Collecting up the rest of my clothes, my head slightly hanging between my shoulders. In this day and age, the word ‘Nymphomania’ is tossed around about as much as said ‘nymphos,’ but I truly believe both Devon and I suffer with this condition. Both for different reasons. I don’t know much about Devon’s family life.
In fact, any time I ever asked about his family he always shut down, but I know my reasons have a lot to do with my home life. You know, ‘she wasn’t loved enough as a child’ blah blah. It’s all fun and games until someone really wasn’t ‘loved enough as a child.’ I have issues. Deep issues that I run away from by the temporary void sex gives me. I’m working on it, I guess. But if I’m being honest, I haven’t gotten much better.
“Well…” Devon places his bowl on my dresser, coming further into my room. I watch as each muscle clenches with every movement. “You know I can scratch that itch, baby.”
“Don’t!” I hold a single finger up. “I’m not… no. I’ll be okay. I’ll go out with Jen tonight.”
I could go out with Jen, but in all honesty, a night out with Jen isn’t always a good time.
“Baby, you know you need it…” Devon begins, inching toward me. “You need to find you a daddy. One who will not just rock your world, but fucking smash it into pieces.” Devon starts air humping the post of my bed, and I toss my shirt at him.
“Get out!”
I need a new best friend.
Once he finally leaves, I tug on my jeans, jumping up and down to squeeze the goods in and then throw my shirt over my head. Walking into the bathroom, I fluff my dark hair up until it falls in natural waves down to my tailbone. I quickly dust on some make-up, I don’t wear much of it and hardly wear it so it’s all cracked and old. Brushing on my mascara, I chance a real look at myself in the mirror. I wouldn’t say I was unfortunate in the looks department, but I have insecurity issues that I fight with every day, which is why, in short, I have sex with men because it makes me feel good. It fills a void that was left inside of me when my mom abandoned me and my nonexistent father decided that his career was more important than raising his daughter. So yes, I enjoy sex. It’s something that makes me feel good—what’s so wrong with enjoying that? I’m so sick of the slut-shaming in this day and age. A girl gets called a slut if she has the sexual appetite of a man.
Well, I’d wear that badge with pride and polish it with my middle finger.
Exhaling, I place my mascara back into my make-up bag and look back at myself in the mirror. My eyes are a deep green, almost like greenstone, while my skin is more on the paler side — thanks to my mom’s Scandinavian heritage. I do have my father’s angular jawline and his small pixie nose. I think. I’ve only ever seen one photo of my mom and it was an old image of her and my dad sitting around a dinner table. The photo was in color—I’m not that old— but it’s the only time I’ve ever seen a photo of her. I have her skin and eyes, from what I could see. Maybe even her black heart.
Shoving my phone into my back pocket, I head out of my bedroom and into our tiny living room. We live in a small apartment in the French Quarters of New Orleans, but my parent’s house—outside of the Whitehouse, the house I grew up in— is in Greenwich in Connecticut. So every time I have to fly home, that’s a two-hour flight. Lydia always pushes me to use my father’s private jet, but I’d be much more comfortable traveling amongst civilians just in case someone decides to shoot my father’s plane down or something crazy like that. Running for second term presidency, we have Peter S. Johnson. Aka, my dad. Though he’s never been overly active in my life as a teen, he’s still my dad. He stands for family values but doesn’t seem to have any himself. Figures. In order for him to keep up appearances and keep his unscathed name peachy and squeaky clean, I have obligations. It’s unfortunate really, and it’s why I moved to New Orleans in hopes
to leave all this behind me, or rather, run away from it all. But no matter how fast and how good I am at running—
“One of your MIB taking you to the airport?” MIB is code for Men in Black.
Sometimes, Devon will even drop down and sing his own version of the Will Smith song.
Yep. Secret services. The president’s daughter gets zero play time. It’s why, occasionally, (maybe like three times), I have done a solid runner. Before I can answer Devon, my phone beeps and I slide it open.
Isa, Jerry will take you straight to the airport. Try to be early, please. You’re a headache for all the workers.
Ahhh, now by workers, I’m guessing she’s talking about my friend Daniel who is also the pilot of our private jet. This is my father’s second league running, so all the workers are well acquainted with me. I send a message back to Lydia.
(rolls eyes)
Not funny, Isa.
(double rolls eyes)
….
See you soon.
I giggle, tossing my phone back onto my bed. She has a point, and I shouldn’t be making the workers’ life extra hard. Truth is, most of them have been around me more than my father because he’s just never home. After gathering up the last of my things and tossing them into my suitcase, I yell out, “Devon!” while scooping my hair into a high ponytail.
He saunters into my room with a towel wrapped around his torso. Water is still cascading down his rippling muscles, and I swear to God, fucking steam I still floating off his skin. The sweet smell of his soap hits me instantly, and I come hither him. “My family stressed me out.” I end with a pout.
Devon grins, gripping the edge of the towel and dropping it, giving me a full display of his athletic body. His thick cock falls into the palm of his hand, all angry and hot.
He pumps himself once, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth. “Come wrap your lips around me, Isa, and suck me good like I know you can.”
I walk toward him, dropping to my knees while looking up at him from under my lashes. “Always.” Then I wrap my lips around Devon’s length, sucking on him slowly and licking around the rim of his cock. Peeking up at him, I slowly suck him deep down my throat. He groans, gripping my hair and tugging my hair back until the tip of his cock is resting on my plump lower lip. He grips his dick, rubbing his tip all over my lips.
“God, I want you to be mine, Isa.”
Ice fucking water. Nope. No. I inch back, my mouth slamming shut and my jaw tensing. “You know the rules, Devon. Say something like that again and I’ll find someone else to fuck me.”
He growls softly. “Fine. Get on the bed.”
I obey, and Devon does what he does best. Making me feel good, wanted, sexy. All until I can’t feel my legs and I almost miss my flight. Oops.
3
Slipping on some Jimmy Choos, I straighten my tits in my dress and run my nude lipstick over my lips one last time. As soon as I landed yesterday, I crashed at a hotel. Jerry and his MIB’s probably would have rather I be at the White House, you know, thus making their life and job a little easier, but the less time I spend with my dad, the better. For my own sanity.
“Thanks, Jerry!” I knock on the glass separator in the back of the limo, fluffing up my hair. It cranks down, and Jerry’s eyes come to mine in the rearview mirror. “I’ll be a few minutes. Behave yourself, Isa.”
“Aw,” I tease, giving him a small wink. “I always behave myself, and anyway, what could I possibly get myself into at the palace?”
He sighs, and then the separator is closing. I guess that conversation is over. I shouldn’t give Jerry such a hard time, but I’m guessing he’s used to it now what with almost five years dealing with me. Sighing, I gaze out the window as we pull in. I hate this place. It represents all things that I’m not. I’m not superior, nor do I think I am. I know that not all presidential candidates are like that, but my father, though he has America’s best interest at heart – always—is. He seems to leave his kids—my sister and I—to fend for ourselves almost all of the time. Or, he likes to think that all the men he has employed will do it for him. Which they do – every time. More Jerry than anyone else, but I always have at least three secret service agents following me around twenty-four seven. I’ve played poker with Jerry. He has chased away my one-night stand guys who wouldn’t leave my apartment. He has answered my cell phone when other guys never got a clue that I wasn’t interested, pretending to be my Navy Seal husband. In that regard, though, Jerry would be way scarier than any Navy Seal. My sister, on the other hand, isn’t as much hard work. She has her own MIB’s that follow her around, including her very own Jerry, who goes by the name of Chan. I’m truly not sure whether his actual name is Chan, I’ve just always called him that because he resembles Jackie Chan, and I never cared to know what his real name was. She’s the poster child for my