Presidential Pursuit: A Kamala Harris lesbian love story

Chapter 13

"You're mine, Emily."

The scene was making it increasingly difficult for me to concentrate. Her fingers around my neck made my whole body react; I could feel my heartbeat pulsing through my underwear. The entire speech I had prepared for a confrontation such as this was nearly out the window, but aside from being turned on as shit, my emotions were getting the best of me. Both because I loved hearing those words come out of her mouth and because I hated how true they were: I was hers, but she wasn't mine

"No," I said quietly, looking straight into her pupils. I wanted my words to sound factual, but they came out uncertain, almost remorseful.

Her hands gripped a little harder, pulling me forward ever so slightly until my lips crashed into hers. My body betrayed me almost immediately at the sensation, and my mouth started to move in unison with her movements. A soft moan escaped my throat as she drew my bottom lip into her mouth, and I could feel her smirk against the kiss before pulling away to gaze at me once more.

"I want to hear you say it."

My eyes were begging her to stop. My words were begging her too, but my body wasn't cooperating anymore. I was a walking contradiction. A pathetic paradox. My skin was burning, my lips were vibrating, my brain was malfunctioning, and I wanted more. I felt like I was going insane. I didn't want her to, but I needed her to stop. It was now or never.

Break the cycle today, or the pattern will repeat tomorrow.

"No. I—I can't. It's not true," I said, panting, speaking between labored breaths. It came out with more confidence, but nowhere near enough. My reluctance and hesitation to genuinely push her away spoke louder than the words.

She looked hurt, maybe even angry, but it lasted all of five seconds before something else overtook her features. It was a look of determination; her eyes were sparkling, like she took my testimony as a challenge. In that very moment, I started praying.

Dear God, I'm begging you—please, please, please, save me. I'll do anything: go to church, repent, whatever it takes. Please, please make her stop or give me the willpower to resist. Amen.

With sturdy fingers still gripping my skin, a leg moved up slightly along the door and between my legs, so that the full weight of my body was now resting on her thigh. I closed my eyes and swallowed hard at the contact. She wasn't making this easy at all. Once upon a time, all I ever wanted was for Kamala to fuck the shit out of me, but now?...I mean duh I still wanted to—before I'm anything, I'm devastatingly gay for her. But was it worth the cost? If I give it, I'm essentially giving up my dignity; she's married, she's unavailable, and whether she means to or not, she's toying with my heart. Internally, I refused to give her whatever twisted satisfaction she craved from this—but it was too late. These thoughts are just that: thoughts—empty, hollow, meaningless. There's no substance; in the end, here I am, at her mercy.

"Oh, really?" She smiled at me wickedly.

"We'll see about that," she said before releasing her grip to gain access to the bare skin on my neck. Her lips traveled up my collarbone in tiny pecks. She lingered right below my ear and nipped at the skin with her teeth, sucking at it to a rhythm I couldn't hear. The sensation felt so good. My mouth was wide open and my brows tightly knit, caught in the intense struggle between pain and pleasure. It was heavenly. Up until now, I remained motionless, arms to the side, using the texture of the door behind me to keep myself grounded in reality, but my hands forgot the mission; they moved up to her hips, pressing our bodies even closer and creating more pressure between her thigh and my center. I felt myself gently starting to grind against it, along with the imaginary rhythm I felt from her lips on my neck. My breathing intensified, and the moans I was attempting to conceal got harder to suppress; I was doing my best to trap them in my mouth. Shocker!— it wasn't working. Her hands traveled up my blouse without breaking any point of contact and ripped the seam apart. I wasn't resisting at all anymore; I don't know who I was trying to kid. I was in the palm of this woman's hand, but I still refused to make such an incriminating statement to her for my own sake. A statement that could not be reciprocated with any ounce of truth or honesty from her end.