I'd Vote for that Daddy

Featuring United States Senator, John N. Kennedy

CHAPTER TWO: Finer Than a Frog's Hair

The Louisiana sun beat down like a jealous lover on the carport of the Kennedy home in Madisonville, the humid air thick enough to wring out like a dishrag. Sen. John Neely Kennedy, seventy-something but still spry in his red bandanna and workout shorts, gripped the handles of "Margaret," his beloved elliptical trainer named after the Iron Lady herself. Sweat poured down his weathered face, tracing the lines of a man who'd grown up poor in Zachary, clawed his way through Vanderbilt, UVA Law, and Oxford, and now traded barbs in the Senate. His t-shirt clung to his average, sturdy frame, flat chest, small soft belly, wiry limbs, and minimal body hair. His legs pumped steadily, the motion flexing the flat, firm-yet-softened butt beneath his shorts.

From his vantage on Margaret underneath the carport, John spotted him: a young man jogging along the quiet suburban street, shirtless, golden skin glistening under the relentless heat. The jogger was in his mid-twenties, with a runner's tight, athletic build, defined abs, strong thighs straining against loose shorts, and a mop of dark, sweat-damp hair. He went by the name of Tyler Broussard, a local grad student home for the summer, with a smooth Cajun drawl and an easy, curious smile that had turned more than a few heads in town.

John waved him over, slowing Margaret to a stop.

"Hey there, son! Come on up here outta that sun 'fore you melt like butter on a biscuit."

Tyler jogged up the driveway, breathing hard but grinning.

"Senator Kennedy? Damn, sir, didn't expect to see you out here grindin' on Margaret. Saw that video. Whole state's talkin' about her."

They chatted under the shaded carport, the conversation flowing easy like the Mississippi. John's folksy charm was in full effect, laced with that sharp wit and deadpan humor. Tyler admitted he'd always found the senator intriguing, powerful, quick with a quip, that Southern gentleman vibe hiding something hungrier. John's sharp, twinkling blue eyes behind his glasses lingered on Tyler's chest, the way his shorts rode low on his hips. The air thickened with more than humidity. A mutual spark ignited fast.

"You got that look about you, boy," John murmured, voice low and gravelly in his smooth Louisiana twang, glancing toward the house where his wife Becky was inside, likely reading or napping in the AC. "Interested in more than just politics? Or you just out here runnin' around like a free-range chicken?"

Tyler stepped closer, bold in the heat.

"Hell yeah, Senator. Been wonderin' what a man like you tastes like."

They moved deeper into the carport's shadows, behind Margaret and John's parked SUV, hearts pounding as they kept watch for neighbors or Becky stirring. John pulled Tyler in first, their mouths crashing together in a hungry kiss, sweat-slick and urgent. John's hand slid down, gripping the young man's hardening cock through his shorts, stroking it firm and slow, thumb rubbing the tip through the fabric until a damp spot formed.

"Lord have mercy," John drawled between kisses, his Louisiana upbringing coloring every word like cane syrup. "You feel mighty fine already. Get on your knees, son. Let's see if you can handle a senator's agenda. Time to put up or shut up."

Tyler dropped eagerly, yanking down John's shorts and underwear. The older man's thick cock sprang free, roughly 6.5 inches erect, straight with a broad tapered pinkish head, already leaking a clear bead in the steamy air above his heavy, low-hanging balls in their pendulous sac. Minimal body hair framed it. Tyler wrapped one hand around the base and began stroking slowly, twisting his wrist on the upstroke, smearing the precum over the head with his thumb. He leaned in and licked a long, wet stripe from the underside of the balls all the way up the shaft, tasting salt and musk.

John groaned low, one hand resting on Tyler's dark hair.

"That's it… just like that. Work that hand, boy. Feel how hard you got me already. Faster than green grass through a goose."

Tyler took him deep into his mouth, tongue swirling around the broad head, sucking with wet, sloppy enthusiasm. Saliva dripped down John's shaft as Tyler bobbed, hollowing his cheeks, one hand pumping the base while the other reached up to cup and roll the heavy balls. He pulled off with a wet pop and spat on the shaft, stroking faster now, the wet sounds loud in the humid air. Then he dove back down, taking more, gagging softly as the head nudged the back of his throat.

"Mmm, yeah. Use that tongue. Goddamn, you're good. Use that head like you mean it."

John's hips gave a gentle thrust into the warm, wet heat. Eyes darted around for onlookers. The risk made it hotter, the humid Louisiana air, the distant hum of cicadas, Margaret standing silent witness.

"You're so beautiful," John remarked, voice thick. "I can't believe this old man's dick is in a fine boy's mouth."

An overwhelming tingling sensation rushed through Tyler's body and he made an audible groan around the cock. Tyler looked down from John's eyes and into the sparse bush directly in front of him.

"That's right, explore it," Kennedy muttered as he pushed Tyler's head deeper, brushing the hair against the young man's nose. "Put your nose right in there. Take a good whiff."

Tyler inhaled deeply. The scent was musky, sweaty, dirty from the workout. Saliva flooded his mouth. He sucked furiously now, deepthroating until John's wiry legs shook. One of Tyler's hands dropped to his own shorts, shoving them down enough to free his hard cock. He stroked himself in time with the bobbing of his head, fist flying over his shaft, precum slicking the way.

They locked eyes for a few moments. Without saying anything more, John softly started pumping his dick in Tyler's mouth, letting out a huge moan.

"I knew you had it in you. Look at you, jackin' that pretty thing while you suck."

It sent a rush down Tyler's spine. He sucked harder, fist pumping faster on himself. John pulled his cock out of Tyler's mouth and tilted his hips. He plopped his heavy balls onto Tyler's face and shoved the young man's head into the soft skin.

"Lick your senator's taint, boy. Get in there good."

Tyler did without hesitation, tongue flattening and lapping at the sensitive strip of skin, making out with every crevice, nose buried against the sac. John's balls bounced lightly against his face as the senator rocked. Tyler stroked himself harder, hips jerking into his fist, the dual sensation of the musky crotch and his own hand driving him wild.

"I'm gonna cum, boy. Make this old man shoot."

Without hesitation, Tyler put Kennedy's cock back in his mouth, one hand still flying on his own dick. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked with everything he had, tongue working the underside ridge.

"Shit, boy, I'm close," John gasped in his signature drawl. "Gonna paint that pretty throat if you keep that up."

He grabbed Tyler's head and couldn't hold back anymore. He pumped a huge load into the young man's mouth, thick ropes flooding over the tongue. Cum dribbled out the sides as he thrust again, filling him even more. He slowly pulled back and gave one more intense pump, unloading the last of it. Tyler swallowed what he could, some spilling down his chin, all while still stroking himself rapidly, balls tightening.

Kennedy sat heavily on a nearby chair, breathing hard, and quickly pulled Tyler in front of him. He took the younger man's cock in his hand, gently cupping the tight balls and then stroking the shaft soft and slow at first, thumb circling the wet head. Then he leaned forward and took Tyler into his mouth. He sucked with surprising skill, soft and gentle at first, massaging with his tongue in wet, warm circles. The older man hummed around the shaft, one hand still rolling Tyler's balls.

Tyler grabbed John's silver-gray hair and started fucking into the senator's mouth. No matter how hard he shoved his cock down that throat, the older man took it and pushed his face against the crotch for more, swallowing around him. Tyler's fist had been replaced by that skilled mouth and the sensation pushed him over.

"Gonna cum, Senator," Tyler gasped.

John only sucked harder, cheeks hollowed. Tyler came hard, pulsing ropes down the senator's throat. Kennedy swallowed every drop, milking the shaft with his lips until Tyler shuddered and softened.

Kennedy stood, tucked his still-dripping cock back into his shorts, and adjusted himself. Panting, they cleaned up quick with a towel from John's workout bag, eyes scanning the street.

"Whew," John chuckled, voice returning to that familiar deadpan humor as he wiped his glasses. "That was finer than a frog's hair split four ways. Better head inside 'fore Becky wonders why I'm takin' so long on Margaret. You come jog by again sometime, hear? Don't make me wait like a cat on a fat rat."

Tyler winked, still flushed, pulling his shorts up.

"Wouldn't miss it, sir."

John retreated into the blessed AC of the house, body buzzing, a sly smile on his broad face as the door clicked shut behind him.

Featuring Farmer and former United States Senator, Jon Tester

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Secret Hunger

The Senate grounds court still echoed with the slap of shoes and their ragged laughter as the cameras shut off. Sweat soaked through Jon Tester’s white shirt, clinging to the broad, solid frame of the Montana rancher. Thick arms corded from years of farm work, rounded belly pressing against the damp fabric, tails flipping out of his pants with every earlier jump shot and giving glimpses of that heavy midsection. Cowboy boots scuffed the pavement as he walked. Cory Booker, taller at six-three and leaner, his athletic muscular build glistening under the shirt and tie, broad shoulders rolling, firm rounded butt tight from workouts, couldn’t stop stealing glances.

Cory Booker, taller at six-three and leaner, his athletic muscular build glistening under the shirt and tie, broad shoulders rolling, firm rounded butt tight from workouts, couldn’t stop stealing glances. Tester had bumped into him hard during the game, throwing off his shots with that gritty physicality, body checking the New Jersey senator like they were still fighting Big Ag mergers instead of battling for net neutrality. Booker had always savored those accidental brushes during their legislative huddles: a firm hand on Tester’s thick shoulder, a playful shove that lingered a second too long. The urban vegan from Newark had been harboring a secret hunger for the gritty, ornery Democrat beside him for months.

“Damn, Tester, you play dirty,” Booker growled with a grin, wiping his brow as they walked back toward the quiet hallway leading to the offices. His rich baritone carried that polished New Jersey energy even through the heavy breathing. “Illegal in six states, you said? Felt like you were trying to body me off the court. That three-fingered grip of yours nearly took my arm off on the block.”

Booker’s heart hammered under the dress shirt. The playful trash-talk had always masked something deeper. He stopped them in the shadowed alcove off the corridor, voice dropping low and warm.

“Jon… I need to tell you something. All this time working together, fighting corporate consolidation in agriculture, filming these ridiculous videos, I’ve been fighting something else. I want you. Badly. Those little touches during markup sessions, the way you needle me and call me soft, it gets me hard every single time.”

Tester’s eyes widened, but a slow, knowing smirk spread across his weathered face, strong jaw working. His deep gravelly Montana drawl rumbled out plain and earthy.

“Well, hell. Didn’t expect that from Mr. Charisma. You offering what I think you are, Booker? Shit, boy, I felt those glances. Thought maybe you just hated losing.”

Booker’s dark brown eyes locked on him, sincere and hungry. He sank to his knees right there on the hard floor, the risk of discovery sharpening the thrill.

“Let me show you how much I’ve wanted this.”

He freed the rancher’s thick, veiny cut cock. It was already half-hard from the adrenaline of their game, roughly eight inches of solid meat with a slight upward curve and broad rosy head. Just the meaty build of a man who still ran the family organic farm near Big Sandy. Tester groaned low as Booker’s full lips wrapped around the broad head, the senator’s skilled mouth taking him deep with eager hunger. Booker moaned around the girth, savoring the salty taste of sweat and musk from the outdoor court, his powerful hands gripping Tester’s powerful meaty thighs. One hand drifted down to free his own thick, veiny cock, roughly seven and a half inches straight with a large head, already rock hard and leaking. He stroked himself in slow pulls, heavy balls swinging as he worked.

The Montana man didn’t hold back. He threaded the fingers of his good hand through the space where Booker’s hair would be on that shaved bald head and fucked his willing mouth with steady, deepening thrusts. Grunting with each push past those plush lips, balls slapping against Booker’s chin.

“Fuck, Cory… that mouth of yours,” Tester rasped, hips snapping faster, rounded belly bouncing lightly with the motion. “Takes cock better than any damn heifer I ever saw. You been starving for this country dick, ain’t you?”

Booker’s eyes watered but he urged him on, hollowing his cheeks, tongue swirling around the veiny shaft and probing the slit for more of that salty precum. He pumped his own cock harder, fist flying over the thick length, hips bucking into his grip while Tester used his mouth like a warm wet hole. Tester’s three-fingered left hand braced against the wall for balance, voice rough with earthy humor even in the middle of it.

“Shit fire, Booker, you keep sucking like that and I’m gonna paint your tonsils.”

Booker pulled off just long enough to gasp, “Yes, Jon. Fuck my face. Give it to me.”

Then he dove back on, taking the upward curve deep into his throat, gagging wetly around the broad head while he jerked himself faster, pre-cum slicking his fingers. Tester’s thrusts turned brutal, the solid meat of his cock pistoning in and out, heavy balls smacking Booker’s chin and lips. The rancher’s gravelly moans filled the alcove.

“Gonna come, you bastard. Take every drop.”

With a deep guttural moan, Tester came hard, flooding Booker’s throat with thick ropes of cum. Booker swallowed every drop, throat working visibly around the spurting head, his own fist flying until he erupted too, shooting thick jets across the floor between Tester’s cowboy boots. He pulled off only when Tester softened, a string of saliva and seed connecting his lips to the rosy head. Both men panted, sweat still cooling on their skin.

Tester helped Booker up with that strong callused hand and stole a rough kiss, tasting himself on the other man’s tongue.

“This ain’t a one-time thing,” he said, voice low and plain-spoken. “We find more time. Lots more. Next time I want that mouth again, then I’m burying this cock in that ass butt of yours. You hear me, Booker?”

Booker grinned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes bright.

“Deal, you mean, cantankerous, ornery son of a bitch. Same time next week after the Ag Committee meeting. I’ll be on my knees the second the door locks.”

They straightened their clothes, shirts still damp, ties crooked, and stepped back into the hallway like nothing had happened. The laughter from earlier still lingered in the air, now edged with something hotter and private.