Ticket Flipped: Black Woman on Top

Chapter 1 of DOMINANT COLORS, a satire of the 2024 election.

“Dick, you got us into this mess, and now I’m going to have to use you to get us out of it!” Victoria Davis shouted at me.

That bitch, I thought. Wait, I can’t think like that if I want to survive in the new era of Equality Party politics. Anyway, Davis was Chanda Robinson’s top aide. She was a strong black woman, and she thought she ought to be taking over as the senior campaign manager just because Vice President Robinson had replaced ol Bob Scranton at the top of the ticket.

Davis was tall — taller than me in the stylish silver heels with wrap-around ankle straps she wore — and put together immaculately. Her white robe-like mini blazer dress with a cape hanging down in back hugged her body, which was might fine if I do say so myself. She’d fit in at a cocktail hour just as well as she did at the office.

Lately, she’d been fitting in too damn well at the office. Even before the debate debacle and the unraveling of the Scranton campaign, she was gunning for my job. Just forty years old, thirty-five years my junior, Davis was known as a rising star in DC circles.

There were those pundits who thought she would take over as campaign manager in 2024. There were those who thought Scranton shouldn’t even run at all. Said he was too old. Hell, he wasn’t much older than me! Even Scranton had privately told me he was unsure if he would run again. I told him not to give up. (I really needed the paycheck.)

This is an excerpt from Dominant Colors, a 9,000-word satirical novella about the 2024 election. Dominant Colors is available for purchase for $2.99 in the Kindle store and is free for Kindle Unlimited subscribers.

I’d known the guy since he was first elected to the U.S. Senate, in the days before a president’s State of the Union Address was broadcast in color. Davis might have been on her way up, but I had my own record of accomplishments. I had helped many great Congressmen and Presidents get elected, people like Rep. Pit O’Deal, statesmen like Sen. Calvin Sale, who was nicknamed “the grand wizard of the legislature.” (I sometimes harken for a return to those good ol days. Back then, folks would work together — New Deal dems and segregationists joining hands to compromise on fundamental civil rights!!!)

I’d advised the presidential campaigns of the Equality Party greats, guys like Landon “Bombs” Richardson, Timmothy Carver, and Jeffrey Hope. My guys always won! I had a knack for identifying a strong candidate and buttering them up so that they would pick me for a plush job.

Then, in the achievement I was most proud of, I helped get the first black President elected to the Oval Office. I saw that Sen. Faisal Otieno was thinking about running for the presidency. Admittedly, I wondered if he could do it — a black man with a funny name winning Iowa, y’know? — but I commissioned some polls, and he was winning big, so I decided to join his team and make history.

Otieno had picked my old pal, Bobby Scranton, for Vice President, heeding my advice that he needed an experienced guy of English heritage to win the trust of ordinary middle-class white Americans in the heartland.

After Otieno, the country suffered through the national nightmare of D.T. Tarnum, who had taken over the Nationalist Party and rebranded it as the National Populist Party (NPP).

Luckily, Scranton jumped into the presidential race to defeat Tarnum and deny him reelection in 2020. But Tarnum was running again, and Scranton had lost a step since his last campaign against the brute. There was so much pressure on him that finally he did the unthinkable: he dropped out and let Vice President Robinson run in his place.

Now, Davis was trying to blame the failure of Scranton all on me! Scranton and his people deserved more respect!

“Excuse me, but you don’t call me Dick. You address me as Mr. Maurice. I am still the chief strategist for this campaign,” I said.

“You think you are the chief strategist? Ha! Your guy is gone, and it’s because of you! Your time is up. We’re the new generation of Americans, and we’re not going to let you drag us down anymore.”

“If it weren’t for you calling for Scranton to drop out — “

“Scranton wasn’t pushed out. He tripped on his own shoelace and fell down five flights of stairs. Everyone saw it. And it’s your fault for convincing him to run again for your own greed. You are the one who made him look like a fool.”

“Don’t say that about me! I love Bob Scranton!”

“You did nothing to get him ready for the campaign. You were supposed to be prepping him for the debate, but you were drinking Manhattans and smoking cigars with your ol pals instead.”

“That’s not true. I did a 45-minute prep session with him the day before the debate.”

“A 45-minute session for a 90-minute debate. What were you doing the other five days when you were lounging at the retreat? You’ve never helped any politician win any race in your life. You’ve always just globbed onto whoever was already going to win and nodded ‘yes’ to their own plans. Well, it didn’t work this time, did it?”

“That’s not true! I got Otieno elected. I made history!”

“Oh, that’s rich. An old white man like yourself trying to take credit from Otieno and his army of volunteers. Refresh my memory, but where were you during that campaign? I didn’t see you knocking on doors, registering voters, driving the vans to take people to the polls, filing lawsuits to challenge racist voting restrictions, or digging deep into the cross-tabs of thousands of polls and crafting messages that resonated. That was me and my girls and many others like us. And now, we’re going to clean up your mess. Once again, it is up to black women to save America.”

“You can’t kick me out!”

“Kick you out? We’d never dream of it! But we have a role that is more suited to your abilities.”

“I’m either in charge, or I’m gone.”

“I thought you wanted what was best for America? I thought this election was about things bigger than personal ambition? Isn’t that what you were saying last week when it looked like Scranton was trying to hold on?”

“Spare me the bullshit. If you and ‘your girls’ are so good at what you do, what do you even need me for?”

“You’re right that we don’t need you to win the election. We need you to make us comfortable as we do our work.”

“You can forget that. I’m out of here.”

I turned to walk away. But Davis spoke in the most authoritative tone I had ever heard someone speak in.

“Stop. Do you really want the pictures to get out there?”

“What pictures?”

“The pictures you paid the News Inquirer not to publish. Don’t think I don’t know. I have the pictures of you naked and kneeling with the escort Brittany Cason’s toes in your mouth.”

She flashed a bright, wide grin. I stood there like an idiot. What could I say to that? It was true. I did have a hidden fetish. At first, I booked Brittany because my wife was getting older, and I had never had a chance to indulge my fetish for black women. I thought I just wanted to fuck her old school. Five minutes of action and then sit and drink champagne with her on the couch, right? That had been my intention. But my affliction was stronger than I could have imagined.

I whimpered like a dog in her presence. She was the epitome of divine black feminine grace.

She walked in the door wearing a frilly black dress that cut off well above her knees. Her cleavage was overflowing. I couldn’t control myself. My dick was already stiffening.

“Ms. Brittany, I am so glad that you could grace myself with your presence today,” I stuttered.

“Hey, you paid me, didn’t you?”

“Are you tired? Do you need anything?”

She slinked to the armchair by the window and sat down.

“Could you help me out of my heels?”

I scampered over to her before she could snap her fingers. I took a knee. I cradled her foot in my hand like it was a precious gemstone. I carefully slipped off her shiny high heels. From my vantage point on the floor, I could see Ms. Brittany’s reassuring face above me. Her cute toes wiggled.

Cute toes??

Wait? Did I really think her toes were cute? A little bit, maybe? It was more like I was turned on by the whole situation of being in a place of servitude to a woman such as Ms. Brittany. I wouldn’t be doing this for just anyone. But for this perfectly sculpted statue of feminine beauty, this ball of dominant energy? She was worthy of my submission. I would do anything to feel closer to her, to feel the rare charm from her that I couldn’t find anywhere else.

I began massaging her feet. I put my face close. I smelled a faint musky scent. Her feet weren’t sweaty by any means. But she was a working woman. I sucked the scent in.

“Ms. Brittany? May I… …lick your feet?”

“It’s your hour with me.”

I pushed my tongue out a little. I leaned in. My tongue touched her skin. I tasted a subtle saltiness. It was strange. It was embarrassing. It was unappetizing — objectively speaking. I saw Ms. Brittany giggle with her hand daintily over her mouth.

It was electrifying.

“So, Dick, what’ll it be? Are you going to work with us?”

I was thrust back into the world.

I didn’t have much of a choice, did I? If the news of me hiring an escort ever broke, my marriage would be over before she even knew what I had done with her. Not that I’d miss my wife so much, but it would fuck up the family and life I’d built up and end my career, too.

Besides, I couldn’t deny that I’d always found Victoria Davis attractive as fuck.

Read Dominant Colors in full on Amazon Kindle. Purchase it for $2.99 or download it for free as a Kindle Unlimited member in the Kindle store!

Political hack Dick Maurice was riding high. For decades, his political consultancy group had racked in money as the strategists of choice for old white moderate neoliberal presidential candidates of the Equality Party. Until the unthinkable happened.

His latest candidate, Bob Scranton nearly died on the debate stage in his much-anticipated rematch with Nationalist Populist candidate D.T. Tarnum.Scranton’s meltdown was so bad that he had to be replaced by Vice President Chanda Robinson, and now Robinson’s top strategist, the young and dominant Victoria Davis, says that she’s taking over as the campaign manager! Will the washed-up white man Dick Maurice lose the cushy job he feels he is entitled to?

Dick must accept his place in a new and changing political sphere where women, minorities, and the youth are not afraid to speak out. Davis gives him an ultimatum: Either you become our lowly intern, or I expose the photos of you sucking on the toes of a DC escort. Dick’s place on the campaign, it turns out, is under the soles of strong black women. And Dick must pay for the sins he was responsible for years for neoliberal refusals to fight more strongly for civil rights.

This book is in the genre of femdom erotica, but it is also a political satire that makes important points about freedom and democracy in America. The erotica scenes are relatively lighter — including male submission, foot worship, and impact play. I realize the framing of the satire as erotica might not be enjoyed by everyone, but if you are on the fence, I encourage you to read the sample and see.