THE CONGRESSMAN'S SON – ACT II, PART I

PART I: THE FALL’S GONNA KILL YOU

THE WHITE HOUSE — COMMUNICATIONS BULLPEN
Washington, D.C.

The photocopier rhythmically churned, a steady, chopping cadence that had long since faded into the building’s white noise. Paper slid into the tray in precise, uniform stacks, but Adrian watched the accumulation with glazed eyes, his mind elsewhere. All around him, the bullpen hummed with its usual frantic energy—phones chirping incessantly, aides darting between desks like pinballs, and the sharp, relentless clacking of nails against keyboards. He kept his chin down, focusing on the mechanical repetition, trying to dissolve into the background of the West Wing churn.

A few desks away, the air shifted as voices drifted over. They were hushed, deliberate whispers—the kind of gossip that masqueraded as a secret while secretly begging for an audience. It was the classic D.C. maneuver: a conversation that pretended to be private without actually checking the perimeter.

“I am telling you,” one of the secretaries insisted, her body angled sharply toward her colleague, “we were stuck here until way past midnight grinding through those binders. I saw the whole thing with my own two eyes. Taylor Reed. The Deputy NSA himself. Walked right out the door by the Secret Service.”

The woman opposite her blinked, her skepticism warring with her curiosity. “Secret Service? You sure it wasn’t just standard security?”

“Secret Service,” the first woman repeated, the words tasting like a prize she’d been itching to unveil. Her voice dropped an octave, gaining a jagged edge of certainty. “And they didn’t even bother with the side exit. They paraded him straight through the main corridor. It was like a midnight execution. Like they wanted the message to land.”

“Are you sure you aren’t just leaning into the drama?” the second woman asked, though the doubt in her voice was beginning to fray.

“Hand to freakin’ God,” she said, pressing her palm flat against the desk for emphasis.

“Meg, you only go to church on Christmas and Easter. I don’t even think God knows you exist.”

“Sarah, tell Rose what we saw,” Meg said, turning to the third woman with desperation edging her voice.

Sarah barely looked up from the stack of papers in front of her. “I was seeing the back of my eyelids after doing all those binders. They aren’t even gonna read all that shit—you know this place isn’t satisfied until you’ve gone through at least forty-seven reams of paper a day.” She was going all the way off script now, her frustration bleeding through.

“Sarah!”

“I mean, for real—how do you even draft a report on forest preservation when you’re burning through half the damn woods just to print it? Those bastards in Legislative Affairs still haven’t figured out how to share a goddamn printer—”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake—Jillian, you were standing right there,” Meg said, her voice sharp as she pivoted toward the third woman, the desperation for backup bleeding through. “Tell her what we saw.”

“He didn’t even have his jacket,” Jillian said, her voice dropping. “No bag. Nothing. Just—vanished.”

Adrian’s hand froze against the copier lid. The machine continued its rhythmic, mechanical chopping, paper sliding into the uncollected stack, but he didn’t move. He kept his chin down, body angled just enough to catch the drift of the conversation without breaking his cover in the bullpen churn.

“No explanation?” the second woman asked, the skepticism in her voice finally giving way to a jagged edge of curiosity.

“Zero. He’s just… gone. And the whole floor is acting like it never happened.”

Meg leaned in, her eyes wide with the thrill of the unveiling. “And you will never believe who walked in right before they paraded him out—Evelyn fucking Hart.”

“Is that the bitch who looks like she was forged in a pantsuit?” Sarah asked, finally looking up from her reams of paper, her interest fully piqued.

Meg pressed her palm flat against the desk like she was taking an oath. “Exactly. The Iron Langley Lady herself. Hand to God.”

“Meg, sweetheart,” Rose said, a tired smile tugging at her lips, “I don’t think God even knows you exist, so the oath is probably wasted. And I believe the phrase is the Iron Lady of Langley.”

“But I’ll tell you this much,” Sarah interjected, leaning back as she warmed to the drama, “for someone who dresses like she’s on the Versace payroll, she has the most pathetic hang-up for those damn kitten heels. Seriously, just wear flats. What is the point of being 1.28 inches off the floor?”

Jillian snorted, the sound echoing in the hushed space. “Maybe she thinks it makes her look more approachable.”

“Approachable?” Sarah’s eyebrows shot up. “That woman could freeze hell over with one look. Trust me, the heels aren’t helping.”

The conversation tapered, the secretaries lowering their tone into something indecipherable. Phones continued to ring. The room’s normal rhythm swallowed the moment.

Adrian gathered his copies, stacked them neatly, but his mind had already slipped the track. Evenlyn Hart. Taylor Reed. Secret Service. Escorted out in the middle of the night. No explanation.

Something had cracked open. And it wasn’t gossip anymore.

The rest of the day was no more exciting than the way it started. Adrian tried to focus on his tasks—briefing notes, scheduling conflicts, the usual churn of White House minutiae—but his phone buzzed against his thigh. He pulled it out, glancing down at the screen. A message from Spencer lit up: Come over after work.

Before Adrian could respond, a second ping arrived. Then a photo loaded. Then another.

Spencer knew exactly how to pose, how to catch the light, and how to undo Adrian with a single shot.

Adrian’s breath caught. He shifted in his chair, his pulse spiking as heat crawled up his neck. Waiting until after work felt impossible. His slacks were already too tight, his body betraying him as the images stacked in his messages, each one more intense than the last. He slipped his phone into his pocket and stood, scanning the bullpen with forced casualness. No one was watching.

Without a word, he walked out and made for the nearest bathroom.

Inside, he locked himself in a stall and pulled out his phone again. The screen glowed with Spencer’s messages, and Adrian’s thumb hovered over the first image before he opened it fully.

In the first photo, Spencer was sprawled across his bed in low light, one arm bent behind his head, the other tugging the waistband of his briefs low enough to hint without revealing. The angle was perfect—deliberate—so much so that Adrian knew he must be using some type of tripod. The next had him leaning against the bathroom sink, towel slung dangerously low on his hips, his chest slick as if he’d just stepped from the shower. The last left nothing to imagination—Spencer was fully hard, his hand wrapped tight around the thick length of his cock, eyes fixed on the camera with a hungry smirk, as if daring Adrian to wait until the end of the day.

Before he could type a response, the phone vibrated again—Spencer firing back with a text even spicier than the photos themselves: Gonna bend you over the second you walk in my door.

Adrian bit his lip, heat blooming in his chest and spreading lower. His fingers moved fast across the screen: Not if I pin you down first.

The thread spiraled quickly:

Spencer: You won’t last long enough to try.
Adrian: I’m already hard thinking about it.
Spencer: Then get in here and let me take care of it.

Thumbs moved faster than his thoughts, each message sharper, filthier than the last.

Adrian: Send me another pic. I want to see you stroking it.
Spencer: Only if you send me one back, show me that bulge in the West Wing bathroom.
Adrian: Fuck, you’re evil. But fine.

He angled the camera, snapped, and sent. The reply came fast:

Spencer: Jesus. You’re not gonna make it through the day like that.
Adrian: Then talk me through it until I can’t think straight.
Spencer: Gladly. First thing I’m gonna do is drop to my knees and take every inch of you down my throat.
Adrian: Keep going.

The thread built like a house of cards that was about to blow over at any moment, every ping another wave of heat. Adrian leaned back against the stall door, cock straining, every muscle taut, caught between duty and the need to give in right there on government time.

Then the phone buzzed again—this time an incoming call. Spencer’s name lit up the screen. Adrian stared at it for a heartbeat, pulse hammering in his throat. He hesitated, thumb hovering over the green icon, then slid it across the screen and brought the phone to his ear.

He couldn’t speak. Not here. Not with voices echoing just outside the bathroom door, footsteps passing in the hallway just a few feet away. But Spencer didn’t need him to.

“I know you can’t say a word,” Spencer’s voice poured through the speaker, low and rough, intimate in a way that made Adrian’s breath catch. “So just listen while you stroke your cock for me.”

He reached in his other pocket and pulled out the AirPod case and slipped one into his ear and left the other out so he could listen in case someone walked in, the he shoved the case in pocket and his phone in the other.

Adrian’s hand moved almost involuntarily, palm sliding down to cup himself through his slacks. The pressure made him bite back a groan.

“You’re hard, aren’t you?” Spencer continued, voice dropping even lower. “Thinking about my mouth wrapped around your cock? Thinking about how I’d take you all the way down?”

Adrian’s hand moved properly now, working himself through the fabric at first, then fumbling with his belt, his zipper. Slow at first, then faster as Spencer kept talking, kept painting pictures with that voice.

“I want you leaking by the time you leave that stall. I want you so wound up that the second you see me tonight, you’ll forget your own name and just beg for more.”