Family Values Pt. 2

By Woodrow Writes -
published August 9, 2019

Mayor Branden’s life continues to change after a presidential focus group. Will he notice what’s going on? Will he care?

(Alright, this is the chapter where the fireworks start going off. Please enjoy, and as always, all feedback/notes welcome - it’s a story about feedback!)

My wedding ring reminds me of what’s important. It reminds me that even if Parker’s mad at me now, we’ll find a way to get through this campaign together. And I will never, ever leave him behind.

(Another voice, rolling quietly down the back of my brain, like a tiny snowball rolling silently off the top of a mountain: It’s weird that you’re not married)

Because after all, we’re married. And when you’re married, you’re not just a team.

You’re a family.

My ring is golden and unadorned - simple, yet a bit showy. This tests well with voters.

My arms push slightly against the sleeves of my suit. I’m not a musclehead or anything, but I lifted weights to pass the time in the military, and keeping this up tests well with my other constituency - my husband.

Except my husband was a bit upset the last time I saw him - you know how the better halves can get. But he’s had some time alone to think, and now I’m going to find him and make it all better.

This tests fantastically.

Click. Click. Click.

I love the sound of my chocolate leather wingtip shoes on hard pavement. I love the feel of them, molded just comfortably enough to provide my feet with a little give, but firm and structured enough to lend my stride purpose. Because I do have a purpose - I know exactly where I’m going. And I know I cut a striking figure, walking assuredly through Mason City in my snugly-tailored navy-blue three-piece, and the sound of the shoes just makes it official. I look and sound like a man on a mission, which I am. I look and sound like I run this town - which I do.

And I know that even if Parker protests from time to time, he loves it.

I know he loves it because he says so whenever we play Family Values.

“Come on,” I can suddenly hear him saying, “Right here on the desk. The Mason City Mayor’s desk. How hot would that be?”

“No way.” I’m blushing, I’m always blushing around Parker. “Someone might come in, they might - I’m the mayor, I’m supposed -”

“Exactly.” Parker is toying his fingers up my suit, button to button. “What good is being the mayor if you can’t be the boss of someone?”

His voice is barely a breath by the end of it, and it’s that breathy sound that gets me. I grab his wrists and step forward, pushing him backwards, bumping his butt against the edge of my desk.

“You may look sweet,” I growl low, “but you’re kind of a little slut, aren’t you?”

He looks up at me, eyes wide, mock coy.

“You think I look sweet?” he smiles.

I shut him up by sticking two fingers in his mouth, and push him square on the chest so he falls back onto the desk, the mayor’s desk, my desk, he’s mine -

No, no, enough of that. People love seeing their friendly neighborhood mayor striding down the street, but they don’t want to see him do it with a raging hard-on. I can only imagine how terribly that would test. And Parker may love a bit of near-exhibitionism - and, ok, he’s made me increasingly aware of its pleasures, too - but I doubt he wants me to get in trouble.

Anyway, there are other ways to be exhibitionist. More socially acceptable ways.

The traditional ways.

I’ve arrived at my destination: The Mason Maison, the only French cafe in our little city, the cafe where Parker and I had our first date, the same cafe where I held my election night party, the same night and place where I proposed to him. If I know my husband half as well as I know I do, this is where he’ll have ended up.

I open the door, and receive the usual hail of greetings - “Mr. Mayor!” “Hey, Mayor Murphy!” “Any table you’d like, Mayor Murphy” - and give them all the courtesy of a greeting in return. But my eyes are scanning the cafe, searching…

…and finding. There, across the room, looking into his coffee. Eyes red from crying. My heart beats faster beneath my dress shirt - nothing should make my husband cry, especially not me. I know what Parker needs at a time like this. He needs reassurance. He needs me.

“Babe,” I say, loud enough that I can be heard from across the room. His head snaps up. He loves being called pet names like ‘babe’ - and I love to say it. Always have.

(And rolling down the back of my brain, another voice that I hear without hearing: People want to see your commitment to each other made clear - you should want to make it clear)

Parker looks up. His scruffy face furrows in confusion. He’s either taken off his ring, or lost it somewhere - it’s nowhere to be seen. And for a second, it’s like he doesn’t quite recognize me.

“Is that a new suit?” he asks.

Then he looks into my eyes, and something passes between us - some energy, some new recognition, something like a bell going off.


All the confusion drops from his face. He wipes a hand across his eye, his wedding ring glistening. Suddenly there’s just his relief at seeing me, his guard dropped, his undisguisable, uncontrollable need.

“Bran,” he breathes back.

I cross the cafe in a few confident strides, wrapping my hands around his hips. Everyone’s watching, but that doesn’t stop me - I know that Parker loves an audience.

We both do.

“I’m so sorry. I would never leave you behind,” I say to him in a low, urgent voice. “Of course we’re going to change as we go through life. That’s what couples do. But we’re going to change together. And it’s my job to make that clear to you, and I failed to do that today, and you had every right to be upset. I’m so, so sorry. Can you forgive me?”

Parker hesitates. The cafe is totally silent. He may be thinking about what I just said, or he may just be milking the moment. I don’t care either way. I slide my hands up his sides and around to his back, encasing him in my arms, and as he’s pulled forward, his chin hooks over my shoulder and he says:


The cafe breaks out in applause as we kiss. It’s a little overblown - I certainly never would have done anything like this before meeting Parker - but it goes over great with the eager audiences of Mason City.

And with Parker pulled this close to me, I can feel that it’s going over great with another eager audience - one that’s rapidly stiffening into my thigh. He may be a forward-thinking young artist, but Parker loves this old-school white-knight shit, and knowing that it makes him happy makes me happy, which makes me start to firm up, too. It’s a positive feedback loop, and if there’s one thing I love as a politician, it’s positive feedback.

But maybe not right here. Quickly, I spin him around and wrap my arm firmly around his waist, angling him in towards me so no one can see any tenting.

“Let’s go home,” I say, both because it sounds romantic and because it’s entirely necessary - we may be beloved, but we’re not bang-your-husband-on-a-Mason-Maison-maison beloved. I start to guide him toward the door - he loves when I manhandle him a little - but Parker resists briefly, looking back at his table.

“I have to pay-” he says, at the same time as the cafe owner, Jean, says, “Oh, it’s on the house,” at the same time as I say “Oh, please, I’ll handle it,” reach into my pocket, pull out a 50, and throw it on the table.

“The husband always pays,” I say.

Parker rolls his eyes, having to put up the public appearance of not totally loving this. “I’m the husband, too,” he says. I shrug, knowing he’ll love how my broad shoulders make my suit jacket bunch up, and say, low enough for just him to hear: “You want to debate it at home?”

(If you’re gay, you have to be twice as traditional so people don’t get scared.)

Parker’s pupils are practically dilated. He can’t even speak. He just nods.

We’re in the car in under a minute. It’s Parker’s car, but I hold the passenger door open for him, and close it behind him when he gets in, and then I slide into the driver’s seat, getting us on to Jefferson Street, away from the main road, as soon as possible.

“Family Valu-?” Parker begins to ask hoarsely, just before I say, “Open my damn pants.”

He hurries to oblige, shaky fingers undoing my fly like he’s unwrapping a Christmas present. My cock springs forth instantly, no underwear, just the way Parker likes it. My cock demands attention, and Parker is extremely good at taking demands. He wraps his hand around it, keeping his arm low as he pleasures me, gives me what I deserve, all the way up Jefferson and on to 12th street. As we turn on to the leafy, secluded, suburban street, I wrap my hand around the back of Parker’s neck, but he’s already one step ahead of me, eagerly going down to meet my crotch, taking the briefest of moments to breathe me in before he envelops me in the warmth of his mouth, the slipperiness, making the edges of my vision explode into white static. I breathe hard, lungs hitching and straining against my waistcoat, as Parker goes up and down, slides his tongue over and around, like my good little cocksucker, my fucking baby slut.

Oh, good, we’re home.

As we pull into the driveway, I yank him back off of my cock by the back of his neck, like a kitten, which is appropriate, because he makes a mewling noise like a kitten, sad to have been cut off from the thing he loves. But I put the car in park and move my left hand up to grab him by the chin, my fingers holding his jaw firmly in place, my cold gold ring pushing into his cheek.

“Listen to me,” I growl. “Listen to me. You’re going to go upstairs, you’re going to put on the pink jockstrap I bought you, and you’re going to wait for me on the bed.”

He’s gotten my thumb into his mouth and he’s sucking on it. I’m not even sure he knows he’s doing it. I give him the privilege of enjoying me for a few seconds - he did a good job on the drive here - and then I withdraw my thumb and give him a light smack on the face to keep him focused.

“Do you understand?” I ask. Again, Parker doesn’t speak, just nods furiously. My right hand is still on the back of his neck so I pull him close, kiss him, stick my tongue where my cock just was, remind him that any of his holes belong to me, and then let him go so he can scrabble with the seatbelt and burst out of the door and into the house while I turn the car off and discreetly, patiently, pocket my cock back in my pants before exiting the car and making my way into the house, enjoying the feeling of the sun on the back of my navy blue suit one last time before I step inside and claim what’s mine.

I lock the door behind me. I carefully remove one shoe, and then the other. I relish the feeling of carpet on my thin socks. I love this house. My house. The house that’s in my name. Family Values may have started as a joke in those first months of dating, hesitantly broached by both of us, tentatively feinting towards what we wanted, ready to play it off as a joke if the other person was horrified - but as it became more and more clear that neither of us was horrified, was in fact quite the opposite, the “joke” became a “game,” and the “game” became a preference, and the preference became a life.

A respectable, traditional, life, which voters would surely -

“What the fuck?!

I’m snapped out of my reverie by the sound of Parker on the stairs. He’s changed into his pink jockstrap, alright, but he’s looking at me like he’s just seen a UFO crash through the front door.

I frown. “I thought I told you to get in the-”

And then I look in his eyes.


“Oh my god, what the fuck?!” I stagger back, my butt hitting the door. Why does my butt feel thicker than I remember?

“Where did you get that suit?!” Parker keeps taking a step down the stairs and then a step back up, as if unsure whether to come towards me. “And are you - are you bigger?

I am, I realize. Not by much, not enough to be anyone’s personal trainer or anything, but enough that I look like I could give some free advice at the gym. This morning I had a basic training body that was just on the right side of soft, and now I take up a bit more space, I push against my pressed collar, my fingers are calloused and my ring -

“Oh, my God, are we married?!” We say at the exact same time.

“What happened today?” My mind races back through the events at the cafe, the way we behaved in public. “What’s happening now? Why are we suddenly-”

And then a voice, a voice that feels like it’s been hidden away in parentheses or footnotes up until this exact moment:

Y’all can do whatever you want in the privacy of your own homes.

I look at Parker, and Parker looks at me, and it’s clear that we’ve both heard it.

“The focus group,” we say at the exact same time.

And then another voice - Parker’s voice, but not from Parker’s mouth.

I bet this focus group finally lets you fix everything about your life so you can be the perfect candidate.

“Oh, fuck.” Parker sits down on the staircase, his bare ass pressing into the carpet, his hands running through his hair. “I did this. I-”

“No. No, no, no.” I make my way up the stairs to him, having to think hard so I don’t trip over my new, slightly bulkier body. I kneel down a few steps beneath him and place my (bigger, thicker) hands on his own knees. “You didn’t do this. You couldn’t have known. That thing from the focus group must be doing this to us, and Jeri didn’t know, or - or she did know, but - but either way, I agreed to do this, so it’s my fault.”

Parker doesn’t look at me, but he doesn’t pull away, either.

“You didn’t know, though,” he says. “Right? You didn’t?”

I shake my head as earnestly as I can, praying to God he sees that I mean it. “I didn’t. I didn’t, babe - I mean, dude - I mean - I had no idea, Parker. I promise.”

Now Parker looks at me.

“Ok,” he says. “So this isn’t your fault, or my fault. I mean, the focus group was still a dumb idea, but this…no one could have anticipated this. But…”

He’s right on the edge of something, I can tell.

“…but what you said at the cafe…was that real? Or was that just, you know…the focus group?”

I think back, trying to remember every word of what I told him while I held him at the Mason Maison.

It was -

“- all true,” I tell him urgently. “I would never leave you behind. No matter what crazy shit we go through - are going through - we’re in this together.”

Parker looks at me.

He nods.

Whatever cliff he was standing on the edge of, he jumps.

“Good,” he says. “I’m glad you meant it. Because that’s what matters to me. And because I was going to be very annoyed if we had to break up right now.”

A sparkle enters his eye, the same sparkle as the man who - even before this morning, before any of this started - used to greet me in the kitchen in just an apron and the pink jockstrap he’s wearing now.

“Because,” he says, “you look damn good in that suit.”

This morning, this would have sent me - bashful, barely-out Branden Murphy - reeling, worrying if he really meant it, if we didn’t need to talk more about this issue.

Now, though, there’s a whole new type of architecture in my head, holding me up. Like my stronger body has given me a stronger foundation in moments like this.

And stronger urges.

“Yeah?” I say, my hands playing over Parker’s knees, inching slowly up his bare thighs. “You like the three-piece? Do I look like a mayor?”

Parker gasps, feeling my callouses on the inside of his legs.

“Baby,” he grins, “You look like a president.

And with that, it’s like another ding! goes off - but one we made happen all by ourselves. We’re no longer being controlled by Jeri’s device - just the opposite, for me. When I shoot one hand up Parker’s leg, making him squeal as I wrap my big hand around his pretty little ass, I’m totally in control of my own actions.

And when I wrap my other arm around his back and pick him up to carry him to the bed, I’m totally in control of both our actions.

Just the way we like it.

“The way I see it,” I say, lumbering up one step at a time, bursting into our bedroom, “this is our first time really being in this house as a married couple. And you know what married couples do when they get into the house?”

Parker goes to answer, but we both know his input isn’t as important as mine, so I cut him off by throwing him through the air onto the bed.

“How about I just show you?” I growl. And as Parker laughs and gasps, I grab him by the knees again, yanking them up and pulling him back towards me. I drop to my own knees, use my new strength to yank Parker up just a little higher, and bury my face in his tight, scruffy ass.

In just a few minutes Parker’s gone from mewling like a kitten to yowling like a street cat. I’m playing him like an instrument, eating him like an ice pop, more accurately an Otter Pop, tickling his inner caverns and turning his whole brain pink, as pink as the jockstrap band that frames my baby’s ass. This morning, the jockstrap was something Parker bought to liven up our sex life, back when I thought missionary was kinky. After this morning - after the focus group - we both know that I bought him the jockstrap, that he came home from painting a mural one day to find it sitting on his pillow with a note that said “Have this on before I get home,” and that after we’d broken it in he’d put it in the drawer of other garments that I’d bought for him just like that.

If things are still like this tomorrow, maybe we’ll go through that drawer.

Who cares about tomorrow. I need to be in my baby’s ass now, now, now. I pull out, blow on his hole one last time, and as his whole body spasms with delight, I rise up and throw my blazer off and onto the ground.

“Waistcoat,” I say. In a lightning flash, like he’s been training for this his whole life, Parker’s on his knees at the edge of the bed, going up my coat button by button. We’re like an assembly line: as soon as he has it undone, I pull it up and over my broad shoulders, and he moves down to work on my fly again, popping it open and exposing my bare new shelf of an ass, dusted with light blonde hairs - and my drooling, impatient cock.

All that’s left is to throw my tie over my shoulder. The shirt can stay on - I know he likes the dress-shirt-no-pants look, and it doesn’t matter if anything gets shot onto there; that’s what waistcoats are for. And time is of the essence. I keep the lights on in this house; I run this city; I deserve to be having my cock milked right now.

I spin Parker with both hands, positioning him so he’s back on his knees again, but this time in the other direction, and then pushing him over like a folding table. Then, keeping one hand on his neck, I grab my cock with my other hand, push myself up to his hole, and enter him right…


“Fuck!” he wails, and “Fuuuuuuck,” I grunt, guttural, from a lower place in my lungs than I’d ever done it before - before this morning, anyway. And then I push in, until I’m buried, until we meet the way married couples are supposed to meet.

And then out. Parker gasps as his walls cave in.

And then in.


‘Husband.’ Like ‘husbandry.’

Slap. Slap. Slap.

Like the breeding of animals.

(Another voice, barely audible over the slapping of flesh on flesh: They have to be more or less straight people, but better).

Like putting your bitch to stud.

Slap. Slap. Slap. Parker is moaning, cursing, thanking me, I don’t even think he knows what he’s saying. He lives for this, his body was made for this, like pussy, but tighter. Better. We deserve to feel good. I deserve to feel powerful. We’re better.

“You know - what would test - really well?” I say, my chest heaving against my dress shirt as I fuck him, fuck him, fuck him.

“W - w - what?” Parker’s fingers dig in and out of the bed.

“If we had - a fucking - kid,” I say. “You wanna - fucking - give me a - fucking - son?”

Parker doesn’t have the brain cells left to say yes so he just shoots his hand back, and I grab it and pull him up, and wrap one newly powerful arm around his neck, so that his spine is pressed up the sweat-through-dress-shirt curve of my thick chest, so that his head crooks back over my shoulder, so that I can breathe hot in his ear:

“Then let’s get you - fucking - bred.

I slam in. Parker contracts. He’s screaming, and creaming into his cup. That makes me blast into him, fill him with me, until I’m leaking out of him even as I’m still in him, a shudder coursing through me from my shoulders to my groin and back again.

I fall to the bed, and with my arms still around him, I take Parker with me.

Warm thoughts bump against the ceiling of my mind as we fade from consciousness. The changes would be incremental, Jeri said. I don’t think I’m actually going to knock Parker up - I don’t remember anyone saying anything about that - but as sleep steals over me, I don’t quite remember what anyone else said, either.

As I fall asleep, I have no idea what’s next for our family.

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