Family Values Pt. 4

By Woodrow Writes -
published October 7, 2019
4857 words

Mayor Branden’s presidential campaign comes to its conclusion.

(Hey, all! Thanks so much for all the encouraging comments while I was getting around to finishing this. It’s a long finale that took a long while to write, but I hope everyone will find at least a few things to like in here. Thanks again, and please enjoy!)

“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, I just know somehow that if anyone did hear us…we’d have their vote.

My suit is a royal blue Tom Ford sharkskin two-piece with an obsidian Giorgio Armani silk tie. This tests well with voters.

It’s also been tailored, within an inch - ok, more like a centimeter - of its life, to the swell of my wrestler’s thighs, the bulge of my biceps, the cut and heft of my pecs, and of course, practically raising me an extra inch off the seat, my ass. This all tests absurdly well with my other constituency - my helpmeet, my homemaker, my slutty little First-Boy-To-Be, Parker Murphy.

Except it’s possible it all tests too well. Because we’re about to go live on national television, and Parker Murphy (née Llewyn), sitting right next to me on this morning talk show set, looks ready to rip every stitch of clothing off of me. And I can’t help but reflect, as I shift in my seat and feel the seams strain around my shoulders, that this would not be overwhelmingly hard for Parker to do. He’s small, but between his built gymnast’s frame and - God bless him - his singleminded devotion to worshiping me and my body, there’s no suit Parker couldn’t rip through right about now. Especially not this one, which, ok, didn’t need to be tailored this tightly - I’m sure my 6’4, 250-pound body could have spoken for itself without the accentuation. I can clearly recall the sales clerk looking up at me, pins in his mouth, raising his eyebrows first at me and then at my pants-threatening ass, as if to ask are you sure?, and Parker, legs crossed on the fitting room couch, champagne flute in hand, nodding and grinning and practically growing little devil horns through that beautiful brown preppy haircut. That’s what I get for letting my exhibitionist other half take me shopping in Manhattan as a 25th birthday gift - to him.

And I’ll admit it: that’s exactly what I wanted to get. There’s a reason Park and I are head over heels for each other. Well, there’s a few.

And another thing: crazy as it sounds, this suit, which on any other candidate might have been dismissed as unprofessional, unseemly, distracting from the candidate’s core message, or any other number of cable news criticisms…

…seems to test extremely well.

Case in point: here comes Jerri, my campaign manager, and Thomas, my personal assistant, and rather than being concerned that their presidential candidate has been dressed like a Tom of Finland Ken Doll - or that his spouse is slowly but surely repositioning himself into said candidate’s lap - they seem thrilled as ever to see us. Well, Jerri does. Thomas, who just a few hours ago was listening to me breed Parker’s hole in our shower at home, is as unruffled as ever.

“Are you guys ready to go?” he asks, as if Parker’s fingers aren’t playing up the inside of one of my quads, lightly running along a vein covered by a thin pair of suit pants - and absolutely nothing else. I grab his thin little wrist and shoot him a glance, and he’s somehow simultaneously smiling and pouting, and I know exactly what Park wants, because it’s what I want: he wants me to make him slap his own smooth cheek with his own hand; that’s what I’d do if we were at home, and that’s when my sweet little slut would be so overwhelmed with lust and gratitude that he’d drop to his knees and put his face between my thighs -

“I’m not sure we’re presentable just yet,” I croak.

“Nonsense,” Jerri says. “I can feel the energy coming off you two. Voters are going to love it. You’re going to make an impression.”

“But will it be the right kind of impression?” I ask. I don’t look down, but I know my cock, thick and hungry as it is, is threatening to beat Parker in the ruin-Branden’s-best-suit relay race.

“The more visibility you get, the more you’ll be voted for,” Thomas says. “Period. That’s our promise to you.”

“Exactly right!” Jerri agrees. “And besides, people are loving what you two are bringing to the table these days. Don’t you remember what we discussed at the focus group?”

It’s a good question: don’t I? I sort of remember something, but the whole afternoon of the focus group is sort of a blurry memory. If I focus on it too hard, it all goes sort of…cloudy, and…pink? Definitely pink.

Pink like Parker’s bubbly little ass when he’s laid over my lap, my left hand making slow, soothing circles in his hair, my right hand raising back up again.

Pink like the panties I’m pretty sure he has on right now, that he’ll be wearing under his white pants on national TV.

Pink like his tight little -

“You’re on in thirty seconds!” says the PA. I’ve completely forgotten whatever we were talking about, but all of a sudden I feel amped up and ready to show America what the Murphys are all about.

“We’re ready,” I tell Jerri and Thomas, not bothering to ask Parker if he’s ready, too - one, that’s not his decision to make, and two, it’s so temperature-raisingly obvious that he is.

“Great!” Jerri flashes a thumbs up as they exit, and Thomas just gives the two of us another cool nod - he’s maybe the most stoic little politi-twink I’ve ever met; he really is just a slightly taller Tom Holland, with a jawline is almost as sharp as Parker’s, and a hairdo almost as spiffy, and I’ll maintain my vows to Parker until I die but I’m wondering if Parker wouldn’t want to invite Thomas to, ah, observe things again - oh, who am I kidding, of course he would - and then BAM! the set lights thrum into life, and click! the camera is live, and just like that, Branden and Parker Murphy are live on air for an audience of millions.

Suddenly, under the lights, I can feel all 280 pounds of me sweating up a storm.

(People are scared right now. They don’t want a student - they want a strongman.)

Our host joins us, one of those east coast suit-and-haircut news anchor types, and beside me I can feel Parker smile like a cat as he does what he always does when a man who’s supposed to have some sort of power enters the room: assess the size of this scrawny little punk, then turn and assess the size of me - a fucking hulk, ever since I went into the army and got serious about growing, throwing off the weight restrictions and inhibitions of Princeton Wrestling, embracing that positive feedback loop of ambition and muscle, muscle and ambition, all of it feeding me to be the most confident, authoritative, undeniably masculine leader I could be - or at least, that’s what I thought I was doing, until I got back to the States and met Parker and realized all that growth, all that effort, had been not for political gain but for him, had been so that the love of my life would always know he was in the best, strongest hands, so that even if some other hotshot with a thousand dollar haircut and a massive following walked into the room, he’d still look like a little fucking bitch next to me and my bowling ball arms, and my specially-made, barely-surviving wardrobe, threatening to tear off of my upper torso whenever I took a deep breath, all made and maintained for the benefit of my own personal favorite little fucking bitch.

And as Parker’s smooth, smaller hand squeezes my huge, calloused one, I realize any fear I’d felt about this interview, or about how Parker might “test” with voters, is suddenly gone. America wants a first couple they can believe in? Good. No one’s love is stronger than ours.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” says the host, and we’re off. The questions run the gamut from morning-show softballs (“So, how did you two meet?”) to classic primary vetting (“So, you’re clearly pretty socially liberal - how do you intend to support these programs financially?”), and I handle them all with a relaxed confidence. Having Parker’s hand in mine reminds me: if it feels natural for me to assume authority at home, it should be natural for me to feel in control here, and not question how people will feel about us.

And as the interview goes on, I can feel it working. This was my secret weapon when I ran for mayor, too: people see a massive fucking Iowa-cornfed-Dolph-Lundgren type and expect a bunch of grunts and drool, and then are surprised when they get me, instead. They don’t know my secret weapon: Parker, and his faith in me, and how fucking hot it is that he knows that it’s my job to answer the questions, and his job to sit there and look -

(The model and the strongman).

-so, so fucking pretty. Once again, my cock flares up, and luckily the tightness of my pants and the redwood size of my thighs are able to keep the cock hidden, plastered along the inside of my leg like a nightstick, but I lose focus for a moment because it’s all I can think about - how fucking pretty my Parker is, I mean. Under the lights, he seems to glow, and even when the talk show host asks about the appropriateness of potentially having a former underwear model in the White House (“It’s not so far off from what we have now,” I remind the little asshole, and Parker shoots me the kind of loving smile that’s even sweeter because I know we both want me to split his lips apart with my cock) - even when potentially tricky questions are thrown at us, I still feel totally confident that America’s going to fall in love with my boy the same way I did.

Totally, totally confident.

My last clear memory is right around this moment. At this point, the host asks a question directly to Parker - “I hear you’re quite the artist in your spare time, is this true?” - and as Park speaks, I have a moment to look around the set. I see a monitor displaying what’s onscreen right now - displaying us - and for a second, I can’t wrap my head around it. On one seat there’s me, looking like both Winklevoss twins smashed together into one massive body. Next to me is someone with the face - and body - of a Renaissance pope’s wet dream. My massive hand swallows his. Our wedding rings gleam in the bright lights. We’re like a caricature of contrasts.

(That’s what gets in the White House.)

From that moment on, it’s all sort of a blur.

My thoughts go pink, pink like Parker’s tongue running up my thick cock, pink like - oh, hold on, the interview. But the interview’s already rushing by, blurring, pink, and then we’re back with Thomas and Jerri, and I’m expressing this weird new feeling of total confidence in our success that’s washed over me, and Jerri is beaming and racing out to field a bunch of phone calls from other media outlets who want interviews, and Thomas is just nodding as I wrap my arm around Parker’s slim little waist.

“It makes sense when you think about it,” Thomas is saying. “Voters always say they want something different from what came before, but they also panic at the first sign of anything truly unexpected. You two give them both: you’re a radical change, but you’re also radically regressive. It’s why we tried to make you into -”

But I’m no longer listening, as Parker stands on his tiptoes and whispers something in my ear. I tighten my grip around his waist, practically smushing him into my lats - a good reward for a good slut - and grin.

“Thomas,” I say, cutting him off, “Parker and I would like to celebrate how well today went. But now that Parker’s gotten a taste of an audience, I don’t think he wants to do it alone. You know how the other halves get when they want something. Would you do me a favor and come keep us company for the afternoon?”

It’s a completely unprofessional, unethical request for a national political campaign, based off of an unrectifiable power imbalance.

It’s also the first time I’ve ever seen Thomas smile.

“I would be happy to, sir,” he says.

Everything goes pink.

We’re at home. Parker’s finally in my lap, or more accurately impaled on it, bouncing up and down as I thrust up into him with all the force my thick muscle ass allows. He’s keening like a songbird, when I’m not wrapping my arms tight to squeeze the air out of him or using one hand to bury his face between my massive pecs. Normally we do this in front of a mirror, but now we do it in front of Thomas, sitting across the room in a chair, his suit pants around his ankles, his spiffy hairdo becoming more disheveled by the minute as he breathes heavy and strokes slow and hard. He’s allowed to touch himself but he’s not allowed to come, not until Parker or I say so. He’s a guest in our home, after all. That’s just good old fashioned family values.

More pink. Pink. The first Democratic debate. I dominate in the polls. Stepping offstage, Parker greets me with a kiss, and I slap him on the ass. A camera catches this. Pundits predict a scandal. We rise in the polls. Pink. Pink, like the apron Parker wears to serve dinner when the other candidates finally descend upon Iowa for the caucuses and we have them over to our home. Pink. The second night of the DNC in Milwaukee, when what has by this point become a foregone conclusion becomes just a gone conclusion: I secure the nomination.

(He proves that people want a return to good old family values.)

We invite Thomas to celebrate again that night, and again he obeys, but this time since we’re celebrating in a hotel room rather than our home, he’s granted some special liberties: he’s allowed to sit at the edge of the bed, where Parker sucks his cock while I eat my sweet first boy’s boypussy. Of course, Parker is the best cocksucking little slut in the United States, so Thomas starts making all kinds of noise, and I have to rip Parker’s panties from around his beefy little gymnast thighs and stuff them into Thomas’s mouth.

“I hope you know what a lucky boy you are,” I tell Thomas, wiping my face with one hand as I gag him deeper with the other. “Nothing tastes better than my girl’s pussy.”

And Parker moans gratefully around Thomas’s dick, always happy to hear a compliment from Daddy, and Thomas moans into Parker’s panties, and I hold my cock with my free hand and get ready to spitroast the love of my life.

August. Stump speeches. Fingering Parker in the back of a campaign bus. Pink. September. Debates. Coming back late to my hotel room one night and finding Parker bent over on the bed, ass up, elbows wobbling from having held the position waiting for me for an hour. Pink. October. Rallies. Polls skyrocketing. Pink.

Election night.

For our election watch party, we’ve bucked tradition and brought it all back to where it began: Mason City. We’ve been running around town all day, helping drive folks to the polls, checking in on how things are going at the campaign HQ for the day: the Meredith Wilson Iowa Events Center & Community Hockey Arena. It’s all got a local, honest-American feeling that voters just eat up - and for months now, they’ve been feasting.

And now, finally, they’re voting.

By 6 PM central time, they’ve called Vermont - for us. Right after that, we lose Kentucky, but we expected that - my opponent’s reelection campaign has been spotty, but you can never totally count him out.

Except then I take the next state. And the next. And the next, and the next, and before long we’re racing towards an ocean of blue.

And it all feels so fucking good, and right, and pink.

It’s gonna be time to accept soon. Jerri’s waiting for us at the arena, along with thousands of excited voters and campaign supporters. Polls closed at 9, but we’ve only just finished returning some voters to their assisted living facilities, and now Thomas is driving Parker and me back to the arena.

This whole campaign, Parker and I haven’t been able to keep our hands, or tongues, or bodily fluids, off of each other. But even we can recognize the magnitude of the moment, sitting in the back of the car. Listening to the states get called on the radio, I’m too jittery to even think about anything, even how beautiful Parker looks in the cashmere coat I bought him for November days just like this one.

And if I’m jittery, I can only imagine how my baby feels. I look over, and sure enough, Parker’s normally porcelain face is flushed, the sheer enormity of what is about to happen to our lives seemingly dawning on him in a way it never did during the whirlwind of the past few months, when we were - gosh, what were we doing? It’s all gone sort of -

Just then, Thomas turns the car onto Jefferson Street, and I realize that, for the first time all year, I want to clear my head.

“Turn onto 12th street,” I say. “I want to stop by our house. See it one last time before we…before it all changes.”

“But the arena-” Thomas begins, and then catches my eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Yes sir,” he says. “Right away, sir.”

As we pull into the driveway, I wrap my hand around Parker’s - still never gets old, how his hand disappears completely into mine - and tilt his chin to look at me. Breathe, I tell him silently. We’re going to take a moment to breathe.

Then I get out of the car, go around the side to open Parker’s door for him - that’s just good old family values - and then, for the first time in months, with no security, and no Petra the cleaning lady, and no Thomas, and no press…

…we step into the privacy of our own home.

You can guess what happens next.

“What the fuck!” Parker yells, his voice the least breathy and coquettish I’ve heard it in months, while I roar “Oh, my God,” in a growling bass that, it suddenly occurs to me, sounds like the voice of a man who has been drinking whiskey with a testosterone mixer every night for twenty years.

“It’s been a year!” Parker cries. “It’s been a whole year since we’ve been alone in here! There were always campaign people, or press, or Petra the cleaning - oh, my God, we have a cleaning lady!

“This place is huge,” I say, looking around at the house. “I’m huge. I’m rich, and huge, and this suit is-” I reach one of my gigantic mitts down to paw at where my suit is basically shrink-wrapped around my cock. Speaking of which:

“Holy shit, this cock,” I say. “Is your puss- I mean, is your asshole ok?”

Parker reaches his hands under his coat and grabs his (insanely tight, fuckable, gymnastics-toned, underwear model) ass.

“Uh, yeah,” he says. “Never better. Also I think I put on some really complicated lingerie to surprise you with tonight. Lace and everything. Sorry to, uh, ruin the surprise.”

“Oh, my God, tonight,” I say. “The election is - oh, my God.”

Parker and I make eye contact for the first time since getting our regular brains back, and maybe the biggest thing of all sinks in:

“You’re going to be the President of the United States,” Parker says slowly. “And I’m going to be an…artist, cum underwear model, cum…house…wife? Your First…Boy?”

“Are you ok?” I ask. My first instinct is to go to him, to wrap him up in my huge - wow, really, fucking huge - arms. But I’m not sure if that would just freak him out further, so I just stand there, so powerful but so powerless, waiting to see if he’s going to crack under these insane circumstances.

And guiltily, unignorably, a voice that’s even lower than my ridiculous new gravel voice rumbles in my head: He better not fucking crack. This is amazing. You’re a millionaire fucking stud, and you have insanely hot sex every moment you’re alone and sometimes when you’re not, and rather than resent you, everyone in America loves you for it. Don’t back down now. Just go with it.

But I was good at discipline even before all these changes happened, and I will the voice to remain at bay, and I wait, and watch Parker’s (inhumanly beautiful) face to see what he does next.

Which is:


“Of course I’m ok,” he says. “This is so fucking hot.”

Now I really want to grab him and kiss him, but I’m still processing so much that I just have to be absolutely sure. “Really?” I say. “You’re not freaked out, or, or think that I look like a freak, or, or are mad that you gave up your job?”

Parker shrugs. “It doesn’t feel like I gave up anything,” he says. “I still make art. I’m still happy. I even have a new job modeling underwear - and it’s very clear I never gave up doing that for you. And yeah, you look like a freak.” He steps towards me. “But why pretend like that’s not exactly my fantasy?”

Tentatively, tremblingly, he runs one hand over one of my massive pecs, and reaches the other up around my cheek. I know I only have seconds before this new, hormone-saturated body takes control, so I blurt out: “If we go back out there tonight, there’s no going back. The President is never alone - there’s security, staff, the cabinet - and they’re going to live in our new house. We will never have ‘the privacy of our own home’ again. This will be us.”

Parker meets my eyes and grins, and with a funny twist in my stomach, I realize it’s that same devilish grin I’ve been seeing him make all year - and the same devilish grin he’s been making since we first met. Like, really met. All along, that smile was all Parker.

“So?” he says. “Don’t you enjoy playing Family Values?”

And I suddenly hear one more flashback from the day of the focus group, all those months ago, something I said before I had even the slightest hint where any of this would lead:

I bet you’re actually going to be happy that we did this.

And right before I can confess to Parker that I may have just figured out why he’s so fine with all of this, he kisses me. And rather than break away, I just feel my arms enfold him, squeeze him close to me so he can’t breathe, just the way he likes it.

The way that tests well.

And then Thomas opens the door, and tells us we’re going to be late, and asks what we’re doing, and I honestly don’t know - I just lose track of time when I’m around my baby, I guess, even after all these years - and we head back to the car, where I hold Parker’s door open for him again.

Ten minutes later, we’re at the arena.

Twenty minutes later, I’m announced President of the United States.

Half an hour later, I stand in front of a crowd of thousands, my loyal staff and beautiful First Boy standing next to me. Massive television screens double my image back at me, projecting me to an audience across the country - across the globe - all waiting to see what I’ll say or do next.

(Impossible to hear over the roar of the crowd, a voice: These days…)

I’m beaming ear to ear, pounding my fist on a podium, announcing my gratitude, expressing hope for a real new change in America, and yet also, a return to the best of our traditions.

(These days, a president…)

“I want to thank my voters,” I say. “I want to thank my staff. And most importantly, I want to thank my wonderful other half - Parker Murphy, my husband.”

(These days, a president can do…)

“No, not just my husband,” I say, turning to him. “My…boy.”

Even the normally unflappable Parker’s breath hitches at me saying this in front of what is possibly the biggest audience we will ever have. But it feels right - and the crowd cheers uproariously, urging me to continue.

And I can tell from Park’s fluttering throat that he’d definitely like me to continue.

“My perfect, sweet, sexy, little boywife slut,” I say.

(These days, a president can do absolutely anything he wants.)

The entire arena goes wild.

Parker, the world’s biggest exhibitionist, has been given the world’s biggest audience, and his knees buckle under him from sheer arousal. But I’m right there to catch him, like a husband should be, and with my powerful arms I lift him up, place him on the podium, and tear his pants off him. That’s not a turn of phrase - I physically rend his pants apart, revealing an incredible lace masterpiece of lingerie that he must have put on to surprise me. The cameras zoom in close. The crowd is losing their minds, loving every second of this. Using one hand to hold Parker steady, I drop my blazer to the ground around my feet.

“Waistcoat,” I order, and Parker leaps into action like the world is watching - which it is. In record time, he undoes my waistcoat, flinging it into the screaming crowd. Then comes my belt, and then - a special flourish, just for the occasion - he moves up my dress shirt, unbuttoning it one by one, and then throwing it open so that everyone can see his husband’s heaving pecs, my bowed-out eight pack, my fucking strength. Can see what it’s like to have a leader who is a real, traditional, man.

Which just leaves one thing to do. As I wrap one hand lovingly around Parker’s tender little throat and squeeze, I unzip my pants, sliding them down - not without effort - over my flaring quads. And then my cock is free, on international television, precum glistening in the arena light - but not for long, as I pull the lace away from what is rightfully mine, from the pussy that is practically dripping down the podium on this stage.

And right then and there, as cameras flash, as the crowd screams with love and admiration, as Parker’s eyes roll into the back of his pretty little head…I do absolutely anything I want.

And together, we show the world one happy American family.

Mind control
Wanking material
You've created tags exclusively for this story! Please avoid exclusive tags!