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Power Played (CuteLittleWeasel and Safehold)

Safehold

Planetoid
Joined
Mar 22, 2012
Location
Kansas
Drake Milton rolled his powerfully built shoulders and adjusted his blood red tie just a touch while he rode the elevator down.

The trip always amused him, mainly because of the indicator which showed his "floor" above the elevator's indicator panel.


L... B1... B2... B3... B4... 1C... 2C... 3C... 4C... 5C... 6C... 7C... 8C... ∞.

"Arrived, Plane of Treachery," the sweet and oddly seductive-sounding computerized voice in the elevator cabin said. Drake raised an eyebrow. That was new. Had the CEO made a decision to have the Pleasure Department record that? It struck him as a suitable enough possibility for his wandering mind while he stepped outside the elevator into the completely frozen-over realm that was the Executive Office. He looked himself over one final time with scarlet eyes to ensure that his garb was spotless. For a mere second-tier operative as himself, coming down here was both a nice change, he reflected as a gust of air impacted his face, and a guaranteed-to-be massive case of the nerves. Stories of operatives who had displeased the CEO in his presence enough to be frozen solid into the walls down here like the rest and left for all eternity were widely present at Pleasure Department water coolers. Everyone in his own Office of Seduction and Corruption within the Department figured they were only stories. What good did it do to dispense with perfectly productive employees in such a fashion? The CEO wasn't an evil man, he just had a job to do like everyone else. And far as Drake could see as he proceeded down the equivalent of an ice cavern toward the Executive Office's private suite, there were no signs of anything that was frozen which definitely shouldn't be.

Drake felt an air of reassurance fall over him and then begin to dissipate as he approached the door. It was time. He gripped the handle, which flashed red and then blue at his touch, and opened it. That was when his eyes widened. Gone was any sign of the ice cavern, instead replaced by a massive balcony leading out over... Manhattan Island? That didn't make any sense. Why would the CEO have his office out in the open air at a place like... well whatever. He took a look around his surroundings. The balcony, to which the door had clearly teleported him to, was seemingly on the roof of a large structure. There were no walls and it was exposed to the open air, which was somewhat disorienting against the New York Cityscape. On either side were run-off fountains which, using a mechanism that probably employed DevilTech to a certain degree, Drake thought, allowed water to run off the sides as if into nothingness before returning it to whence it came. At the end was only a very simple desk, and there sat the CEO. As the "man" was perhaps the single most powerful being who still retained any interest in the mortal plane, it was quite an experience to finally meet him. Drake earnestly hoped that the encounter would not proved to be fatal. The CEO diverted his attention from where it had previously been focused and smiled. "Ah, Drake! Drake my man, thank you for coming! Sit, sit, please!"

Drake rather hurriedly, showing a lack of his almost iron-composure took one of the plush red chairs positioned in front of the desk. "Excellent!" He then offered his hand. "What a pleasure to meet S&C's up-and-comer at last!" The CEO moved his hands in a brief rotating maneuver that was akin to playful mock-boxing. Was that his way of showing that he was impressed? "I've been following you quite closely, Drake! I'm certain you're my guy... and the thing about me is, on these things, I'm usually right!" He smiled broadly.

"I'm sorry, sir, your guy for what?" Drake shot out the challenge before even thinking. Oh shit. Had he just committed the worst (and all things considered, probably last) faux pas of his career?

"Right to the point! I like that." Drake gave a small smile. Okay, so maybe that was a good sign. The CEO folded his hands behind his back and turned to stare out at the city. "Ahh... but will you look at 'em all. Each and every single one going about his or daily life when they could be the person who swings things in my favor once and for all. And yet they just follow the system like good little worker bees. Sure we need worker bees, just ask S&M!" The CEO, Drake realized, was referring to the (relatively) pacifically-named Department of Supervision and Management, who were "upstairs" relative to the location Drake had just come from. "But here, on the mortal plane, they all do it. Let themselves be enslaved by money and structure one after the other. Well, all of 'em, save a few. One of those few is why I've brought'cha down here today." He turned and pinned his right hands' fingertips on a common manila folder, then flipped it open. The pages were blank but an image of a highly attractive and sophisticated-looking woman was burned into his mind. Without knowing any better, Drake would figure her for one of his co-workers, but he knew everyone at the Office... quite well, actually, as S&C policy mandated operatives regularly practice the abilities which defined their purpose on one another. But it became clear that the image was of a mortal human. Interesting.

"Meet Clair Louise Winton, candidate for United States Senate right here in the great state'a New York!" The CEO was obviously quite proud of the mortal realm and the accent of which he chose to mimic. "I'll keep it simple son, you've got a new job, as her new Special Campaign Advisor. You're gonna help her win, and though she don't know it, she's gonna help us, while also helping out her constituents in ways that I'd like to help them! It's what I like to call a win-win-win, see?"

Drake smiled and slowly began to nod his head.
 
Clair Louise Winton had never taken no for an answer and she wasn't about to start now. She'd made it far in her life, starting out as the child of a single mother, poor and fighting tooth and nail for what she could get. And she got everything she set her sights on. Married young and definitely socially-upward, learned to fake her way in with the social elite until people couldn't even tell she wasn't born in their circles until they had people do some digging on her.

Which was fine. She didn't mind when they found out just where she came from. The way she saw it, it was just one more reason for them to not underestimate her.

And then her husband died, after just eight years of marriage and no, no matter what some of the gossip rags had to say about it, she had had nothing to do with his heart-attack. She had loved him, in a way, just not the head-over-heels kinds of love everyone was waxing poetically on. He'd had a wicked, sharp mind and, if anything, she had always felt that he was trustworthy.

And then he died and left her with a lot of money. More money than she'd known what to do with. She'd always wanted to be rich but when she had it, she still wanted more. She wanted to do something big, be remembered for something unique.

A new goal was born in the wake of her husband's death, She was going to become the USA's first female president and she was going to do it while she was still young and stunning.

Clair had no illusions or misgivings about her looks. She was stunning. Jet black hair with a natural curl and curves a lot of Hollywood starlets would kill for. Of course, the stick-thin look was in these days, but no one could fool her into think that that was what all men wanted.

Her way to presidency was chopped into short steps. Right then, the stage was United States Senate. Or well, current mini-goal.

The campaign was turning into a drag, though. She pinched the bridge of her nose and levelled a glare to end all glares at the man in front of her.

"Pray tell," she said, in a quiet, calm voice, "why do I even need a new 'Special Campaign Advisor'?"

She didn't like advisors. They were always telling her what to do or not to do and completely lacked whatever would pass in their heads for a clue about what it meant to be a woman in the running for the senate. They were, at the best of times, utterly frustrating and, at the worst of times, trying to get her into a bikini of all things.

She was not doing this on sex-appeal. She would not become a president remembered as the Ms. July President.

"Could you at least meet with him, ma'am?" the man tried.

Clair glared. Again. Probably still. She wasn't really in the mood to let up on the glaring if they weren't going to let up on the being idiots.

"Will that make you shut up?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Fine, I'll meet with him and tell him his services are no longer needed." She waved her hand, just to get the underling out of her office.
 
"Councilwoman Winton will see you now, Mr. Milton." The aide said as he approached Drake, who was seated on a rather comfortable if somewhat bland reception bench. The office was right about what he expected, and he had not taken advantage of his ability to gain a first hand look of the place remotely. That would just be cheating. Per his usual shtick, Drake adjusted his blood-red tie before pivotal encounters. Unlike the meeting with the CEO, he was not at all concerned about his ability to perform here, but it still did not good to jinx the situation. He smirked as he thought of how truly absurd it was for someone like himself to attempt to control such a fleeting thing as luck, but you couldn't argue with tradition.

He approached the aide, probing his mind for his basic personal information. The return, conducted subtly (Drake could actively reach into another's mind for all sorts of purposes, but used on the wrong individual, such abilities were dangerous and the process wasn't exactly kosher relative to what everyone else in the immediate area could see and hear). He found what he was looking for with practiced ease after a few moment's delay, a thing that only caused his subject to wonder why Drake hadn't said anything yet. Zach Roden, age 30, personal aide to New York City Councilwoman Winton and candidate for United States Senate. Worked for her for a year, so not a close associate, but... Drake's eyes widened. This man was gay. That might come in use later... Drake by no means "swung that way" as the mortals liked to say, but he nonetheless filed it away into the depths of his supernatural memory. In the right circumstances, even a somewhat trusted controlled underling was a useful agent.

"Thanks, uh, Zach." Drake smiled and walked to the office door.

Show time. Drake's eyes flashed as he mentally commanded his physical body to pump out the exquisitely custom pheromones. Since he designed them, they had not exactly been field tested yet, but Drake noticed Zach the aide divert his attention to him as he opened the door -- that was a good indication. He smiled. This might yet prove to be fun. An ordinary mortal woman, if everything went to plan, wouldn't be able to keep her clothes on for very long at all after just a few minutes exposure if Drake engineered the situation properly. He didn't conceive taking the good Councilwoman right here and now, but anything could happen. He took in a breath and put on his best smile as he walked into her office.
 
She looked up when he entered. She hadn't meant to. The plan had been to ignore the guy until he got of fidgety and uncomfortable. She had wanted to make him feel like he didn't matter to her and that she definitely didn't need him. Looking up when he entered? Not giving that message. Rather more the opposite, if she was being honest. She didn't even know why she had looked up. Or why she couldn't find the strength in herself to look away. Sure, the guy was good looking, but she'd seen better.

Okay. That was a lie.

Still! She was supposed to be above such base impulses. She didn't have time for sexual desire for anyone, let alone someone who worked for her.

No, wait, was supposed to work for her but whom she was going to fire. Or tell him that he wasn't going to work for her.

Something like that.

She swallowed and licked her lips. Be strong. Be strong, Strength and determination and all that good stuff.

Hmmm... good stuff. No! Focus!

"Mr. Milton, I presume," she said and gestured at the chair across from her desk. "Sit down."
 
Drake smiled perfect pearly whites as he took the invited chair.

"Ahh, that's quite comfy." It wasn't really, but with the pheromones on full-blast, Drake knew that the woman's mind would be racing in moments and any notes of pleasure from him would send it in directions which he wished to go. "I can tell that you know how to make your visitors feel..." he stressed the word, "feel," ever so slightly, "special."

He offered his hand. "As you're aware, I'm Drake Milton. It's a pleasure." Again, his pattern of speech stressed the word just perceptibly, something she would be consciously oblivious to, but also something her subconscious mind would wrap itself around and drag her thoughts along with it. His blood heated as he could feel the seed of her corruption already spreading.

The catalyst lie in his palm. A chemical concoction enhanced by his own abilities and the latest DevilTech put out by Seduction and Corruption's R&D Office. The moment that she touched it, her blood would heat and, field tests had shown, physical arousal progressed within thirty seconds. Absent sexual stimulation, which produced 99% positive results, most female test subjects had begun masturbating as soon as they were put into a place where they believed they were alone -- and sometimes before.

Drake considered the Councilwoman once more. It was always fun when his targets were actually hot. Every S&D agent started out with the shit assignments. Gay targets, or lesbians in the case of female operatives (though the Succubus Office's people were not often complainant about the later). The physically unfit, sometimes grossly so. Drug addicts or others with disgusting and sometimes dangerous traits. Everything and everyone imaginable in the mortal realm -- the CEO picked a wide swath of marks.

But everything about Councilwoman Winton was agreeable. She was clean, she was fit, she was pretty, and she was powerful. It was well known that even junior members of the NYC Council as herself were key influence brokers in the New York Metro area, which despite amusing notions to the contrary, essentially was everything there was to experience about the states of New York and New Jersey. She was currently a long shot in the US Senate race, but even if she lost, it would be a critical career step which would reap her great rewards later.

But she had no intention of losing, Drake could see, subtly probing her mind. And Drake did not either.
 
She shook the offered hand before she could help herself. Stupid. Stupid. This was not helping her efforts to try and make this Mr. Milton feels as unwelcome as possible.It was almost as if she wanted him there. Not part of the plan. So not part of the plan several times over. here was just something so utterly distracting about this man. It had to be him. She hadn't felt even the slightest twinge of anything before he entered the room. Her eyes narrowed. It had to be his fault, and yet she couldn't be completely angry with him.

In fact, as much as it annoyed her, there was a part of her that was very curious about what he'd look like under or without his clothes. There was even a part of her that wondered what it would feel like to be held down by him, right there on her desk, her legs wrapped around his face and him buried deep inside of her. That was even the most vanilla part of her curiosity about this man.

"Tell me, Mr. Milton," she started, and cursed herself for the slightly breathy quality her voice took on. Damn it. She was better than this. She coughed and tried again, though she didn't manage to completely banish the breathiness from her voice. "Tell me, Mr. Milton, why should you work on this campaign? How do you think you can help me?"

Her mind all too readily supplied a number of way he could help her out. Perhaps she'd just hadn't had sex in too long a time. That had to be it. This was just her sex-drive rearing its ugly head. Masturbation really didn't cut it, these days, but it was all she could get.
 
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