Chapter 1: In which an Already Peculiar Relationship is complicated by Dinner
They had been exchanging meaningless chitchat about their days at the convention for several minutes with little or no eye contact when she finally managed to fix his gaze and asked: "Does this feel to you like sleeping with the enemy?"
Trying not to choke on his chicken Caesar salad he sputtered "You're not the enemy, and this isn't sleeping, it's eating dinner."
"I'm sorry," she responded, "It's just I know how tough your job is, and that it's half my fault. You've got to report on both factions objectively for the denomination's publications, keep your own allegiance in check while communicating whatever today's official position is, and compete with us in spinning the secular media, all while trying to fend off the women on both sides who want to influence you with sex."
He sputtered again, this time on his wine, "In case you hadn't noticed, most of the women on your side aren't interested in men, and the women on the other side don't believe in sex outside marriage."
"I wouldn't be too sure about that," she said smiling and taking another bite of dinner, "and do you?"
"Do I what?"
"Believe in sex outside marriage."
"Off the record?," he asked.
"I believe marriage is a commitment to monogamy," he went on, "but I don't really care what unmarried people do, and I don't get why the other side is so upset about your people."
She nodded at that and said, "I don't."
"You don't what?," he asked, growing more confused by the minute.
"Believe that marriage is a commitment to monogamy," she answered, and went back to eating.
He started at her, watching her eat, unable to articulate even to himself what he wanted, shrugged mentally, and resumed his own eating in silence.
Chapter 2: In which both parties have returned to their Own Rooms
She was lying alone and naked on the hotel bed, reliving the awkward dinner, thrilling a little at having rattled him so, pinching her long hard nipples and teasing her clit as she remembered, when the room phone rang.
Assuming it was him, and smiling at herself for assuming, she picked up the receiver, tucked it between her ear and naked shoulder, and went back to playing with herself.
"Hi," she heard him say, "I don't want to bother you but I needed to talk to you again. I couldn't sleep without saying goodnight."
"Mmmm," she answered, partly in acknowledgment, and partly because her hands had caused a simultaneous thrill through her clit and nipple that made her back arch off the bed.
"You too?," he asked, "What were you doing before I called?"
"Lying here naked playing with myself, thinking about making myself come."
There was silence on the other end. A long silence.
"I want to come with you," he finally said, a little too forcefully, as though trying to convince himself it was OK.
"I thought you believed marriage was a commitment to monogamy," she said teasingly.
"This doesn't count," he answered, "we're not even in the same room."
Which made her pause, because she didn't want to be part of something that didn't count, but she was bored, alone, and even more thrilled than before that she had driven him to this point. "Come with me big boy," she purred, "get those pants off."
"They already are," he replied, getting in to the spirit of the exchange, "they were off when I called you."
"Naughty boy. You were already hard and stroking yourself weren't you?"
"Yes, and I still am."
"Me too," she whispered, her hands moving quicker, her moans involuntary, their voices co-mingling across the wires as they came.
Chapter 3: In which it all ends Strangely
The next evening she found herself sitting in a chair six feet from his bed. She had spent the day planning the protest to disrupt the convention if the day went badly. The protest he would either cover or ignore, spin one way or the other, and then after the meetings they had returned, as if by unspoken agreement, to the same restaurant, were seated at the same table, and had ordered the same dinners. But the conversation had been about sex, about her relationships, which still somehow scandalized him, and his disenchantment and lack of sex with his wife, and how much he had enjoyed the phone sex but how much he wanted her to see his large cock, to watch him stroke it, to watch him come, which, as long as she did not touch herself, or touch him, would still not count, even if they were in the same room.
She sat and watched as he stripped for her, as he lay back on his bed, his cock, which she had to admit was on the large side though not the biggest she had ever seen, in his hand, stroking himself. She sat and watched, but she was drawn not only to his cock and his hand, but to a sense of sadness, loss, and confusion that emanated from him and grew stronger as his hand raced up and down the shaft. She needed to reassure him, to touch him, to share her life force and absorb his, so she stood and walked to the edge of the bed and looked down.
He looked up, meeting her gaze, not saying anything, just stroking, furious, and a little sad, and she reached out and down, and put her hand on his shoulder.
That was when he screamed. "I said no touching! It counts if we touch! I can't cheat on my wife. Now I have cheated on my wife. Get out. Get out. Get out!"
She got out, and went back to her room, and fell asleep, not sure if she should feel guilty or not. The next day was the protest, which went very well, though he refused to speak to her or even make eye contact at the press conferences that followed, so that she feared the worst for coverage. But that evening, right there on the home page of the denominational web site, was an article and video, both very flattering, of the protest.
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