We now interrupt this story for some porn.

Sam ran his finger down the row of jackets, the soft wool sighing under his touch. "Dean, you find anything?"

Dean parted the curtains of the changing room. "How do I look?"

Sam turned and almost didn't recognize him. He was used to Dean plucking discarded shirts in the hotel parking lot, giving them a sniff, and declaring finders keepers. They always looked good on him, even that ones that had belonged to girls (though he suspected Dean liked to wear the pink camo shirt to tempt drunks into fighting him). Seeing his ass in a three piece suit nearly gave him wood.

"Looks like a tight fit." he said, biting his lips as the words left him.

"Looks okay to me." he said, flicking the lighter and squinting at his hair in the mirror. They were in another town hit by the storm, and when the Senator had called Sam about an interview with the local news, they'd broken into HOYT'S MENSWEAR AND HUNTING ACCESSORIES. "How bout you, find anything?"

Sam looked down at the jacket in his arms. "Yeah, but it looks weird. I'm too tall for the boy's sizes, but my ass is swimming in most of the men's slacks."

"Oh she won't care, just pick something." said Dean, grabbing a pair of pants off the rack at random.

"You don't have to come with me if you don't want," said Sam, "It'll only take twenty minutes, you could hang at the bar."

"Oh no," said Dean, grabbing his waist and pulling him close, the flame bringing out the shadows under his eyes, "Tits ain't getting you alone."

"Don't call her that." Sam whispered.

Dean smiled, and let him go, removing the jacket and rolling up his sleeves. Sam eyed the lines of his back, his wide-set shoulders, and swallowed. "So you like the suit?"

Sam looked away and laughed. "It's a good pick. Straight out of a detective novel, makes you look..."

"Makes me look what?" he asked, turning back around.

Sam blushed "...cold."

"Uh huh." said Dean, moving back towards him, slowly until Sam's legs bumped into a bench by the shoe rack and he sat down hard. Dean knelt before him, placing his hands flat on either side of the bench, as close to Sam's face as his next breath. "Nervous?"

"What, the interview?" Sam asked, voice shaking slightly, "Whatever, I'm not scared of a camera."

"But as soon as we're done, we leave, right?"

Sam nodded slightly, their mouths very close now. "Right."

Dean traced the ring on Sam's hand. "Can you see me?"

"Not really," Sam said, "It's so dark here."

Dean unhooked Sam's belt. "How bout now?"

Sam understood the question. Who do you see in your mind's eye when the clothes come undone, when a practiced mouth closes down on you and you can barely hold onto the cheap plywood furniture holding you upright?

Dean's mind wandered as he worked, hoping that if Sam showed up drained he'd stay out of trouble.

The Senator wouldn't have to work hard to get Sam. A few glasses of wine, the offer to share a cab, and once the door clicked her shirt would open, the most perfect tits on display pointing straight at him, nipples red and wet from whatever flunkie she'd tortured five minutes ago. And that sort of thing didn't count, heck she had her legs crossed, nothing would come of it. And he did want to make her happy, right?

She'd lay a hand in his hair, guiding his mouth to her, and he'd be too drunk to think of a reason why not to, not when she was so soft and warm. And when he was firmly latched she'd make a little circle motion with her finger to the driver, and they'd cruise around town for a good hour until Sam lost track of time, lost in his task of getting her wet, pausing only to switch when she tugged at his hair. She doesn't speak, only looks down at him with a cold, cruel smile.

When the cab finally stops in front of her flat, she invites him in for another drink, insisting that they have the place to themselves. Once they're in her bedroom, she hands him the bottle, though he can barely stand up straight. And she tells him what a good boy he's been, and that she wants him to make her happy, but certainly doesn't want to ruin him. And seating herself primly on the edge of the bed she insists that he jerk off, right there in front of her, as a precaution. Part of him wants to run, but she's more than twice his age, she must know what she's talking about, and she makes the request sound so reasonable as she clasps her knees with her manicured hands. It hardly takes him any time at all, not when she's right there, not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in her linen dress, waiting him out. Once he comes, she asks him for a second time, and he does it, even manages a third time, though by then he's very sore.

Once he's done, she begins to undress, until she's down to a thin slip and her high heels, and she asks him to lay beside her on the bed, where he fears he will pass out. She likes him so much, and could he kiss her while she helps herself? Her hand slips between her own firm brown thighs, her tongue tastes sweet and clean. Soon his mouth is guided back to her breasts, and she takes one of his hands and slips a finger inside of her, for that is all that will fit. She has discerning tastes, and is not well used, and his cock jumps as she closes down on him. She trusts him, knows he won't do anything unless she gives permission first, says she can't finish without him, and maybe he could just run his cock against her?

She is slick and swollen, her clit peaking out like a pink rabbit nose, and sliding against her almost undoes him as she stares at him, flushed cheeks and breasts bouncing gently. She digs her nails into his scalp and pushes his face into her breast, and the sounds she makes speeds his desire, running his cock against her poison rose, and he finds his hands reaching under her knees and snaking around to raise her hips. Normally he would have come by now, but she's emptied him so thoroughly that he is afraid the end is nowhere in sight. After an eternity of this, she grabs his cock, insisting she only needs the tip, and that it didn't count and would not get him in trouble, over and over she says this until he begins to believe her.

He obeys, his head on fire as he maintains control over that one aching inch, opening her over and over again. She's dripping on the sheets, moaning his name, and finally she presses her hands against his hips and guides him slowly inside, remarking what a big boy he is, until she is stretched over him, smiling as he hits the buzzer deep inside. Her cunt crushes him, wanting to feel every inch as he slides out very slowly. She wants to be cleaned out, scraping inside of her as she pushes and pulls at him like a living toy.

She's unlike any girl he's ever had. Not just a great body, but a mind like a steel trap, totally in control, and in a strange chivalrous way he craves her good favor, knows he can hang on and stay hard to make her happy. That if he can do that one thing she'll ask him back in the future, keep him on like a loyal pet, standing sentry by her office door until she has need of some deep dicking.

Sam was close now, and the picture changed in Dean's mind, so that it was him standing by the Senator, the cameras flashing as she placed a possessive hand on his shoulder.

"Senator, how did turn such a troubled young man into someone we can all be proud of?"

And as his mouth filled with the taste of sour pennies, his knees aching on the rough carpet, Dean heard her smile and say, "He knows his place."