Family Values Pt. 3

By Woodrow Writes
published August 15, 2019
4457 words

The changes come harder, faster, and richer for Mayor Branden and his one true love

(Hey, y’all! Thanks so much for the wonderful feedback so far; all I can say is please keep it coming!

This is the third of a planned four chapters. It’s got a lot of stuff scraped straight from my subconscious, so it’s very self-indulgent; I hope it proves indulgent to some others as well, and if not, fair play. Hope you enjoy regardless!)

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.

My clothes are neatly folded and laid out for me when I wake up the next morning, as they are every morning (as of now) (as of always). I like to think this would test well with voters, if they were here to see Parker at work.

My arms throb. I’m almost beginning to get used their new size - they’re not defined like a bodybuilder’s, but I love how the forearms flare out like a gorilla’s, if gorillas had blonde fur - and I have a dim memory of working out my new arms last night when I woke up, rolled over, pushed myself up on top of Parker, and, acting on a hardwired impulse and too asleep to remember this wasn’t normal, sleepily inserted myself into a me-shaped hole and fucked away my late-night hard-on. This was obviously a surprising way for Parker to wake up, but based on my dim recollection of the ensuing sounds, it nevertheless tested well with my other consituency - my (husband) (bitch) better half.

Except now he’s not in the bedroom to deal with my third hard-on since we burst into this room last night. But just as my new brain is about to grumble that this is a shirking of duties - and my old brain is about to protest Well, come on, he’s already taken a lot, give the poor guy a break - both of my brains, together, smell the bacon and eggs being made downstairs in the kitchen.

This tests amazingly.

The war with myself continues as I hastily get ready to go downstairs. On the one hand, my new old brain is putting me through my new old paces, reminding me to do one hundred push-ups (low enough to touch cock to carpet, I remember my drill sergeant saying, and this does nothing to stop my hard-on), and telling me that a good morning outfit is the smooth suit pants that have been laid out for me, my Burberry belt, and nothing else (underwear just inhibits access to what’s yours).

But my old old brain is taking notice, as I pad down the stairs, of what’s still the same: Parker’s crazy art still hangs on the walls, and he’s still whistling Kesha in the kitchen. He’s still my same old scruffy artist - and indeed, as I enter the kitchen, there he is, disheveled in all the ways that I love. His hair is a tousled brown cloud, and he’s barefoot and naked except for his apron; a few days ago, if asked about the subject, I might have blushed and said he had a “nice butt,” but now I can call it what it is: a hot, plump ass, one that emerges from thin thighs like an unexpected surprise. And just as there’s a little bit of bacon grease stuck in his beard, there’s a little bit (ok, a lot) of my dried cum stuck in the fur around his ass, which gets me so hard that it hurts, like someone’s pulling me by the cock towards my husband.

“I don’t even know why I put on pants,” I growl, and Parker laughs as I approach and wrap my strong arms around him, pulling his bare back against my bare chest. In that moment, I feel all that conflict drop away. There’ve been a lot of crazy changes, but as long as we’re here in the privacy of our own home, there can’t be any more. We can just enjoy each other, and catch our breath, and…

…the doorbell rings.

“Ugh. I’ll get it.” Pulling my cock away from Parker’s ass is like separating a particularly strong magnet from a fridge, but being the man of the house comes with certain responsibilities.

“Wait,” Parker says, just before I can leave. “Are you gonna put on a shirt?”

I look down at my new, thick, brick-wall body, and then look back up at Parker, grinning.

“Do you want me to put on a shirt?” I ask. “Or do you want the world to see how big your man is?”

Parker’s apron tents out a little in the front and it looks like his mouth has gone very dry. There’s my exhibitionist.

“I - I would like that very much,” he says. “But do you think it looks unprofessional? Maybe we shouldn’t get too carried away with - with whatever this is.”

The doorbell rings again.

“If they say something, I’ll put on a shirt,” I say. “But it’s just one person. And look at me.”

I slap my four-ish-pack and run my hand up to cup my hefty left pec.

“I’d like to see the person that can carry this away,” I say, and I flash my cockiest grin. I know it’ll blow the circuits in Parker’s brain, and it does, his knuckles suddenly going white around the counter as he holds on to it to keep himself standing. I kiss him on his scruffy cheek and then head out of the kitchen while he’s too aroused to respond.

“Anyway, we’re still technically ‘in the privacy of our own home,’” I yell down the hall as I approach the door. “I bet we’re fine, especially if they don’t step into the-”

I open the door.

Someone steps into the house.

“Mr. Mayor, good morning, I-” says my personal assistant, Thomas, as I finish yelling “-house,” and Thomas stops and says “I’m so sorry, Mr. Mayor, were you saying something?”

“No,” I say, because I wasn’t saying anything. I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Great,” he says, moving past me into the living room. “We’ve got a big day ahead of you. You’ve had a big surge with voters. You’re getting a lot of positive buzz.”

“What? How?” I ask, closing the door behind him. I realize as I do it that I’m clearly still erect in my thin suit pants, but this doesn’t seem to bother Thomas. That makes sense - Thomas is a good employee, a great find on Jerri’s part; she recommended him for my staff, and ever since he’s come on board, he’s clearly understood what’s important to me, including that a man should be able to feel comfortable in his own home. I scratch my right pec absentmindedly as I follow him into the living room, sitting down on the well-worn sofa that Parker and I found on Craigslist when we moved in.

“You went viral overnight,” Thomas says, grabbing a remote and turning on the TV. “That moment you had with your husband, at Mason Maison? Someone recorded it, and people are loving it. They’re saying you’re normalizing LGBT love in the heartland; they’re calling you a uniter. I guarantee you if we go to any news channel-”

He flips to Channel 5, and sure enough, there’s a surprisingly HD video of me with my arms around Parker, the two of us kissing, the cafe applauding.

But wait. I squint. Am I imagining it, or does the Parker in the video look -

“Hey, boys,” Parker says, entering from the hall. “Talking about me when I’m not in the room? I thought you were gentlemen.”

All video-related confusion is forgotten as I take in how beautiful my baby looks this morning. His brown hair is slicked back with a killer right part, the product he uses rendering his hair dark and lustrous and shiny. He’s got a jaw you could cut glass with, a smile you could compare pearls to, and a cheek so cleanshaven it looks like the barber used a diamond. But Parker’s always known how to take care of himself; he’s looking trimmer than ever in a slim-fit pastel pink polo tucked into the tightest, shortest pastel-blue khaki shorts (my) money can buy, showcasing that sweet, juicy ass like the wrapper on a preppy Lindor truffle.

(He’s not exactly Cape Cod gentility, says a voice that I don’t even remotely hear)

Parker notices me staring, and smiles, and it’s just about blinding - his father was the most in-demand dentist in Chatham, and it shows. And then that ass is on my cock, with only the thinnest of fabrics to separate them, as Parker crosses the room and drapes himself in my lap, his thin arms looping around my thick bare neck, my own arms automatically wrapping around him, assuming the position to keep him stable and close, because even though there’s a vast available expanse of spotless white cushion on this sofa that Parker picked out for us from Neiman Marcus, we both know the proper place for my -

(What would you call him? First Boy?)

- baby boy.

If Thomas minds this gratuitous display, he doesn’t say anything. He really is a very good employee; I’m going to have to send Jerri a thank-you note for hiring him (or get Parker to send it for me; he’s much better at that etiquette stuff than I am). Thomas gets that a man’s home is his castle, and that his boy (or spouse, or girlfriend, or what have you - free country, I won’t judge how other people live) comes first. Thomas is discreet, smart - and not just a little cute, come to think of it, sort of a Tom Holland type with a bachelor’s degree in poli sci. Jerri clearly knows my type - and Parker possibly recognizes this, which may be part of why he’s sitting on me in the first place, claiming his territory, and probably why he’s lazily tracing his finger in light circles around my nipple, swirling the hairs and causing all my neckhairs - and both my nipples - to stiffen.

He has nothing to worry about, of course. One: I’m a presidential candidate with an image to maintain. Two: I made a commitment on my wedding day, and a man keeps his commitments.

And three: I mean, look at what he’s doing to me. What a good little fucking slut.

“We want to get the two of you in an interview right away,” Thomas says, plowing past all of this with remarkable composure. “Parker, are you free this afternoon?”

Parker and I lock eyes. I know for a fact he’d planned to spend today in the studio - something about a commission for a new mural at the municipal airport, though the details are swiftly slipping my mind.

“Think you can swing it, Park?” I say, nuzzling his smooth cheek. “I”m sure you can find another time to-”

I pause, trying to remember the right words.

(Most first ladies have been homemakers.)

“-clean out the closets,” I finish, remembering the project Parker’d had his heart set on for today.

Sometimes it’s funny for me to recall, as I’m doing now, that even though Parker had been a big fan of Family Values since we first started dating - maybe an even bigger fan than me, if you can believe that - he’d still been taken aback when, just a few hours after proposing, I’d told him I didn’t want him working for hire anymore.

“But that’s where all the good money comes from,” Parker had protested. “Those commissions are what pay the bills. What if I have to -”

But with my hands tight around his wrists and my eyes locked on his, I’d explained a few things. First: I paid his bills now. Second: if I was doing my job right, Parker would never have to do anything for anyone else again (other than me, obviously). If he wanted to make art, he would get to, on his own terms, for his own joy, and in our home. And when people saw that art he’d made for himself, they’d see it was so much better, and worth so much more, than anything he’d had to make for some work-for-hire graphic design job.

And third: I’d feel so good knowing it was made in my house, where I had first dibs.

This was always the weapons-grade plutonium, with Parker. His jaw hung open. His eyes were wet. “You - you’d want my art for yourself?” he asked, as if we hadn’t established this eight thousand times over the past two years.

“I want all of you for myself,” I growled, and a shudder ran up Parker’s spine with such strength that his head snapped back, and for two seconds I saw the pretty underside of his neck before he returned, with renewed joy and fervor, to what he’d been doing when I told him I wanted him staying at home, which was: deep-throating my cock in the unisex bathroom stall of the Mason Maison in the midst of our election after-party.

In retrospect, this may have been why his jaw was open and his eyes were wet.

In that moment, the sound of Parker choking on my cock was the sound of him saying “yes,” and I had a crystal clear vision of Parker puttering around our house during the day, not out at some dingy studio, vacuuming barefoot - and it was that thought that caused me to blast the first-ever load down the throat of my fiancé.

Now, just a few years later, Parker’s happier than ever, picking out the decor, bringing me lunch at city hall, and then running home so I can return each night to my three favorite things: a house that’s clean; a dinner that’s warm and ready to eat; and an ass that’s all of the above.

Thinking of all of this reminds me of something: it takes a burden off Parker’s shoulders when I make the big decisions for him. This is no exception.

“Of course he’ll do the interview,” I say. “Park can clean closets any old day of the week, right, babe?”

Parker grins, relieved to have someone to tell him the right answer.

“Totally,” he says. “Anyway, we can always just get Petra to do it.”

I open my mouth to ask who Petra is - but before I can, there’s a shift, like the earth just moved, or like Parker just bounced in my lap

But that’s crazy, because we’ve just been sitting right here on the same old Fendi Casa sofa Parker had made me buy him during our honeymoon in Milan.

(Traditionally, those women were able to be supported…because their husbands were lucky prep school products who rose to success off of Daddy’s money, says a voice that I might find slightly rude if I had even any inkling that it had spoken)

Anyway, there’s no chance Parker’s bouncing anywhere while he’s in my lap, unless he’s bouncing up and down on my insatiable dick. My thighs are fucking cannons of carved granite, encased in bespoke silk suit pants as tight as sausage skin, and my control over them has been insane ever since my days as captain of the varsity wrestling team at Groton, and then on the team at Princeton. After all, Parker married a Murphy man, and that should mean something.

Ever since my great-grandfather became the first and only man to find oil in Iowa, the Murphys have been in the public eye, and we’ve made it a priority to look good for that eye. When I wasn’t wrestling, me and my eating club pals bonded over intramural crew, and I developed into a unique crossbreed of beast - all the definition, flaring broad shoulders, and stretched-out spine of a rower, with the fucking killer mass of a wrestler. My pecs are thick enough that you can punch me and I barely feel it - Parker does this, sometimes, to make one or both of us come - but they’re still cut as fuck, so well-defined that you can see small shadows running under each pec. In long evening light, my abs are a fucking chiaroscuro painting - another thing I learned about at Princeton. And this was all before the military.

Now, sitting here with my boy in my lap and my poll numbers surging up, I know all that hard work has been worth it. My opponents may scoff and say my success is bought for me, predestined by my father’s wealth - but my father didn’t buy the blue veins that pop across the tight flesh of my football-thick, marble-white arms, and my father didn’t buy me the love of my life, currently wrapped in those arms so tight he can’t move, just the way Park likes it, and my father didn’t buy the admiration and respect voters feel when they see those two things together.

Just then, Petra crosses past the doorway in the hall, holding a feather duster, and I frown. Ok, so maybe my father bought this house as a gift to us just months before our wedding, and threw in the maid for good measure - but looking after a house this big is hard work, and my boy deserves all the help he can get.

Plus, I had him write a very nice thank-you card.

“Wait,” Parker says. “No. Petra can’t do it. I was going to take the clothes we didn’t need anymore and I thought we could bring them to a donation center. Thought it might be a nice photo-op for you - you know, something that might test well.”

“Oh, that’s a great idea, Parker,” Thomas says, and Parker beams so wide that I just want to fuck my little husband right there in front of Thomas, God, and everyone, my massive shoulders flaring over his skinny body. I’m so proud of my smart dumb little prep slut. If he were any hotter I’d -

“Maybe we can make that another one of your initiatives, Parker,” Thomas says, jotting into his phone. “You know, along with the whole ‘work your body’ thing.”

(Like Michelle Obama! She didn’t practice law in the White House, but she took up the initiative of promoting fitness. And she looked it, too!)

My smart dumb sexy fucking preppy gymnast housewife boyslut smiles his pearly whites at me, and I break. I don’t know how I’ve been holding myself back, but it’s over now. I’m holding 150 pounds of tight, compact, smooth muscle in my arms, such a contrast to my massive furry monster frame that my cock is about to rip the seams of my straining Savile Row suit pants. I don’t even know how he’s squeezed into his own paint-tight Ralph Lauren polo, his thick little gymnast pecs threatening to pop the sole button off, but he’s not going to be in it much longer. My baby works so hard on his body so he doesn’t just get perceived by the country as “that dumb gay housemaker,” but instead as “that fighter against America’s obesity epidemic,” and I think it’s unfair that he had to go through a focus group yesterday.

And I think it’s unfair that I can’t be using my cock to pin his throat to the ground right here in front of Thomas in my own goddamn home.

“Thomas,” I growl, “we’ll be ready for an interview at one. For now, get out of the house.”

“No, wait,” Parker says, his angelic smile becoming devilish in an instant. “Thomas should stay here.”

I’m so horny I can hardly think straight, but I know this isn’t normal. “You don’t mean you want him to - to participate in -”

“Not participate, per se,” Parker says, playing with my nipples again, making my low growl rev like a car engine. Oh, I’m gonna fucking get him back for that. He knows playing with my nipples shifts the balance of power.

“Just…” Parker looks inside his pretty little head for the right word, then finds it with a grin. “…witness.

Of course. The only thing my baby likes more in the world than being my little bitch is other people knowing that he is. I turn to Thomas to see how he’s handling this. Cool as a cucumber, is Thomas. Well, fucking good. We fucking pay him enough to be. What else is money for, if not this?

“I can stay right here,” Thomas says. “Just shower after and be ready for camera by 1.”

“Oh, good,” Parker says, and I say, “Why after? Park, get in the shower now.

It’s like my voice is hotwired to Parker’s nervous system, because his perfect, edible ass has hopped off my granite quads before he even has time to register what I’ve really said and turn it into a pouty frown.

“But if we’re in the shower,” he says, “Thomas won’t be able to see-”

I stand up to my full height. Parker’s 5’8 and tight. I’m 6’4 and fuckin’ huge.

“Are you questioning me?” I ask.

Parker looks up at me, practically drooling with joy. He loves this shit.

“He won’t be able to see us,” I say, “But if I am doing my job, he will be able to hear us. Right?”

Parker’s just about dripping through his panties. He may actually be doing that; I bought him some nice panties last month and the little slut leaks pre-cum like he’s got pussy envy.

“Right,” he says, and then turns and runs as fast as his insanely developed little calves will carry him.

I turn to Thomas. “Sorry about that,” I say. He shrugs, and continues sitting right there on the ottoman Parker picked out from Algiers.

I stalk across the living room, shedding what few clothes I have on. My belt goes onto the carpet. My pants drop onto the stairs.

Petra will clean it up.

The water’s already running by the time I get to the shower, but the mirror hasn’t fogged up yet, so I can see everything:

My pecs and shoulders, swelling with every breath, living boulder formations swirling with light blond hair.

Parker, in the shower, perfect hairdo slowly breaking apart, naked except for - oh, yes, he was wearing the panties, they’re soaked, probably ruined, and who cares, because I’m going to tear them apart and buy him new ones, just like he wants me to.

My shoulders, so broad I have to enter the shower sideways, and when I do I block all the water with my rippling back, keeping Parker dry. That’s what I do: I keep him warm, and safe, and protected, and fed, and fucked, and happy.

And in return…

“You gonna give me a fucking son?” I ask. I’m not yelling, but ever since my voice first dropped, I know that it carries. Parker knows it, too, and he just about collapses into me, his fingers digging - or trying to dig - into the arrowlike steps of my lats. That feels good. I love that.

“I said,” I say, grabbing Parker’s panties with both hands and tearing them apart like wet paper, “you gonna give me a fucking son?

“I - I -” Parker’s a bitch in heat, he’s not actually expected to talk, but it’s things like him trying that still make me so happy to pick him up and slam his back against the tiled wall of the shower.

“Cuz either you’re gonna give me a boy,” I roar, holding him up with one arm, my other hand prying his ass cheeks apart, probing, opening, playing, “or you’re gonna be my boy. Which do you want?”

“B- b- b -” Now the water’s in Parker’s face, his beautiful sexy wet sputtering face, I wanna fuck it, no, I can only fuck one hole at a time, I own him, I should be able to fuck both his holes, I want, I want -

“Both?” I’m saying, two fingers in, three fingers in, wiggle, squirm, play, wiggle, squirm, play, expand. “You want both?”

Parker nods, gasping, arms yoking around my bull neck.

“You’re a needy little bitch, aren’t you?” I say. Parker nods like someone with a voodoo doll is controlling him. Until I pull my fingers out, someone sort of is.

I pull my fingers out.

“Good,” I say. “Cuz I’m a provider. Let’s start a family.”

And I impale him on my cock, and he wails pink murder, loud enough that Thomas can hear, and Petra, and just about any voter who may be walking by outside our house.

And as I fuck Park’s brains out, stealing glances occasionally at our heaving, perfect forms in the bathroom mirror, kissing him occasionally so I can jam my tongue into his throat and, in some way, fuck both holes - I just know somehow that if anyone heard us, well…

…our numbers would just keep going up.

Mind control
Wanking material
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