Everlasting Daylights

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

Senator John Everett Hastings opens his hazel eyes at precisely four thirty-two, as it is every morning, and he slips out of bed. His rousing used to wake his wife, Melody, but that was back in the days of alarm clocks. Nowadays he has an enigmatic Swiss watch with piezo electric technology, inertia winding, and a hundred other attributes which are difficult to explain. To his knowledge, his wrist tingles at precisely the set time for him to slip out of bed and sojourn towards the best coffee of immodest expense, set to its own timer, which he can enjoy in perfect harmony.

The man in the bathroom mirror gazes in approval at the senator, not a bad specimen for his years and the mileage covering campaign trails and endless meetings. A sullen frown of disappointment still bothers his complexion as he did not come all the way to Australia to be ridiculed by the Prime Minister and her staff. To the reply of a smile from the handsome man, a twinge of happiness. Cool water to his face and a warm, fluffy towel to dry reinforces the psychological filters he aligns to face the day. Using a military style hair brush made with wild boar’s hair, he smooths his perfectly dark brown, short hair, smooths out the stubble on his face with a high-tech, cordless razor, then heads to the suite’s kitchen for his fresh brew.

“Any day that starts with Dark Ethiopian Yirgacheffe has got to be good,” he tells himself while pouring the essence into a handy mug bearing the Congressional shield.

Welcoming the spiritual infusion, little else matters at this moment besides man and the precious aroma of his coffee, darkly roasted and slightly acidic. Mug in one hand and steadying himself on the countertop with the other, his closed eyes are all that is needed to send him back last night.

“And how is my handsome sea captain tonight?” His wife, Melody, says with her long, black hair let down around her shoulders as they laid in bed last night, all cuddled up together.

John notices her hair being down, a message to him of being receptive of things as he answers, “Your captain is horny, lass.”

She caresses the outer crotch of his pajamas, feels the placid lump of interesting flesh beneath, pressing further, “And does my captain have anything in his arsenal for me to play with?”

The frisky talk and her attention upon him works to get his blood circulating where needed as he answers, “I’ve got this one torpedo that I’ve been wanting to shoot off all day.”

“Hmm,” she utters with a passionate tone to her voice, her dark brown eyes fluttering as she teases him. “And my torpedo tube is all wet, lubricated from much anticipation of your war games. Are you ready to load?”

“I was born ready, honey pie. You’ve got that sweetness between your loving legs and I just can’t wait to load your tube,” he says, anxious but in control of his passion. “But first, I’ve got to go down below and inspect the tube, ma’am. You know, Navy protocol.”

With that said, he swipes away the covers revealing his lovely wife’s nakedness. Her breasts are alert, n*****s alert and perky, just as prepared for intimate encounters as is her loin. Without further words, her captain’s kisses settle upon her n*****s, endowing one with tender wet attention and then the other, a strong sense of gentle urgency in his motions. Presently, he dots a line with his lips down to her navel, dipping a curious tongue into the tender cup of flesh which sends pleasant chills through her body and makes her s*x excrete more jelly.

“Oh, my. Things are out of adjustment,” he mocks as his mouth touches the edge of her female carpet. He is tenderly fondling her knob of meatus, serving to drive Melody wild with s****l anticipation. Licking it, he says, “Honey, your lubricant flow is out of adjustment, but no worries because I can fix it. Then we’ll be clear to load.”

“Oh, God, John! You know I can’t stand it when you do that. She’s so sensitive about your kisses it just blows my mind.” She is almost screaming while she mangles his hair and alternatively grapples the sheets with a death grip.

On and on he teases her, licking slowly and deftly, pushing her most tender c******s all around, suckling on it with inspired passion. When he knows she is ready to c*m, he balances himself to land gently along her body and expertly slides the enlarged torpedo cleanly into her anxious v****a. It immediately pulsates as her moment hammers out her most tender workings against his most rigid presence. Over and over her loin contracts, doping her bloodstream with the pleasure of making love.

“My God, John,” she manages to say once her cumming ceases for the time being, “you almost made me pass out this time.”

“Not sorry,” he murmurs into her ear, reams his pleasure within the capture of her mid-thigh, raises his head to stare lovingly into the lipid pools of her desire in action. Her deep brown eyes glisten from the height of passion he has released upon her. She raises her knees such that her legs embrace the lower part of his thrusting abdomen, aiding in his angle of attack.

“John, you just keep getting better at these war games of ours. My tube is saturated, fully loaded, and my gauge is stuck on cumming my brains out!” She has spoken in paraphrases, bit her lips at times, and shows she is loving every second of the aggression.

“I know, darling.” He says and changes the pitch of his onslaught which helps him trust deeper. “I can feel your enchanted tube quivering tonight. It’s almost time to shoot,” he warns.

“c*m on my captain. Keep a steady hand and obliterate your target ship,” she encourages, still paraphrasing from the extreme sensations he stirs within her.

Without warning but assisted from her words, the torpedo suddenly swells up inside the munitions tube then explodes with a quivering flow of excited semen. Melody’s loin pulses hard with climatic action and she breathes like she is running a race.

“God, John, I swear you just keep getting better with this!”

“I love you so much, Melody.”

Now, he is upon the bridge of the U.S.S. Kennebunkport when he was captain of this Nautilus class nuclear powered, strategic missile submarine. It is so-called a boomer as they lie in wait upon some foreign ocean bottom carrying nuclear payloads. He can almost feel the submarine’s atmosphere around him, the extremely faint hum of many electrical systems, the highly filtered air, and sailors. All is well and he is soothed by the nearly silent running of the vessel, those indistinct sounds and smells recalled overwhelm all his worries and places him firmly inside a good place.

Suddenly, Melody’s familiar snuggle from behind him gusts away his mental vision of the bridge. Her loving touch could never be anything like disruptive and he hums in gracious acceptance of her.

“You didn’t sleep well,” she says of his punching match with the pillows.

“I’ve lost any sense of purpose with this whole trip. There’s always some good that I can do wherever I go, I like to think.”

“Well, as you always tell me, don’t give up the ship. This is a brand new day.”

“Yeah,” he says, taking a sip from his now tepid coffee such that a grimace marks his face. “I know it.”

John taps her arms for a gentle release and makes for the coffee machine, knowing from all their years together to pour her a cup as he refreshes his own and adds a dash of liquid N.D.C. to hers.

Melody gratefully accepts her cup, inquiring, “How long were you back in your submarine, dear?”

“Hmm, long enough for my coffee to go cold. But, it relaxes me.”

He owes his tension to the fruitless trip down under. Karma will be a b***h to be reckoned with should their scientists prove to be correct. The self-hypnosis had put him in a safe place where he is in complete control and all things are according to his will. He finds further comfort inside his heated beverage.

Hail to the Chief softly rings out on John’s pocketed cell phone, deep inside his plush robe, signaling that it must be five a.m. It is, of course, the POTUS, who holds his utmost respect. After all that has come and gone, the President was his best friend as an Admiral in the U.S. Navy and the bond has endured everything in between.

“Good morning, Mr. President.”

“G’day, John,” the president quips, “I won’t ask you how things with the Aussies went. So, how is your lovely wife?”

John winks at Melody, smiling and says, “She gets lovelier every morning, sir. You should see her now. She’s hardly wearing anything at all.”

“That’s nice, man, trying to make the nice president sweat. Listen, this won’t take long. The poles have flipped and I’m not talking about voter prejudices. You know what this means. So get your whole group together and high tail it back home.”

“Yes, sir,” John says matter of fact. “Right away, Mr. President.”

“And John? You did get your gyros up and working in your bird, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir. We’re good to go.”

“Very well,” he acknowledges.

John knows from their history together that the conversation is now over and simply says, “Good-bye, Mr. President.”

“Well,” He says to Melody while accessing emergency numbers in his cell phone. “It begins.”

She casually sips her coffee, all too aware of just what her husband means by his declaration. Reflecting, she recalls those activities needed for a quick exit from Down Under, so grateful to have assistance of the staff.

“Get the plane fueled up. Have the pilots check the gyros. Send the pages in to pack us up. Pack everyone up. We’re leaving as soon as possible!”

John’s orders over his cell phone were short. The one time dry rehearsals being their saving grace as everyone knows just what to do. It is a discipline not unlike that of his crew aboard the submarine, years ago. But unlike in his submarine, he works an app while also enjoying the remnants of his coffee.

“Setting the front door ajar,” he says, reaching for the pot. “It’s a room service thing but it serves the same purpose.”

“You and your gadgets, dear,” she invokes a witticism, romancing the last of her coffee then excuses herself with a smile to go and dress. Her intent is to don her sharpest pants suit, complete with a stylish vest and sensible shoes. Only at elections and rallies is she more inclined to wear heels.

John follows her, resolved on dressing for the chill of an all-day flight ahead. Once standing in his spacious closet, he chooses a dark blue, three piece suit designed by Aberghast. He was a tailor aboard the U.S.S. Nimitz aircraft carrier. So naturally, he opened his own shop after twenty years’ service.

By the time John and Melody had finished dressing and were primping in their mirrors, the two pages come bustling into the VIP suite looking as harrowed as one might expect. Paige and Wesley are a little out of breath and politely place their luggage near the entrance.

“Sorry to be so late, Senator.” Wesley puffs from his trek of packing and getting into the suite.

“You’re not late. But you could have taken a little more time with this tie,” John says, closes the distance to the young man and proceeds to adjust it. “What in the hell happened to your jacket?”

“Aussie humidity. I tried to steam it last night, but…”

The Senator helps him off with his dress jacket, saying, “You know, when you’re outside of this building, any building, you represent me, you represent the United States of America, but most importantly you represent yourself. Take your stuff out of your pockets, Wesley.”

“I don’t understand. What will I wear?”

John looks at Paige, who is dressed quite nicely in her dress slacks and jacket, and he winks at her on his way back into his closet. He quickly returns holding one of his own suits on its hanger.