Backdoor Scandal

Kenzie Taylor balances a phone on her shoulder while she scribbles an address. “Reporters are easy,” she tells the voice on the line. “Just smile, promise them access, and send them home happy.” Her associate chuckles, warns her to stay sharp, then the line clicks dead. A knock. She straightens her blazer, crosses the room, and opens the door. Serena Blair stands there in battered denim and an easy grin, camera bag slung low on one hip. Kenzie’s smile flickers, then clicks back into place. She offers her hand, cool and dry. Inside, Serena sets a recorder on the desk and slides into the guest chair. Kenzie sits opposite, ankles crossed, every inch the polished candidate. Questions start soft—budget reform, education plans—but Serena’s tone sharpens. She circles closer to private matters. Kenzie braces for the inevitable lesbian angle. Instead, Serena leans in and says the word “anal” like it’s a loaded gun. “I keep quiet about what I know,” Serena offers, voice low, “if you show me how much you like it.” Kenzie’s pulse kicks. The last thing a campaign needs is a backdoor scandal. Still, she rises, peels off her blazer, and walks around the desk until she’s standing over Serena’s open knees. Blonde hair slips free of its clip. Big, natural breasts press against silk as she bends forward, palms flat on the polished wood. Serena’s fingers find her, slick, coaxing, then pressing deeper. Kenzie exhales, hips rocking, the room thick with the sound of wet skin and sharp breathing. Every careful thrust makes her forget the microphone still running on the desk, until the only headline that matters is the one written in sweat down her spine.