The office lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a glow across the framed portrait that dominated the wall in front of Paul Lancaster’s desk. There she was—Ellie Mae Ashford, arm raised in defiance, blonde curls shimmering under the harsh brilliance of CPAC’s stage lights, mouth frozen mid-cry, veins flaring on her neck, her breasts rising beneath the tailored red blazer he’d made her wear. His words thundered from her lips that day, polished and anointed.
A perfect vessel.
Thirty-two years old. Farm-bred. Jesus-fed. Curves sculpted by haybales and handsy pageant judges. She looked like she’d been carved straight out of a conservative wet dream—loud, glowing, blonde and blue-eyed and damned useful. Paul leaned back, studying the way her figure seized the frame. She was his greatest work.
He returned to the laptop. The screen glared with the righteous fury of her next public flame:
“I am holding the line against the perversion sweeping this land! I am fighting for the sanctity of marriage, for the purity of our children, for the restoration of dignity and virtue in our society! THIS IS OUR TIME! THIS IS OUR CALL! WE WILL STOP THE STEAL OF THIS NATION, RESTORE THIS LAND! WE WILL MAKE AMERICA HOLY, STRONG, AND GREAT AGAIN!”
He exhaled through his nose, removed his glasses, and rubbed the fatigue from the corners of his eyes. “How much do you want to lean into the personal purity angle?”
A grunt. A slap. A stifled sound—half-choke, half-moan.
He turned.
Ellie Mae Ashford—the right-wing angel in white lace and fire—was bent forward at a savage angle between two men like a ragdoll possessed. Her arms trembled as she pressed them into Rhett’s thighs, fingers digging into the spokesman’s slacks, her elbows locked to hold herself upright beneath the strain. He stood stiff as a preacher before a crowd, head tipped back, jaw slack, one hand wound tight in her golden hair, the other gripping the base of his cock as he shoved it down her throat in steady, ruthless strokes.
Her lips were stretched wide, glossy with spit, her cheeks puffing on the in-pull, hollowing on the out. Her mouth took him like a prayer gone blasphemous, wet and gluttonous, obscene in rhythm. Strings of drool ran between her chin and the base of his shaft, catching on her trembling, heaving breasts where they swung helplessly beneath her. The sheer weight of them slapped together with every bounce, nipples raw, reddened, tracing rapid little arcs of desperation in the air before the next violent smack.
And her eyes—God, her eyes—glared up through damp lashes, wide and furious, brimming with zeal and something dark beneath it. No fear. No shame. Just burning, wild hunger—ecstatic rage in blue fire.
Behind her, Dale hammered into her like he meant to break bone. The sixty-year-old’s grip was brutal, knuckles white across the width of her hips like he was holding down a beast. Her ass shook with every thrust, rippling in obscene waves as his thighs slapped flesh to flesh, the sound like meat on a butcher’s block. His mouth was twisted in a snarl, white whiskers gleaming with sweat. He leaned into her, snarling curses not at her, but into her, lost in the violent pulse of her body clenching and gasping around him. The whole room seemed to pulse with the sound of her—wet, raw, holy in its degradation.
Paul didn’t even flinch. He adjusted his glasses. Cleared his throat.
“Come on, guys,” he muttered. “I need her to focus.”
Rhett exhaled sharply and gave her hair a sharp tug, slipping his cock from her lips with a wet pop. A long string of spit trailed from his tip to her tongue, still quivering, still flicking instinctively, even with her mouth freed. Ellie Mae gasped raggedly, but the sound was cut short by a guttural grunt from behind as Dale seized her hair in a fist and yanked.
Her body arched like a bow, spine bent into a wicked curve, tits slapping against her ribcage like they were trying to escape her skin as Dale slammed into her harder than before. Her eyes shot wide—then quivered, then rolled, pupils flickering like faulty lights beneath her lids. Her mouth fell open in a silent, shattered cry, pink lips trembling with every raw impact.
Dale leaned in low, his face pressed to the side of her flushed cheek, whispering filth between thrusts that made her eyes lose focus completely.
Paul slammed his fist on the desk.
“Dale,” he barked, voice sharp.
No response. Just flesh pounding flesh.
Paul’s voice cracked louder. “Dale—let her focus.”
That got him.
Dale’s eyes, bloodshot and blazing, snapped up to Paul. He didn’t stop. Not yet. Instead, he turned her—still inside her—pivoting his hips, dragging her halfway around by the hair until Ellie Mae was bent toward Paul, cheeks soaked with tears and spit, eyes glassy and distant, still dazed from the brutal rhythm.
Paul adjusted his tie, lips pressed in a thin line.
Dale stared him down for half a second longer—then released her hair and, with a final vicious growl, slammed forward with a hip-thrust savage enough to knock her breath from her lungs.
Ellie Mae stumbled forward with a choked yelp, thighs quaking, knees buckling—her hands hit Paul’s desk with a slap as she collapsed across it, nipples as hard as the wood, catching herself at the last second with arms trembling, breath shallow and wrecked.
“Goddamn it, what do you need?” Ellie Mae mumbled, voice rough, slurred, and needy. Her cheek pressed to the desk, breath fogging the polished surface. Dazed from the violent bliss that had just been ripped away, her tone wasn’t so much impatient as it was desperate, her words clinging to the last threads of pleasure still echoing in her body. Her hips gave a twitch, then a roll, pushing back, seeking contact, begging silently for the friction that had just abandoned her.
Paul didn’t even look up at first. “Some goddamn focus for a moment.”
“I am focused…” she murmured again, nearly pouting, still half-lost, still swaying. She pushed herself up on shaking elbows, tits dragging slow lines of sweat across the desk, then arched her back again and jutted out her hips, swaying them from side to side like bait on a hook.
“No,” Paul said flatly. “You can never focus with a cock inside you.”
Her whimper turned to a breathy sigh just as Rhett stepped back into view, cock thick and stiff and ready, gripped in one hand. Paul’s hand darted out and hurled a pen at him.
It bounced harmlessly off Rhett’s shoulder.
He didn’t flinch.
He took.
Rhett buried himself to the pelvis with a grunt that echoed off the walls. Ellie Mae choked on her own breath, body jolting forward with the sheer force of the impact. Her hands slapped flat on the desk, nails clawing at the grain, mouth open in a wide, shuddering gasp. Her eyes shot wide—then fluttered, then rolled, glassy and gone. Rhett gripped her hips like handles and started fucking, no rhythm, no patience, just raw fucking—each thrust sharp and fast, jerking her whole body forward, desk screeching against the floor.
“Wha-wha..what do ya…need again?” she managed to ask, voice dreamy, trying to pretend like she wasn’t already being broken open.
Paul stared at the obscene sight of her—the holy symbol of his campaign reduced to nothing but heat and movement and noise.
“I was thinking,” he said, dry, eyes not blinking, “that we should up the purity angle for you.”
Rhett snarled behind her and picked up pace—hammering her so hard the desk legs rattled. Ellie Mae’s moan bled into a breathless cry as her arms wobbled, her hands fumbling across the surface like she didn’t know where she was anymore.
“Su-sure.”
Then, barely audible—half under her breath, half lost in her panting—came the filthy, slurred coaxing. “That’s it, baby…fuck me!”
Rhett’s fingers dug in harder. His hips answered with a vicious snap, his whole frame locking tight as he jackhammered into her with everything he had left. Her moan pitched up, hungry, needy, eyes fluttering as the pulse began to rise behind them, like a storm gathering in her gut.
Paul didn’t blink. “I think we’ve got to keep pounding at that,” he said dryly, adjusting the cursor in his speech file without really looking.
Ellie Mae’s mouth curled into a grin against the desk’s edge. Her voice came again, muffled and low and drenched in filth. “Yeah pound it! Fuckin’ pound it!”
Her fingers spread wide trying to brace, trying to anchor—but she was slipping. Each thrust rattled her bones, and her cry climbed higher with every impact, eyes wide now, jaw slack, mouth open in stunned, stretched ecstasy.
She was right there—right there—her moans stuttering, hips jerking, her thighs twitching wildly…
But Rhett beat her to it.
With a ragged, bitten-off growl, he buried himself with one last, greedy snap of his hips. His body shook—just once—and Ellie Mae felt it. Her eyes flew open, fury clear in the wild shine behind her lashes as he pulsed inside her, breath hot and broken over her spine.
Then he was gone.
Gone—pulled out—just like that.
And Ellie Mae screamed, slapping her palm hard across her own ass in fury, hips rocking back wildly in empty desperation. “No!” She cried, half a sob, half a plea, “Dale! Dale, come on, where are you?!”
Paul didn’t even look up from the laptop. “Dale took a call. Probably from his wife.”
Ellie Mae turned slowly, panting, sweat-drenched, her hair wild, makeup streaked into warpaint, chest heaving. That wicked grin spread again, curling across her face like something blasphemous in bloom.
Her hand snaked forward. Found Paul’s tie. Curled fingers around the silk.
She tugged.
Paul glanced once at the half-finished speech on his laptop—“The Time for Godly Women is Now” blinking back at him from the title line.
Then back at her.
He sighed. And stood.
Ellie Mae’s eyes followed every movement, wide and electric, gleaming with hunger and triumph. Her smile didn’t fade—it deepened, twitching at the corners as she turned her head just enough to watch him circle behind. Her thighs were still spread, ass still raised, hips twitching in little pleading jerks, slick with use but insatiable. She arched just enough to offer—not beg, never beg. She was still in control. Even face-down and trembling, she dared him to follow through.
Paul loosened his belt with a quiet hiss of leather. Unzipped. Freed himself.
And then paused.
He stared down at her—this paragon of American virtue, the darling of Christian nationalism, the purity princess of the red-state right—sweaty, flushed, thighs streaked with cum, hair tangled around her shoulders like a golden crown gone to rot.
Angel.
That was the word they used. Angel of the Right. Angel of America. Angel of God.
Paul pressed his palm flat between her shoulder blades and shoved her face down into the desk.
She groaned—more animal than woman—as her cheek mashed to the polished wood, arms scrambling to brace herself, tits flattened under her weight. The sound that tore from her throat as he shoved into her—full, hard, unforgiving—was unholy. It echoed through the room like a war cry smothered by scripture. She bucked. She fought it, briefly—but not to resist. To feel it deeper. To invite more.
And Paul gave it to her.
He didn’t rush. He drove it—slow, deliberate, punishing. Like every inch was a statement. A correction. A reclamation. She let out a choking gasp as he bottomed out, her whole body shuddering around him, muscles fluttering in wild spasms. One hand gripped her hip with bruising force, the other pressed down between her shoulders, pinning her like a beast too dangerous to trust.
Her cheek squeaked across the wood as she turned her head just enough to speak—but no words came. Her mouth was open, drooling, lost in the rhythm, in the act of being used. Her eyes once more had rolled back, then refocused, then gone glassy—only the faintest twitch of a smile left at the edge of her spit-slick lips.
Paul set a slow, merciless pace—each thrust shaking her, each motion tearing a noise from her throat she’d never make on a podium. Then he picked up speed, brutal and unrelenting, hips snapping with purpose, fucking her like he meant to split doctrine from flesh. The desk creaked. Her back bowed. Her legs gave out entirely.
Still, he didn’t stop.
Because this was her speech. This was the message.
Not the lies on the teleprompter.
This.
The flesh, the sin, the hunger. The truth of Ellie Mae Ashford wasn’t in her words, but in how she trembled, how she moaned when filled with cock, how she kept grinding back despite the bruises forming under his hands.
And when he finished—when he stiffened and poured himself into her, thick, hot, claiming—the only sound was the soft, broken whimper she gave, like a final amen whispered to no god at all.
Paul pulled out with a slow hiss, and Ellie Mae dropped like a puppet whose strings had snapped—sweat-slick, gaping, gutted. Her breath rattled against the desk as if she hadn’t yet realized it was over.
He straightened his tie, smoothed his shirt, and walked around her body like she was a podium he’d finished preaching from. Back to the laptop. Cursor blinking like it was holding its breath.
He stared at her. The holy vessel. Cum-slick. Gaping. Face-down in the wreckage of her truth.
“…Let’s make sure to touch on abstinence,” he murmured. Then he set his fingers to the keys, typing her scripture as his dripping cum sanctified the ground between her feet.
