close together. In one motion, I crossed my smooth legs without even thinking about it. Then I uncrossed them in self-disgust. "You'd better make this good." ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - The applause is deafening. It takes all I have to resist the urge to cover my ears. Instead I stand there, smiling like a person without sense. Brad Beckinsale waves to the crowd a moment longer, before heading over towards me. He slips a hand around my waist and kisses my cheek. I kiss back. This is me right now. I'm standing in a pink blouse and white skirt, wearing pantyhose and heels and a pearl necklace. Camera lights flash. Even having just recounted my story, I cannot fully grasp this...surreal situation. The world thinks I'm a woman. A married woman. They think I'm Mary Beckinsale. In a way, I suppose I am, for without me there is no her. It won't sink in. I'm in a dress. I have no balls. The world can see me like this. The sense of impotence is all-consuming. Brad leads me slowly away by the hand and whispers in my ear. "Now comes the hard part, darling. Don't worry, you'll be great." I sit crossed-legged, as a girl I would normally find hot attaches a small microphone to the lining of my blouse. I keep my legs crossed because it somehow makes me feel safer. It feels like I'm masking my impotence, my vulnerability. The woman sitting opposite and going through her notes is Trish Goodyear. She's hot. Stupidly hot. A blonde bombshell with pert lips I desperately want to kiss. My nipples press hard into the soft lining of my bra. My body is coming to life right up to the point I feel a dampness in-between my legs. Then I just feel gross and my arousal quickly ebbs. "So," she begins. "Mrs. Beckinsale..." "Call me Mary." "Mary...you've been hiding away for some time. The public was beginning to think you didn't exist." "Well Trish, "hiding away" suggests I have something to be ashamed of. I can promise you, I don't. What I can-" "-But this has been a long time coming." The bitch! She's supposed to be following the script! All of our questions were agreed upon before the interview, what the hell is she playing at? I look to Samantha, who gives me an "improvise" sign along with a pleading look. "This election is about my husband, Trish, not me. I know certain other "ladies" have enjoyed the limelight in the past, but that's not me. We both felt it was important that the world saw Brad Beckinsale and the man he is." "Still, you had a lot of people worried." The smugness on her face is unmistakable. "Why? Worried he was gay, were we? Well, wouldn't that have been a shame." The smile slips. Take that, you cow! "So, why now?" "As you say, people were asking a lot of questions. When those questions start to undermine my husband's credibility, it's time to take action. Not that it should have mattered, but I suppose that's people for you." "Some have described you as a shy, retiring housewife, and the reason for your lack of public presence thus far." "And have those people met me before now? No. I know for a fact they haven't. None of them knew until now. Will you be calling them out on their lies?" "We...can't get hold of them just now." "Such a shame." I'm certain of it now. There's something here between us, a thing I've never felt with a woman before. Is it because it's something that can only exist between women? As a man, I always suspected, but now I'm almost certain. It's not a nice thing, whatever it is. "In tandem with these claims however, comes the calling into question of your suitability as a role model." "Excuse me?" "Do you see yourself as a suitable role model for young girls?" "I wasn't aware I was the one running for election." "It seems there are a lot of things you aren't aware of. The point is, "Mary', that a woman in your position will always be viewed upon in a certain light. You're a public figure now, set to rise with your husband's prospective success. Girls are impressionable. Can you make a good impression?" "There are a lot of female so-called reality TV stars out there at the moment as well. Would you call any of them good role models?" "That doesn't really answer the question." "I think it does. These ladies set a precedent lower than anything we've ever seen before. The qualifications for being famous today are non- existent. Anyone can be considered a role-model in that regard. So if that's the standard you're measuring me up against then, yes, I would say I'm head and shoulders above around ninety per cent of the rest. Though admittedly that isn't saying much." "That's...wow...very expressive of you." "For a shy retiring housewife?" The change in her expression is subtle but noticeable. She's seeing me differently. There's some...dare I say it?...some form of respect there. If it's not respect, it's something very much like it, because all of a sudden we're back to the script. The questions come slower, and with warm familiarity. I take my time answering them, utilising the advantage of my rehearsed efficiency and two solid weeks of practising with Samantha. I sense the mood of the room changing. The cameraman is nodding. Trish is smiling. The audience, though but a shimmer in the unlit outskirts of the studio, gives off a kind of radiance that feels very much like approval. At the end there's applause. Trish makes her way over to shake my hand. Camera flashes dance from all angles. I see the smile from Samantha, the warmest smile in the room, and I know. It's been done now. Mary Beckinsale has arrived. My life has become a whirlwind orchestrated by the world's interest in Brad and Mary Beckinsale. My transformations come hot and fast. My alter ego seems to be needed everywhere. In the centre of this whirlwind, the eye of the storm if you will, is Mike. Comparative to Mary, Mike is a nobody. His life is a simple one, mundane in the most pleasant of ways. He's allowed to be left alone, able to dress without excess criticism. He's free. I come to crave his existence like he's someone new to me. But the more I crave his life, the more I get sucked into Mary's. The press has taken a shine to her. I give Samantha the credit for that, though she insists it's my own charisma that's laying the smack down. A script is only a basis, she tells me. What isn't scripted is Mike's life. Time and again I have to try to drag myself back to what should be a normal way of talking, acting, and living; but it's all become strange. I've lost count of the times I've nearly tripped myself up, saying something Mary would say instead of what ought to be my natural response. She's everywhere both inside and outside my head. I can't even think of girls in the same way. When I think of tits I think of hers, when I see a makeup billboard I wonder if she would use that shade. The official line is that I've become a campaigner for Brad, explaining my excessive travelling. My family is all too happy to lap it up. They're just happy I'm doing something proactive for a change. I can't help but wonder if they'd be as happy if they knew the truth. I kind of miss home. More than I thought I would. Still, with the way Mary's dominating my thoughts lately, it's probably for the best that I'm not too near to someone who knows me that well. With the exception of Brad, of course. Sorry; Justin. Oh, whatever. Oh well, at least our campaign is doing well. I just wish I could shake this feeling that things are getting too near the knuckle. It's Saturday, and I'm about to head on my way to Samantha's house, to plan out Mary's latest public appearance. We agreed to meet up at eleven, meaning I have a few hours to kill before that time. Fortunately, where she lives isn't too far from the mall. Ever the gaming nerd, I take the opportunity to scope out the latest releases. It's a strange feeling, not knowing what I'll find there. You see, normally I'm pretty on-top of this stuff. I watch the gaming world like a hawk with an obsession. Just lately though, I've been preoccupied almost solely with learning my role. The time I don't spend learning about Mary, I spend trying not to let her mannerisms slip into my daily life as Mike. The dual-personality isn't easy, especially when your alter ego is such an idealist. I stroll along the second floor of the complex with my bag over my shoulder, Mary's clothes inside. A quick trip to the bathroom and I'll be on my way to Sam's house. It's been a fun morning, one in which I've been able to forget about all the stresses that come with being an election hopeful's wife (there's something you never expect to say). At the centre of the complex I see Trish Goodyear, microphone in hand, interviewing passers-by with a full camera crew in tow. I sigh to myself. It seems I can't even have half a day without being reminded of what I've gotten myself involved in. I watch her work as I stroll by, remembering intimately our interview and the strange sense of sisterhood we began to forge that day. I get the sensation of something sliding over my body. I stop and look down at myself, wondering what could be wrong. I feel the collar of my t-shirt spreading outward towards my shoulders. I reach up to adjust it, only to find my hand covered by the sleeve of my denim jacket. I shiver outwardly - I'm shrinking! I speed towards the men's restroom with all due haste. My sneakers fall off before I'm even through the door. I bend down to pick them up, only for my jeans to start slipping down my waist. I scramble inside, one hand holding up my pants. Inside is vacant. I hurry over to the mirror and stare at my reflection. I'm changing, and rapidly. My stubble is already gone, my jaw thinning out and my skin taking on a feminine softness. My heart thunders in my expanding chest. How can I be changing? This should be impossible! The whys quickly become a secondary concern as I feel - and I literally mean feel - my bladder start to shrink, the waters inside desperate to burst free. With a moan I waddle up to the urinal and drop my jeans to the floor. I pull down my boxers. My dick is already gone, disappeared somewhere up between my thighs. I whimper at the flat crotch and soft pubic mound that greets me instead. A sudden pulsing makes me shut my thighs tight - I'm about to pee! I have no other option; I drop my shorts to the floor and turn around. I hoist myself up on tiptoe, trying to navigate my way so that I'm comfortably over the porcelain. The cold rim grazes my pubis, making me moan in my soft Mary-voice. My nipples tent under my shirt. Unable to hold it any longer, I start to pee. My upright position makes things even more complicated; I spray wildly into the bowl, unable to part my legs enough to fully open my vaginal lips. I wriggle my leg out of the jeans around my ankles, and lift it as high as I can to aid the flow. It helps, but the whole thing is taking forever. I have tears in my eyes. This is without doubt the most humiliating experience of my entire life - and that's saying something considering my life of late! The pressure finally slows, the ordeal all but over. That's when I look up and see some guy staring directly at me. He doesn't look delighted or horrified, but simply in a state of complete shock. I can't be sure of whether he just entered the room or was inside one of the cubicles, all I know is that he's stood right in front of me, watching. "Take a fucking picture," I snarl. He mumbles incoherently, his eyes as wide as can be. He moves slowly towards the door, leaving without a word. I bolt, scooping up my clothes and hiding myself inside the farthest cubicle. After 3 whole minutes of trying to concentrate enough to change myself back, I accept my only alternative. I unzip my bag, taking out Mary's clothes one-at-a-time. The set includes 3-inch heels, a skirt, pantyhose and a sky blue blouse. Terrific, just terrific. Taking off what little clothing I'm still wearing, I dress myself in my only available alternative. After a deep, deep breath, I step out of the restroom. A light dazzles me, and before I know it there's a microphone damn-near being rammed into my face. It's Trish, and one hell of a crowd. I spy my peeping tom among them and put two and two together as to what's happened. "Mary Beckinsale," says Trish. "You've just been discovered inside the men's room and...our sources tell us...using a urinal...is that true?" I'm as red as red can be. My mouth is dry. What do I say? What do I do? How the hell do you deny something like that? "Yes Trish," I reply as confidently as I can. "I have." "Can you please tell us why?" "I..." I want to run. Only my heels keep me from running away as fast as my slimline legs will carry me. There's absolutely nothing I can say. I think I'm about to faint. "I..." "Was this a...feminist statement?" "Yes!" Fucking hell, THANK you, Trish! That's brilliant! "Can you tell us your thinking behind this statement? What message are you sending to America?" Her eyes are glowing. She's actually buying this! "I don't tell Americans what to think, Trish," I say, coolly brushing back my hair. "They're smart enough to do that by themselves. I just bring forth the subject matter I feel needs attention." I walk away. I expect her to follow but, thankfully, she doesn't. She stands there bewildered, as does everyone else. Once round the corner, I move much closer to a run. "I honestly don't know if you're saving my campaign or killing it," says Brad, as he walks up and down Samantha's lounge. "Very funny," I reply, perched on the couch. "Will you turn that television off, for fuck's sake. I'm sick of watching myself on the damn news." "Sorry." He switches it off. "It's peculiar," Samantha says, sitting beside me. "But not uncommon." "Meaning?" "Sometimes when a person develops a second form, as you have, they can inadvertently trigger a transformation through a strong sense of nostalgia, or identifying with their alter ego." "Good of you to warn me - how do I stop it from happening again?" "You need to build a wall in your mind to separate Mike from Mary. I can help you do this but it will require effort." "No." "We need to work through this to stop it from happening again." "No, I mean I'm done. I'm not being Mary anymore. She's done." "Mike, says Brad, "I know you've had a hard day, and I know things have been -" "-No, Brad, you don't know. You have no idea." "I actually think I do." "Oh? So you've spent time as a woman, have you? You've tried balancing two complete opposites without letting one spill over into the other's life? You've done that, have you?" "I can't pretend I understand completely, but..." "You can even understand in the slightest. I hate being Mary in every single way. "That's not completely true, Mike. Be fair." "What?" "There is...a part of you that embraces this. That enjoys it." "Don't you even dare..." "Mary's life is different from Mike's, sure. But remember that Mary is, in essence, still you. Political speeches and propaganda aside. I know because I've seen it. I see it when we're together." "Get over yourself." "Am I wrong though?" "Yes, you're wrong. Look, I've done what I said I would. I've done more, in fact. You can carry on this charade without me." "I'd rather have you with me." "Well, I'm sorry, Brad - Justin - I can't. Sam, I'm going to go up for a shower, and then I'd like to discuss how we can remove all traces of Mary from my...body or mind or whatever." "Of course. If that's what you want, Michael. You were always free to walk away from this arrangement anytime you liked." "And that's what I'm doing: walking." The water from the showerhead beats down on my chiselled body. I scrub my pecs particularly hard, embracing the return of a firm chest, instead of those two droopy bags I can feel move every time I take a step. I'm enjoying the muscles all over my body, the assurance that they offer. I've never been an "Arnie" type, but back in my normal form I feel like the weight-lifting champion of the world. I soap up my cock, bringing it to a semi, then hold it - not rubbing, just feeling its girth and enjoying the presence, enjoying having something there. I'm getting horny. Maybe I'll fuck someone tonight. Maybe Samantha might want to... The door opens, damn near giving me a heart attack. "What the hell are you doing?!" I demand to know. "Relax," says Brad. "What's the big deal? We always used to see each other naked in the showers after baseball practice, right?" "Well, if you want to use the toilet I'm about done." Suddenly, he opens the shower door. "What the fuck?!" "Hey, I just want to talk." "It can't wait till I'm dressed?" "I just wanted to say, I thought you were really cute as Mary. Sure, you were on the mature side, but you were still cute." "Erm, thanks. Whatever." "Your eyes were crystal blue, your mouth small but your lips pert..." "Brad...Justin..." "You touched things so delicately, your wrists limp whenever they could be..." "I know what you're doing..." "That slight huskiness in your voice that, to be frank was a major turn on..." "Stop it, I have no intention of going back to being her." "If that's true then what I'm saying will have no effect on you whatsoever. Your areolas were a little big, but nice and pink, and your nipples were so, so perky." "Justin! Knock it off! I am not going to-" My voice hits a high note. I cover my mouth. He smiles. "Am I bringing up memories for you? Do you miss it more than you care to admit to?" I shake my head. I can feel the hairs on my arms and legs receding. "But it seems to be happening. It wouldn't be happening if you didn't secretly want it to." "Fuck off," I reply, trying to deepen my rising voice. "Your boobs were a nice size when you brought them up, tucked them into a nice, snug bra. Could you even see your feet?" He starts growing before my eyes - no, I know I'm starting to shrink. I feel the impact from the water becoming greater as my skin softens, becoming feminine and sensitive. The sensation is everywhere, my face included. Justin starts to unbutton his shirt. "Do you remember the times we kissed? You were always shy at first, letting me bully you with my tongue, but then you'd fight back, wrestling with my lips." "Justin, I am NOT going to change." "I could feel the shivers in your body as you became aroused. You felt it in your breasts, didn't you?" He reaches out with both hands, running the tips over my chest. My nipples stand on end, puffing out. He turns his hands palms-up just below my nipples. My chest starts to swell, pushing outward. I try to resist, to pull them back in with concentration but it only seems to make it happen faster. My breasts are growing, sagging to drop into his waiting hands. He rubs my nipples with his thumbs. I can't keep the moans from my voice. My breasts continue to grow, filling his hands completely. "That's it, give them to me. You know I'll take good care of them." "Justin..." I moan. I feel a surge in my groin and clench my fists. He looks down. "Oh my, that's a big stiffy you have, darling. You really are enjoying this." "Fuck...you..." It really is hard, rigid and aching. My swollen thighs tremble. I can barely stand. Justin is naked, his own hardness an even match for mine. "I can if you want...and that's the thing isn't it, darling? You do want it. You just can't admit it to yourself." He steps into the shower, his penis bopping mine in the process. "Watch it!" "Sorry, I guess there isn't room in this shower for two cocks. Why don't we make yours go away? You don't need it anymore." "I do need it," I gasp. "But you don't, darling. A lady sits down to pee." "No, I need my cock." "Then why are you putting it away?" I look down. It's shrinking, slowly and with vicious throbs. I can't describe the sensation; it's like trying desperately to pee but not being able to. "I want my cock..." I insist. But I can't help but wonder if my subconscious disagrees. "That's it, make it go away." He starts bopping it with his own, right on the head. "C-cut it out..." "Good girl, make it go away. Thaaaat's it." "I want a cock." "You can have mine." My own slips up between my legs. I drop to my knees, covering my breasts. "It's okay darling, you don't need to be big and strong. I'll protect you." "I want....I need cock." He moves in closer. Its inches from my face, practically touching my nose. I can't explain what comes next, I just do it. I run my tongue up his shaft. The warmth spreads between my thighs. It feels so good, like being able to stretch your legs after years in a cage. Is this really what I've always wanted? Tears fill my eyes when I realise the answer. I take it into my mouth, dragging my lips over its rigidness. The moan from Justin gives me only encouragement. I lick and slurp, bringing it as close to the back of my throat as I dare. His balls beat against my smooth chin with every bob of my head. Driven by the aching between my thighs I stand up again. We kiss without another word. I don't know how long it goes on for. When our lips part I give him his instructions. "As hard as you can." He holds my hips firmly and turns me around. I let him bend me over. His cock slides into my dripping pussy and I feel immediate satisfaction. But not satisfaction enough. He pumps hard, nearly knocking me off my feet as he does. The thrusts are hard and masterful. I grind my rear against him, trying to get the full benefit. Thoughts of shame are washed away. In this moment I can think of nothing but my desire for this one thing. For his cock. For his power. My tits hang, flapping like wet socks hung out to dry. Soon something strange begins to happen. He seems to be filling me even more than before. That's impossible. He was already at full mast. I look over my shoulder to see the man fucking me. It's Brad, his bigger dick barely able to squeeze into me. That's when I feel it start to happen. "Wait! Stop! I feel strange!" Taken by my urgency, he withdraws. My hips continue to buck in spite of this, completely beyond my control. I turn and press my back flat against the wall. I moan, pushing out my crotch, and then suddenly - GUSSHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! A jet of clear water sprays out from my vagina. I gasp in disbelief. Brad smiles. "Wow, someone's enjoying themselves." "W-what...what?" "You're squirting, darling." I am, and its going everywhere. I can't control it. I can't control my urges either. "Take me! Fuck me harder!" He grabs my hips mid-squirt and turns me around. My face is pressed hard against the tiles as he thrusts into me. He spanks my butt. I claw at the walls. "Harder!" He reaches down, pinching my nipples hard. His cock nearly lifts me off my feet. I don't care. He twists my erect nipples. I start to cry. I don't care. He spanks and thrusts until I feel like I'm going to pass out. He cums. I feel the warmth filling me, gushing down my thighs. He holds me steadily until he's soft enough to slip out. When I try to walk I nearly fall. My legs have stopped working. He lowers me gently to the floor where we hold each other. We sit in silence, the water washing the juices from our bodies. "Alright," I gasp. "Maybe I like it a little bit..." "What's our approval rating?" a dejected Brad Beckinsale asks. He's slumped in the armchair, his head practically hanging from his shoulders. "Down 8% - but that's only an estimate," says Samantha. "You were a long way ahead before, so maybe this will only level the-" "-Cut the crap, Sam. Sorry, I don't mean to take it out on you. But let's be honest, I've blown it. One off-guard remark has sent this whole thing crashing down on our heads. Months - no, years of work, all ruined in the space of three seconds." He seems completely unaware of our electoral team tearing all over the place like the apocalypse is coming; I can see his world shrinking around him and it breaks my heart. I look at him with teary eyes. "I'm sorry, darling," he says to me. "You went through more than anyone for this. I've let you down more than anyone." I don't think about what I'm doing, which is a first in front of our team and the straying cameras. I crouch down beside him and take his hand. "You've done me more good than bad, Bradley. And I don't want any more apologies. You're the man here, remember? Let's see you face the end like one." He catches the look in my eye and mirrors my smile. It's just a little, but I can see the life returning to his face. "You're up, Mary," says Sam, trading signals with the head of our camera crew. "Remember: damage limitation, okay? More than ever, we need you to be a good girl." The stage lights are blinding. In the absence of anything to focus on, my brain plays images of the last month, the month since Brad and I... The memory makes me blush and I push it to one side. I can't be air- headed now. In the last month the media has been going wild for "The Beckinsales'. We're the "it" couple, or were before today. They can see our affection, grinning at each other like we're on our first date - which isn't too far from the truth, I suppose. The lights dim. Trish Jackson adjusts her blouse and then the microphone. The cameraman signals. 3....2....1..... She does the pleasantries and reaps the applause. Then without hesitation she cuts to the chase. "So, Mary, what a 24 hours it has been..." "Yes, I'd like to get off now, please." There's some laughter from the loyalists, but I'm a far cry from winning the room over here. "I have some figures right here in front of me and...well...it doesn't look too good from your perspective right now, does it?" "From my perspective I can't see the numbers you have so...I can't really answer that, Trish." "It's okay, I can paint a picture for you. Your husband's popularity has dropped by 8% in just the last 24 hours." "Well, even New Kids on the Block didn't stay popular forever." I don't know who's writing my lines today, but I want to strangle them. And talk about making me feel old. As Mike I don't think I was even born when those guys were around. "Straight question, Mary - do you believe this is a direct consequence of your husband's recent comments?" "You'll have to narrow that down for me, Trish." "I'll go one better, I'll quote it for you...I have the line here...'I believe a woman's place is in the home, supporting her husband and raising their children'......unquote." "I...concede those remarks may not have been to everyone's taste." "Do you...support those remarks?" "I don't...oppose them?" A few boos start to sound. My brain goes fuzzy. I'm panicking, trying to remember my lines. Someone please help! "Mary, you've been painted as the strong feminist role model for our daughters to aspire to. Now you come out and defend your husband's...rather sexist...comments. Do you honestly expect to remain in anything like the high regard you've been held in up to this point?" "I..." "The consensus has completely turned against you, Mary." "It's not that I..." "Celebrities up and down the country are voicing their disgust." "Brad is..." "-Your lord and master?" "No, but..." "Women everywhere are angry, Mary." "Yeah? Well fuck them." Shocked gasps and then silence. Oh boy, done it now. Can't get any worse. Might as well roll with it, right?" "Fuck the feminists, fuck the holier-than-thou-celebrities, and fuck you. Do you have any idea how hypocritical you all are? Going on and on about women's rights and that I should do this, or say that. Do you know what real rights are? What real feminism is? The right to choose. I have my choice. Do I have to be a housewife? No. No-one could force me into something like that. But I choose it. Do you know why? Because I enjoy it. I like supporting my husband. Am I the most ambitious person in the world? No, because I have other priorities. And if I ever have a daughter, I will let her choose for herself and support that decision, because I will not let her be another social drone who acts according to what the majority tells her to do. It would be the same for a son as well. It's choice, Trish, and it's personal belief, which we all have the right to. I and my husband share traditional views, as do many in this great country. Are we forcing those views on other people? No. But we have the right to an opinion. That's what liberty is. We have a big fucking statue to remind us of that but people still forget. So we support housewives, and businesswomen, and female athletes, and all the rest. Why? Because they chose it and we stand for that choice. You don't like it? Fine, that's YOUR choice, but you don't get to impose that choice on the rest of us." It's a long, long time before anyone speaks... "Well, it's officially viral," says Sam, sitting on our hotel bed and browsing her phone. "I thought it went viral hours ago?" asked Brad. "Oh, that was the channel's censored version. Now the uncensored version is viral. We're trending too." "What as?" I ask "Senator Beckinsale and his kick-ass wife." "They put all that in a hashtag?" "There are several abbreviations, but it's all the same. Popularity has skyrocketed. We're not as high as we were, and a lot of people just got a whole lot angrier, but like they say, there's no such thing as bad publicity." I gaze out across the city skyline with Brad's arms around me. "Who'd have thought?" he says, kissing the top of my head. "I never planned it. I just got so mad with how they were all treating you, and saying what I should do, and..." "Hey, it's okay. Somehow, you've done it." "Think we'll win?" "Hey, we're Senator Beckinsale and his kick-ass wife - how could we lose? But even if we do, I'm still incredibly proud of you." "And I'm proud of you - assuming you win, of course." I look up and give him a smile that he's already returning. "Kick-ass...I like that," I say, after a long, upside-down kiss. "Do you know what I like more?" "What's that?" "President Beckinsale and his kick-ass wife." My smile only widens. I don't try to stop it. "Well...you've got my vote."