Chasing Sarah Palin

If you’d asked me yesterday if I ever thought about doing it with Sarah Palin, I would have sworn I didn’t have the slightest interest. She’s not my type. But after what happened last night, I’m not sure how I’d answer. Because last night Sarah took me to some places I never dreamed I’d go. By the end, my sheets were so wet with sweat and sex juices, I had to throw them in the wash before I went to work—and as a married mother of three girls, you can well imagine it’s been a long time since I’ve had sex that wild.

I guess I was in a weird place before I went to sleep, worrying about how we’d lost most of the girls’ college funds in the stock market crash and if there was anything I could do to get us back on track. Okay, this is a crazy idea, but I was thinking I might check with a friend in Vegas and put some money down on the election.

Now, I don’t place bets lightly, I always have my system, and I definitely have a foolproof system for presidential elections. I call it the “S Factor.” You see, in every election since TV, the candidate with the most sex appeal is the one who wins every time. Man or woman, those key swing voters push the lever for the guy they want to fuck. Kennedy beat Nixon for obvious reasons—is there any man less sexy than Nixon? Fortunately for him, there was one in Hubert Humphrey, which led Dick straight to the White House in 1968. Carter’s sexual fantasies catapulted him to victory over Ford, Reagan’s smooth charm assured his dual wins. Tall Bush pere with his Yale manners out-sexed stumpy, ethnic Dukakis. Al Gore was clearly the more handsome of the 2000 race and in fact he did win the election—my system doesn’t account for political tampering, okay? Kerry was a fine man, but unfortunately his horse face allowed Bush fils to walk away with the “fuck-me” votes, and indeed everyone got fucked in pretty much every orifice over the last four years.

But I want to get back to Sarah Palin and what we did together. I was lying in bed in my nightie remembering all of those delegates at the Republican convention drooling over her and wearing buttons that proclaimed she was “hot.” And I thought, well maybe McCain is lagging in the official polls, and he’s certainly not as handsome as Obama, but what if Sarah provided enough of the S Factor to lead her dog team across the finish line first? Given my system, if I bet the college fund on the Republican ticket, I might get that money back and make sure my babies could go into politics or fly abroad for abortions or do whatever money and privilege could buy in the world of our future. What else could a good mother do?

I guess I was dozing, because the next thing I knew I was sitting on a sofa in this huge house, the size of a football field. The sofa was upholstered in creamy silk and I was wondering how the owner kept such a thing so neat and tidy when I was suddenly aware I was not alone. A woman stood before me, close enough that I could feel the heat of her skin, smell her woodsy perfume. The first thing to catch my gaze was her body: a curvy, somewhat aged beauty queen figure cloaked only in a translucent gown of flowing, filmy material. The body was definitely female, but oddly there were no nipples or public hair, just smooth, pale skin where all the naughty parts should be. Flustered, I looked up at the woman’s face—and what should I see but a smiling, square-jawed face, rimless rectangular glasses, and crisp, sculpted brunette hair.

It was Sarah Palin and she was gazing down at me in the most seductive way.

Oh my god, Sarah Palin is a lesbian!

The thought shot through me like an electric shock. Sarah was gay and she wanted me.

How much would the National Enquirer pay for this?

Look, I’m worried about my kids’ college, even in my dreams, and I knew I could get some serious dough for a tell-all lesbian sex tale—if the story was verifiable.

So, clenching my trembling jaw, I smiled back with as much flirtatious moxie as I could muster

Sarah nodded gubernatorially as if the deal was done. Then she turned and headed off down the long hallway, which, I assumed, held a bedroom for our tryst.

I stood and followed her. That’s when things started getting really weird.

I was walking, just walking, but my body felt strange, all pumped up and hyper as if I’d drunk ten cups of coffee. Then I looked down and noticed I was wearing a tuxedo and my thighs seemed to bulge through the cloth, not flabby, cellulite flesh, but rock-hard, rippling muscle. Something else down there was rock-hard, too. Between my legs was a lump the size of police baton, arching up over my suddenly flat belly. I reached down to feel my crotch—which I’d never do in real life in a stranger’s house—and sure enough it was a cock. A big, aching cock, so heavy it practically propelled me forward in search of a nice warm hole in which to nestle.

Damn, this is why men act like such idiots. It’s no joke. They are literally led around by their penises.

The night was turning out to be educational indeed.

Okay, so now I understood Sarah wasn’t a lesbian, but I figured I still might be able to sell my story for some bucks if I could find her and fuck her. And now, thanks to the new cock, I actually discovered I did want to fuck her. Or anything really, but she was the closest thing around and she seemed mighty interested, so who was I to turn down a promising opportunity? Horny as I was, I dashed in and out of the rooms lining the mile-long corridor in hot pursuit, but Sarah was nowhere to be found.

Fuck, there must be enough bedrooms here for four houses—or is it seven? I thought, my erection throbbing and my desperation growing as I followed a tantalizing whiff of her perfume in one room and out the other. Finally the scent thickened, outdoorsy freshness mixed with female musk, and I paused to reach for the last doorknob with my large, thick-fingered hand.

At last there she was, lounging on a huge brass bed. She looked different somehow and it took me a moment to realize her hair was now loose at her shoulders, soft and wavy and touchable. Better still, the Barbie-doll plastic body was totally transformed. Large, rosy nipples poked up stiffly through the sheer negligee like the sweet, wild berries of a brief Alaska summer, and a dark thatch flourished between her legs, shimmering in the golden lamplight as if it were already wet, just for me.

My cock twitched. Every ounce of my blood seemed to pulse through my straining tool. I moved in on her, one hand extended to claim possession, the other hastily unzipping my fly. My tool popped out. It was even bigger than I thought, the swollen head the size and color of a big old Santa Rosa plum.

“Man, would you look at that thing?” I ejaculated. (I’ve always wanted to use that word in dialogue—and what better time than now?--but in fact it really felt that way, as if I were on the verge of blowing my wad.)

Sarah wiggled her eyebrows under her glasses and grinned at me, but she didn’t reply. In spite of her reticence, I sensed she was definitely game. So I rolled onto the bed beside her and reached out to take her in my arms.

But satisfaction was not to be mine. She slipped away like the last years’ gains in our stock portfolio and headed out to the terrace.

Groaning in disappointment, I took up the chase again, determined I would claim my due next time with no further preliminaries. I found it was not going to be easy. The terrace was empty. Where had she gone? I scanned the garden below, a hawk intent on his prey. To my surprise, Sarah wasn’t trying all that hard to evade me this time. She was waiting quite plainly in front of a pergola thick with gracefully curving foliage. When our gazes met, she smiled and waved.

I looked around, but saw no visible means of descent. Somehow Sarah had taken a three-storey jump with no apparent harm. Would I be so lucky? I searched again for a rope ladder, a fire escape. My cock was still rearing up out of my trousers and if anything it seemed to grow larger and thicker at my sudden dilemma, until it was a veritable sapling of a tool.

Sapling. Tool.

Why hadn’t I thought of that before? With a good running start I could use my new appendage to pole vault down to the garden and find my happy ending.

It seemed like a great idea in the dream and I know you’re probably waiting to find out how it worked, but in the crazy logic of that night-time world, the thought alone seemed enough to transport me to a secret bower, all done up with a white linen hammock and a pitcher of lemonade waiting for our post-coital refreshment.

Sarah stepped from the shadows, her nipples redder, her curls plastered to her mons with her juices. She smiled and gestured for me to sit down on the hammock, then knelt between my legs.

“Take off your glasses,” I said.

She looked up at me, puzzled.

“Aren’t you going to give me a blowjob? It’s more comfortable with your glasses off,” I said.

She stared without uttering a word.

My member wilted slightly. Didn’t she understand? Was this her first time? I felt a strange stabbing of compassion. Suddenly I realized I didn’t really want a blowjob. I wanted to pour us some lemonade and talk, get to know each other first before we did the nasty. After all, we had a lot in common since I grew this dick out of the blue. I figured Sarah could sympathize with my plight—being suddenly thrust into a foreign, even dangerous world where all the expectations were so frighteningly high.

“Sarah,” I said softly. I put my hand on her shoulder.

She still gazed fixedly into my eyes. She didn’t blink once.

“I want to know you,” I said.

Now she smiled, her eyes twinkling lasciviously. She licked her lips and bent toward my crotch.

“Not in that way. Not the biblical sense,” I said. “I want to talk to you.”

Her face clouded.

“I want to know who you really are.”

These are words that would have pleased, even seduced me, back when I was a woman, but Sarah didn’t seem at all happy. Her smooth face was creased in a troubled frown. And still, she didn’t blink at all.

“Let’s just forget it,” I said, reaching down to zip myself back up. The mood was definitely broken. Testosterone infusion or no, I’m not the type of person who has sex for money and I knew I’d be using Sarah—for a good cause maybe, because what’s more important than a child’s education?—but I’m sure she herself would agree, the end never justifies the means.

Apparently my assumption of empathy was misguided.

Just then Sarah grabbed my wrist in mid-air. She was surprisingly strong and I knew I’d underestimated her. She wrenched my hand aside and placed hers firmly around my shaft. With a fierce, and frankly scary, dedication, she began to tug.

“No, please, stop,” I cried.

She kept yanking, relentless at her task. My new cock was like pretzel dough in her hands, growing thinner and longer with each stroke. And yet, it felt good, too, in an achy sort of way. I arched back and sighed, wondering if I would surrender and let her have her way with me after all.

Sarah’s grin widened. I noticed her teeth looked strange—two rows of pointed canines. She opened her mouth wider, slipped it over my cock.

And bit down hard.

I cried out, but not because it hurt. It actually felt rather titillating, like getting a spanking right on your sweet spot.

Sarah drew away, my cock dangling between her lips like a dildo. Again I didn’t really mind. In fact, in the dream I was relieved to be back to normal. I almost thought to thank her.

But then things started getting really bizarre.

Because suddenly I was the one wearing the negligee and she had on the tux, and she pushed me back on the hammock, wrenched open my legs and aimed the huge, disembodied cock straight at my vagina. I tried to struggle, tried to run away, but my hands were bound in ticker tape, my thighs entwined in vines.

Because you see, that’s when I finally got it.

I thought I was going to fuck Sarah Palin, but actually she was going to fuck me good.

I woke up drenched in sweat, still moaning softly in protest.

For a moment I was even glad to be back in my real life, ruined savings and all.

I looked over at my sleeping husband, a frown still creasing his brow. The problem was, I was damned horny from that weird dream. My heart was pounding and I was noticeably moist down there. I knew he had a hard day ahead at the office—he worked at Charles Schwab—but then again I read somewhere that a good sex life brings the pleasure of 50K in monetary income, and god knows we needed the money.

It was five am, just enough time for a quickie before we had to get up and get the girls ready for school. I reached down between his legs, reassured to find a good old morning boner, normal in size and wonderfully familiar. I snuggled against him and purred a little. He made a sleepy, questioning sound, but I sensed he’d go along with my plan.

With no further preliminaries, I nudged him onto his back, pulled down his pajama pants and straddled him.

“Don’t speak, don’t move. I’m going to fuck you good,” I whispered.

He grinned lazily and arched back with a sigh as I slid onto him. I know he likes it when I take charge. He claims he likes women who know what they want and will do anything to get it. For a moment I considered telling him about my dream, about chasing Sarah and the way she finally took control, and how she might be the key to reversing our money troubles in Vegas. Perhaps we could even do a little role-play where I pretended to be Sarah? My mind was swirling with thoughts, but then, well, it was feeling so good riding him just the way I like it, I gradually came to see that Sarah might have the right idea when it came to serious races and dangerous encounters.

Sometimes it’s better not to say a word.

One of the world's leading erotic authors...Donna George Storey.