Pretty Thing

Pretty Thing




Priscilla Jo Gander, daughter of the term-limited 2-time Governor "Goodie" Gander, is sexually naive, with an education derived from Southern Baptist pamphlets. Her dad sees only the ideal muppet to succeed him in title, while leaving pa in power.

Events take a number of turns as the gal, such a Pretty Thing, ventures into sexual maturity with men and women, finally marrying a man of color, and sending the established political order of her deep South homeland into chaos. Humerous work and one of the few late Olympia hardcovers.



Publié par
Date de parution 07 janvier 2013
Nombre de lectures 54
EAN13 9781608726820
Licence : Tous droits réservés
Langue English

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Pretty Thing

Robert Turner

This page copyright © 2005 Olympia Press.

“I always voted at my party's call,

And I never thought of thinking for myself at all.”

W.S.Gilbert, H.M.S. Pinafore


The Republican party headquarters at the Swanee Hotel in downtown Statesburg was covered with gloom and resignation. They had known for several hours now that their gubernatorial candidate had lost; he, himself, had accepted the fact and departed an hour ago. Still, a couple dozen of the party faithful remained in the place, hoping with pseudo-optimism for a turn in the tide that obviously wasn't going to happen.

The candidate's press secretary now stuffed papers into his attache case, preparing to go up to his room and phrase the proper telegram of congratulations to their opponent. The very idea made him a little ill.

He moved to turn off the television set near his desk but paused to watch the smirking face of a local newscaster as he reported in a condescending tone:

“—so it looks as though the Goodrich 'Goodie' Gander machine has done it again. The law prohibited him from running for a third term but didn't stop Goodie from running by proxy, so to speak, which, of course, is not unprecedented; nevertheless, the nation now has another woman governor, Priscilla Jo 'Pretty Thing' Gander! And...”

The press secretary reached out and snapped off the set. “Of course it isn't unprecedented, you silly bastard. You missed the whole stupid point. We've had women elected to public office before—Jeanette Rankin to the House in 1916, Hattie Caraway, to the Senate in '32 and the first woman governor, Nellie Taylor Ross, wa y back in '25, not to even mention the more recent instance when a woman governor's tenure of office ended in such a tragic and premature manner. But they were all adult, politically astute women, not an addlepated little teeny-bopper, like this one, for Christ's sake!”

He rubbed his tired eyes. “I still don't believe it. They must be crazy, the people, to elect this silly little bitch.” He looked around helplessly as he snapped his briefcase shut. “Twenty one years old and with an I.Q. half that age. I don't understand; I just don't understand!”

He slammed the briefcase against his leg and turned to make his exit from the room....


In the Grand Ballroom of the Lee House, several blocks away, on Beauregard Street, bedlam was in effect. Every once in a while a group would begin chanting: “WE—WANT—GOODY! WE—WANT-PRETTY THING!” They would be quieted down only when someone grabbed a mike on the speaker's dais and announced that the incumbent governor and the governor-elect would be down to greet them all, thank them all, in person, any minute now.

A television reporter, pushing his way through the great throng, stopped to question a silver-haired matron. He ducked his portable microphone back and forth between them. “Ma'am,”, he said. “May I have a moment of your time, please.”


“What is your personal reaction to this great victory, this unique happening in American politics?”

“Oh, my!” Her fingers toyed with the dewlaps at the sides of her throat. “Well! What can I say? I think it's just wonderful, marvelous. I reckon she'll make just a mighty fine governor. Or is it governess? Oh, no, that's something else. Anyhow, she's such a pretty little thing.” She laughed, self-consciously. “But of course. That's what her nickname is. But she is just perfectly charmin' and I'm sure she'll just be a little ol' credit to this great state.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” the reporter said and yanking his mike away, began to shuffle through the crowd, looking for his next interview.

Upstairs in the gubernatorial suite, the party heads lounged about, nursing the third and final drink that they were allowed here before leaving the hotel for the Governor's mansion where a private victory party would be held, later. Lieutenant Governor Bruce “Big Bear" Calhoun, former State University star fullback and All-American candidate two years in a row, was there. A huge man, still only slightly gone to suet, in spite of his forty years, he had sneaked in a few drinks earlier in the evening and was slightly fuddled.

He stared moodily at a campaign poster for Priscilla Jo “Pretty Thing” Gander. There was a picture of her and the legend, one of many campaign slogans: “KEEP EVERYTHING RIGHT-KEEP UP THE GOOD FIGHT! WIN WITH PRETTY THING!”

Goddamn! Bear thought to himself. Look at her, will you. Purty thing is right, by God! Just look at those cute little tits on her —not too big and not too small but just right, just the way I like 'em. And probably hard as fall apples, too, I reckon. And that nice big behind on her, shit, man, that's just made for easy ridin'. One of these times, the right place, the right time, in the next four years, Imay just get myself some of that, even if that dam' stupid Goosey Gander tries to cut my dick off, he catch me at it.

Bruce “Big Bear” Calhoun sat up then, shaking his head, grinning to himself as he drained the last of his drink and ruminated that this was probably the first time in American history that the Lieutenant Governor of a great and glorious state was wishing he could throw a great and glorious screw into his immediate superior. Unless of course, at some time or another, some other Lieutenant Governor had been some kind of a goddamned faggot or something.

Across the room, Press secretary Jeremy “Smitty” Smythe sat at a desk, scribbling on a pad, polishing up the initial brief acceptance speeches. A skinny little man, with a large, domed forehead, in the city rooms of a half a dozen big city newspapers, he had long ago learned to concentrate in the midst of hubbub; the loud talk and laughter in the room didn't bother him.

However, he was almost at the point of exhaustion and kept catching himself jotting down insane little ditties such as:


“You know they call me Pretty Thing

  So now we all must surely sing

Ring-a-ding-ding, ping-pong ping

  If I had balls I'd be the king!”


Smitty shook his head, scrunched up that piece of yellow paper and dropped it into a nearly full waste basket.

Stationed at each side of the entrance to the suite, two stalwart, bored looking, white helmeted members of the State police, in spanking new uniforms and glittering black boots, stood in “at ease” positions. In the corridor, outside the door, four more State policemen were stationed.

Their eyes brightened as they watched big-bellied B. Ware Boggs, the State Senior Senator, weave through the crowd toward them, carrying two glasses of brown liquid, tinkling with ice. Boggs' vein-laced, ruddy cheeks dimpled in a smile as he held the drinks out to the guards.

“Here you are, y'all,” Boggs boomed. “Compliments the governor and the governor elect, God bless her sweet little ol' heart! Just a little ol' something to cool your gullets.”

One of the State Policemen stiffened to attention and said: “Thank you, suh. Awfully sorry, suh. We're not allowed to drink on duty, suh. Colonel Hubbard Ganes' orders, suh.”

“What?” Boggs thundered. “Up ol' Hub, I say! His goddamn orders are herewith dam' well superseded by the Governor's and mine. Drink this goddamn booze, I'say! At eighteen bucks a quart we're not about to pour it down the dam' drain.” He thrust the drinks toward him.

The officer relaxed, grinned sheepishly. “Well, in that case, suh...Mighty kind of y'all and much obliged. Thankya, suh!”

They turned slightly to one side and began to sip their drinks as B. Ware Boggs nodded and trundled back toward the bar, where he joined Governor Goodrich Gander and his campaign manager, John “Jack” B. Nimbel. The Governor was a square-built man, not quite stocky, with a bland, semi-permanent smile that tried to distract from the shrewd hardness of his dark eyes. His graying hair was kept dyed black and parted in the middle, forming a slight widow's peak over his broad, smooth forehead.

It was reported that Goodie Gander (he was referred to as “Goosie" only by his enemies) was possessed of the largest dong in American politics and that he always had to wear a jock strap when appearing in public to prevent the fact from being obscenely noticeable. Many claimed that this was the cause of Goodie's appeal to women voters, that although it was not public knowledge, the women folks intuitively knew it. Not that it would ever do them any good because Goodie never had sexual relations with a white woman having made an oath to this effect when his wife died some years before.

He took care of his “natural masculine needs,” as he referred to it, on regular weekly visits to Madame Mattie's brothel, in East Statesburg, where a new and different “nigra wench” awaited him each time. It was also reported that always, as he took the girl, humped away with great gubernatorial gusto, he waved a rebel flag in her face and kept shouting: “Up with white supremacy! Down with all nigra lovers and Communists!” But not too much credence was given to this because, naturally, the report had to come from the girls themselves, and everybody knows how you can't trust the word of a colored person.

By the same token Goodie knew that he was truly remaining loyal to his dead wife because, as he put it, “You sure-God cain't consider humpin' a nigra wench as makin' love! It ain't no more nor less than squirtin' a mouthful of excess 'baccer juice into a spitoon.”

Meanwhile, back at the bar, Jack B. Nimbel and B. Ware Boggs nodded approvingly as Goodrich Gander wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and proclaimed: “I sure-God wish Pretty Thing's momma could be here for this proud moment. Gentlemen, just think how pleased she'd be to see our little gal standing up there beside me as the newly and duly-elected Governor of our great state, by God! Just followin' along in her daddy's little ol' footsteps and her just twenty-one years of age and actually not lookin' a day over sixteen, tiny and sweet and innocent as she is. I tell you, gentlemen, this is not only a great triumph for our party but also for the flower of Southern womanhood in general, than whom no prettier representative was ever born, by God, than my little gal!”

“Oh, sure, you crazy old windbag,” Jack B. Nimbel thought to himself, “but you didn't have to cure her of sucking her thumb when she was on television or of saying 'excuse me, I've got to go potty' at public gatherings, or telling reporters how good she is at playing jacks... Oh, no, you nasal-voiced old vacuum-brain, you never knew what it was like!”

For a moment Jack had difficulty from breaking out in tears and stamping his feet in sheer rage, which was another bad habit of that stupid little brat which he'd had to break.

“Governor,” B. Ware Boggs said. “You have just echoed my own sentiments, exactly. Phrased of course much more succinctly and with greater professional rhetoric than I could ever achieve.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake, Boggsy,” Jack B. Nimbel said aloud this time. “Don't be such a mealy-mouthed sycophant all the time. Next thing you know you'll be licking Goodie's hand.”

B. Ware Boggs huffed and puffed himself up to a peak of temper, his eyes bulging as he exclaimed: “And you, suh, had better goddamn well watch your tongue, although I admit that is a dam' difficult thing to do when you're talkin' to a Senior Senator or I might have to challenge you to a bout of fisticuffs.”

“Now, now, gentlemen,” Governor Gander said, placatingly. “No dissension in the ranks. United we stand or divided we fall, as some dam' political hack once said.” He glanced at his wrist watch. “Anyhow, we've got to be going downstairs soon, to face the public. If that little gal of mine ever gets out of the bathroom. By God, what could the next governor of our fair state be doing in there so long, anyhow?”


What Priscilla Jo “Pretty Thing” Gander really was doing so long in the bathroom, was lounging in a bubble bath, masturbating with a toy submarine (from which she had removed the conning tower, of course). It was a game she had long ago learned, one summer when she was eleven years old and was visiting her nine-year-old boy-cousin, Rhett Gander. It happened one time when they were sharing a bath together and young Rhett achieved an erection, poked it up out of the water and giggling said:

“Hey, look, Cousin Pretty Thing, I'm a submarine. See! Up periscope!”

Pretty Thing looked up, fascinated but also a trifle miffed because she didn't have a peter, darn being a girl, anyway! But then she had a brilliant notion and quickly said: “That's a silly ol' game, Cousin Rhett. I know a better one.”

“You do?”


“What is it?”

“We can call it, Put Your Submarine In My Harbor.”

“That's stupid. You don't even have a harbor.”

“I do, too. You wanta see?” She opened her thighs and then with the fingers of both hands parted the small crevice.

“Oh, shoot!” Rhett said. “That ain't no harbor. It ain't nothin' but a little ol' slit. It's just your pussy, that's all. My thing wouldn't even go in there.”

“Oh, yeah? You want to bet? I'll make it; I'll show you, you dumb thing, you. Come over here.”

And make it she did, even though it was quite painful until there was a sort of pop-like feeling down there and then surely enough, the submarine disappeared into the harbor and a few minutes later Pretty Thing found the sensation so acutely pleasant, she made it “back up" and then “go forward” again and again and again.

Now that she was grown-up, of course, she couldn't play the game with a human being, even if Cousin Rhett hadn't died, choking on a chicken bone at a church barbecue. It just wouldn't be lady-like. So she just had to make do with the toy submarine.

At the moment her father was wondering about her, Pretty Thing was in the midst of achieving her second and final orgasm. (She always limited herself to two on week days.) When her wrist finally stopped churning the water and released the submarine, sending it sailing through the bubble bath with a playful push, she gave a grateful sigh of relief. She always felt so much better afterwards; being horny always made her so edgy. And she was not bothered with any guilt feelings, of course, because the toy submarine had a small American flag painted on the side of it, so it was naturally one of ours. Back in boarding school, Pretty Thing had a roommate who used a submarine with a Swastika on it and how could anybody be so unpatriotic, she wondered.

Now she lounged for a minute longer, in the tub, telling herself what a good one that last come-come, as she liked to call it, had been; she had dam near suffered a case of the vapors.

Next she ruminated on the great event that had happened this day. She, Pretty Thing, had been elected to the office of Governor, the highest State public office possible, for goodness sake. She could hardly believe it. Now she would be able to sign all sorts of bills and public documents and everybody would be able to see her new backhand signature with a round dot over the i's in Priscilla. And of course, her picture would be in all the papers and later, even in the teenage magazines and probably on the cover of True Romantic Confessions and all the movie-fan magazines, just like Jackie, bless her pretty, brave old heart and then, on the black side of the picture, of course, they'd probably draw horrible caricatures of her in the underground and left-wing newspapers, like they always did of Poppa but who cares about those horrid old yellow journalism sheets, anyhow?

But right now, she had to get ready to meet her public for the very first time as a duly elected official, so there was no point in further dilly-dallying.

She eased up out of the bubble bath, stepped out of the tub, her compact but exquisitely curved little body glowing with good health and dripping sudsy water on the floor. She took a huge nubby towel from the rack and proceeded to dry herself thoroughly, all the while watching the jiggling of her orange-sized breasts, with their little pink collar-button tips standing impishly. She gave particular attention to fluffing up the dark feathery curls surmounting her pompom, as she liked to refer to it. And then she was all dry and ready for her after-bath ritual.

For just a moment, she paused before the mirror, studying her reflection, the round, dimple-cheeked, kewpie-lipped face with its doll-like prettiness that made her look four or five years younger; the straight black hair cut in page-boy fashion, well-moulded little body on its five-foot-two frame. She made a face at herself in the mirror and jutted out even further the roundly protruding cheeks of her buttocks, as she said: “If I didn't have that darn, fat ol' hinie that sticks out so, I'd have a right nice figure, even if I do say so, myself. No wonder the girls at school called me old lard ass.” She shrugged philosophically. “So, a Twiggy I ain't; a woman's supposed to have some flesh on her bones.”

Then she opened the bathroom door, called out: “Lotus! Lotus Leandra Poole, get your mean ol' black hide in here.”

“Yes, Missy, co'min' right away!” Pretty Thing's colored maid since she was fourteen years old, was a striking Negro woman of thirty, big-breasted, narrow-waisted and long-legged. Her even white teeth, flashed in a broad smile as she entered the bathroom, carrying a huge powder puff and a box of powder.

“And for goodness sakes, stop calling me Missy,” Pretty Thing reproved. “It just isn't dignified for a woman of high office.”

“Oh, yes, ma'am, I pure forgot about that,” Lotus answered. She opened the box of powder, dipped the puff into it and then as Pretty Thing turned, began to dust her back.

“Do you think my hinie's too big?” Pretty Thing asked.

“Uh-uh! No'm, not one bit. Like I told you before, honey, men like a nice plump, round ass on a gal.”

“Lotus! Don't be vulgar!”

“Sorry, Miss Governor, ma'am. I should have said tooshy.”

Pretty Thing stamped her foot, peevishly. “No, no, no! You know that's a nasty Jewish word. You're just tryin' to aggravate me.”

“No, ma'am, I ain't. I just always disremember what you call it.”

“Oh, honestly, Lotus, you nigra people are just so dense, sometimes. It's hinie, just remember that. It has such a nice Aryan sound to it, so white-sounding, I think.”

“Yes'm. Anyhow, it's a right pretty thing.” She circled around now to powder-dust the front of the girl.

As she brushed the duster over Pretty Thing's thrusting young breasts, the tips popped up, saucily erect. “Mmm-mmm!” Lotus exclaimed. “Looky-there, will you! If those two live-apples ain't a sight to make a man bust his britches!”

“Lotus, must you talk so nasty!” Pretty Thing glanced down at her breasts, hobbling almost imperceptibly under the light caressing of the puff.

“Well, at least I remembered not to call 'em bubbles. Or even tits.”

'Honestly! I don't think there's any point in continuing to discuss my bouncie-bouncies. And you've powdered them quite enough, for pity's sake. See how you've got the little puppy dog's noses sticking out. I don't think that's nice at all. Now, get on with it and do my tumtum and then my pompom. Poppa will be just furious at my taking so long.”

Lotus nodded and proceeded to powder her belly and then the dark fluff of curls covering her mount, chuckling, now. “Lord, Miss Pretty Thing, why you still call it that? Your pompom! That's what you name it when you just a litty bitty girl and first sprouted some fuzz.”

“Well, what else could I call it? Cunt is just—just too common. And just about everybody refers to it as a pussy. Then vagina and vulva are terribly Latinish— such foreign-sounding words. I wouldn't want anybody to think I was un-American or something. Now stop cluttering like a primate and finish me up and go get my dress ready, hear?”

“Yes'm, yes'm,” Lotus said, quickly powdering the girl's legs before straightening and exiting from the bathroom.

Pretty Thing sighed to herself and thought: “That girl will try my patience yet. If she hadn't been with me since my first period, I declare I'd fire her for talking so uppity.”

In the other room Lotus was ruminating: “I swear if I wasn't so fond of that retarded little ol' white gal, I'd get so sick of workin' for white folk and havin' to talk nigger-talk all the time just because that's the way they want to hear us talk, I'd quit the damned job and go up to D. C. and get a good job in Civil Service even if it wouldn't be as many laughs.”

She chuckled to herself, thinking of the fun she'd have telling her boy friend about the new Governor and her bouncie-bouncies and her pompom and hinie and about what she was pretty damned sure the crazy, horny little white chick did with that silly toy submarine she always took to the bathtub with her.

Half an hour later, Pretty Thing, her plumply curved little body sheathed in a tight, simply designed black velvet dress, with just a touch of makeup accentuating the Baby Doll qualities of her features, emerged from her own quarters and stood demurely nodding to the applause that greeted her sudden appearance in the main suite. The Governor, flanked by Bruce “Big Bear” Calhoun and B. Ware Boggs, rushed toward her. “Oh, Pretty Thing, sugar!” the Governor crooned. “Oh, you angel darlin', flower of the Southland! How come the good Lord blessed me with such a little queen?”

“Oh, Pop-pa!” she answered, flashing them all a winsome smile. “I'm not a queen—just the little ol' Governor and not even that until you go out of office.”

“Just ravishin', she is,” B. Ware Boggs intoned. “So utterly charmin', so dignified, so eternally feminine!”

“Oh, thank you, Senator, suh.”

“Not only that but she's cute as a speckled pup in a bright red wagon,” Big Bear Calhoun added.

“Why, you're so sweet to say that, Mr. Big Bear,” Pretty Thing said, dimpling at him but wishing he wouldn't always stare so hard at her bouncie-bouncies, with his tongue lolling from the corner of his mouth or brush his hand against her hinie every chance he could get. Sometimes she suspected that ol' Mr. Big Bear of having lustful and lascivious ideas about her.

Then her father took her arm. “Come, come, my dear. Your public is downstairs just a-waitin' to acclaim you. Let's see what kind of a little speech Smitty has whipped up for you.”

“Oh, dear, Poppa, do I have to make a speech again”? You know how poor I am at elocution and things like that.”

“Now, now, don't fret your pretty head. It'll be a short one. I gave Smitty orders. Since there isn't time to memorize it, you can just read it aloud. I'm sure our constituents will understand. As much as the damned silly fools understand anything, of course.”

“Well, all right then, if I must,” she agreed, pouting a little.

A few moments later, the guards at the door accepted a telegram and it was passed along to Pretty Thing. “Oh, my gosh!” she exclaimed excitedly as she clawed open the envelope. “Who could it be from?”

Her eyes moved over the message and her jaw dropped. In an awed tone, she said: “Why, it's from Washington, D. C!”

“Who? Who?” The governor asked, owl-like. “Who's it from, Hon? Ol' J. B. L., himself, I'll bet!”

“Uh-uh!” she said. “Almost, though. It's from The First Lady, can you imagine that, her telegramming little ol' me? The Bird Lady, herself, taking time out from looking after her private aviary, to personally congratulate me.”

“What's it say? What's it say?” the Governor asked, awed.

“Well, listen and I'll read it. It says: Dear Governor-Elect Priscilla Jo “Pretty Thing” Gander, c/o the Lee House, Statesburg—Congratulations, my dear, to you and of course to the perspicacity,'—now what in the world does that mean?—'of the voters of your great state to elect the sweetest, most charming, most gracious young lady ever to aspire to public office. I'm sure you'll make a great governor, a great public servant and show all the doubting Thomases that women can play a major role in politics, even at your tender age. Next time you're up this way, give me a ring and we'll have a barbecue or a Brunswick stew or something on the White House lawn... sincerely yours, etc. and etc.'... Oh, gentlemen, a personal invitation to visit the First Lady! I can hardly believe it.”

She dropped the telegram, clapped her hands together and jumped up and down exuberantly. “And maybe I can whip up a batch of hush puppies from my own private recipe, to go with the Brunswick stew. Do you think she'd like that, Poppa?”

The Governor put his fist to his mouth and burped biliously, remembering the last time Pretty Thing had whipped up a batch of hush puppies and insisted on his eating three of them.

“Yes, yes, quite, I'm sure,” he said quickly. “I see Jack B. Nimbel signalling to us that the security guard is all ready for us to make our way downstairs.”

Then they all filed out of the suite. In the hall, security orders were checked and double-checked and State policemen were placed on each side of Pretty Thing and one was stationed in front of her and another directly behind her. The latter was a robust-looking young man, one of those who had been served a drink by Boggs and it had gone to his head since he was not ordinarily a drinking man. He felt strangely light-headed and devil-may-care as he moved along the hallway and then stood in the crowded elevator directly behind the Governor-Elect. From time to time his eyes dropped to observe the rather remarkable protrusion of Pretty Thing's round buttocks beneath the tight cloth of her dress, as they rolled and clinched provocatively as she moved along.

The officer thought to himself: “Dam', if that ain't somethin'. Mmmmmm-hmmmm! Got a rear end on her like the back of a pony, I swear. If that wasn't just made for back scuttlin', I've never seen the like.”

But then he had to stop thinking about such things because he was becoming violently aroused and the evidence was quite pronounced at the front of his uniform.

The elevator stopped and the group emerging into the foyer of the Grand Ballroom, waited for the other groups from three more elevators to join them. As they prepared to enter the jammed ballroom, pushing through the crowd to the speakers' dais, State Police Director Colonel Hubbard Ganes, personally in charge of security at this event, told the four officers surrounding Pretty Thing: “You men hear this! You stay close to this little lady at all times. If any of those dam' peasants out there even touches her as we move through the crowd, I'll have your heads! Hear?”

The officers nodded, grimly. “Yes, suh!” they echoed.

The group moved into the Grand Ballroom and the cheering began as the crowd became aware of their presence. It grew to a crescendo of whistling, cheering, and foot-stomping. From nearly a thousand throats sprang the cry: “WE—WANT—PRETTY THING! WE—WANT—PRETTY THING! SPEECH! SPEECH!

Pretty Thing beamed and blushed and bobbed her pretty head, sometimes raising an arm and waving a greeting to the vast assemblage, letting them know how she appreciated their enthusiastic reception. This was probably the most exciting moment of her life, she thought, even more so than the time she was chosen by her schoolmates at boarding school, in a group fit of schoolgirlish mischief, to hang a condom over the head mistress's bed and a used one at that, though not by a man, of course, because there were none on the school grounds, but when one of the girls placed it over a broom handle and then diddled herself, it was almost the same.

If only, she reflected, wriggling her hips uncomfortably and clucking her tongue in annoyance, that handsome State policeman behind her would remove his club from where it had become lodged, somehow, between the cheeks of her hinie, this festive occasion would be perfect. She glanced around, then, and saw his youthful, good-looking face all tight and ruddy and beginning to perspire, his eyes bulging as he stared straight ahead over her shoulder.

He seemed to be in such obvious discomfort that Pretty Thing immediately relented and told herself that after all, he had been told or ordered to stay close to her; he was only carrying out his duty. At the same time the sensations being produced by that hard thing back there, were not altogether unpleasant. In fact, quite the contrary and she felt her pompom begin to twitch and moisten and the little sentinel that hid in the upper portals was beginning to rise and throb.

My goodness, we just can't have this, she thought to herself. It's just ridiculous for a girl to get horny on her own election night, for pity's sake; especially because of a policeman's club.

She pushed backward, hoping maybe that would make the nasty old thing go away. It didn't. It only seemed to move right with her, lodge itself even more deeply, as they inched through the madly cheering crowd, a short step at a time. Soon Pretty Thing found herself playing a fascinating game. She would push back against the club and then the silly hard, hot object would push back against her and soon they were both moving back and forth in unison. Behind her the State Police Officer was pressed so close against her, Pretty Thing wondered why in the world that big club wasn't uncomfortable to him, too, so that he would remove it. But then she thought, maybe he just doesn't have any place else to put it.

A few moments later, she heard a sudden agonized groan from somewhere behind her and shortly after that, the pressure of the club lessened and then just sort of seemed to dissolve away. For a few moments she was almost sorry about that; it had been kind of fun while it lasted and had actually made her only a little bit horny, nothing that would require the use of the submarine again, when she got home, so what was the harm, really.

At the same time, the officer behind her turned and moved away, pressing through the throng until he reached Colonel Hubbard Ganes, who was soon seen to become redfaced and gesticulate wildly and angrily, as the officer stood shamefaced and with hung head.

Pretty Thing wondered what in the world had happened to make the young man quit his position as one of the guards of honor. Perhaps he had become faint from the pressure of the crowd, she thought or had some kind of an attack. A few moments later he was replaced by an older man who at least kept his club to himself, she was relieved to note.

Then they were moving up onto the platform, behind the great battery of microphones and Pretty Thing stood there, flanked now, by her father on one side and Senator B. Ware Boggs on the other. State policemen were stationed behind them. Others faced the crowd, holding them back, down in front of the dais. Pretty Thing waved and the crowd waved back; she smiled, showing her pretty teeth, only two years out of braces and they shrieked her name, pounded their hands together in a thunder of applause.

Now Boggs moved to a mike and adjusted it. He signaled to the crowd for silence, while news camera flashbulbs popped and TV cameras focused. Slowly the crowd sounds subsided and then Boggs' melodious voice rang out:

“Friends! Fellow Americans! Fellow residents of this great and glorious state! Tonight marks a moment that will go down in history. Despite the dastardly attempts of our opponents to besmirch the proud name of Gander with allegations that our Candidate was too young, too inexperienced, too callow to hold such high office—despite the base canard that they've bandied about in an effort to cloud the real issues, that she would be nothing but a puppet political figure—that a...


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  • 5. consulter ce document à titre purement personnel en n'impliquant aucune société ou organisme d'État.
  • 6. vous engager à mettre en oeuvre tous les moyens existants à ce jour pour empêcher n'importe quel mineur d'accéder à ce document.
  • 7. déclarer n'être choqué(e) par aucun type de sexualité.

Nous nous dégageons de toute responsabilité en cas de non-respect des points précédemment énumérés.