Live at Night with Jen Psaki Part II

[MasturbationSuperstar]

The lights dimmed once again in Studio B, but this time, something had changed.

There was a nervous buzz in the air--tighter, sharper. The thirty-person audience looked more dressed up tonight. Hungrier. Some had been there the week before. Others had watched the clip replayed online millions of times. Tonight was something new. Something unspoken.

On the darkened stage, the sign lit up.

JEN PSAKI: LIVE -- SPECIAL EDITION

Jen walked out slowly. Still in red, but tonight it was a darker shade--wine, almost black under the lights. Her blouse was silk again, her skirt tight. But something about her posture felt... looser. Less armor. More anticipation.

"Good evening," she said, voice a little softer than usual. "If you're watching this, you know what happened last week."

Laughter. Applause. A few people shouted your name.

Jen smiled. "Our show with writer Brad Hamilton did more than break viewership records. It broke... boundaries."

The audience responded like they knew what was coming, but didn't know how far it would go.

"So tonight," Jen said, "we're doing something different. Something... personal."

She turned to the side. "Brad?"

You stepped out--confident, dark blazer, open collar, no tie. The crowd clapped louder this time. You took your seat across from her.

Jen looked you over, then turned to the camera.

"This time," she said, "Brad has the questions."

You let the silence hang. The room shifted. Power moved.

You leaned forward slightly.

"Jen Psaki," you said, "you spent last week asking me to reveal my fantasies, my habits, my private scenes."

Jen nodded slowly. "I did."

You smiled. "Tonight, we turn the mirror."

A soft wave of gasps and applause. Jen folded her hands in her lap--poised. But her eyes were alert. Almost... excited.

"Let's start simple," you said. "What do you wear when you masturbate?"

Jen tilted her head. "Sometimes nothing. Sometimes just the heels I wore to work."

You looked her over. "What about right now?"

"Lace bra," she said. "No panties."

The audience stirred. Jen's voice had dipped a little. Her body shifted in her chair. You could already tell--she wasn't in total control anymore. And she knew it.

"Tell us your favorite position."

Jen breathed in. "Bent over something expensive."

Laughter. Applause. A few whistles.

You waited. Let the room settle.

"Your most taboo fantasy?"

She blinked slower this time. "Being taken by someone I've tried to intimidate."

The audience felt that one.

You leaned in closer. "You want to be dominated, Jen?"

She smiled, tight-lipped. "Only when the man knows how to do it right."

You stood up. Walked around the table slowly. Jen turned her head but didn't move her body. You stopped just behind her chair.

"Do you trust me to do it right?"

Her breath caught in her throat. "Yes."

You gestured to the audience. "Then show them."

Jen hesitated. You could feel the heat off her skin. Then she slowly pushed back from the table and stood.

You leaned in close to her ear, voice low.

"Unbutton your blouse."

Jen obeyed.

One button. Two. Three. Her skin gleamed under the lights. The lace bra was as dark as blood. Her breasts moved with each breath--deliberate, hungry.

The audience was silent now. Hooked.

"Hands behind your back," you said.

She complied.

You stepped in front of her and whispered so the mic barely caught it.

"Do you want them to see who you really are beneath all that power?"

Jen looked at you--flushed, eyes wide.

"Yes."

You nodded. "Kneel."

She knelt.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. A woman in the second row visibly bit her lip. A man leaned forward, fingers gripping his knee.

Jen knelt with elegance. No shame. Just submission. And the most powerful woman on cable news suddenly looked like she was dying to be told what to do next.

You ran your hand slowly through her hair. Then turned to the audience.

"Everyone watching this has imagined Jen Psaki naked. Bent over. Spread."

Jen closed her eyes, as if the words went straight into her bloodstream.

You looked down at her. "Tell them what you fantasized about after last week."

She opened her mouth. The mic picked it up.

"I went home that night," she whispered. "I came three times before I even took off my heels."

"How?"

"Fingers," she said. "Then the shower head. Then on the couch with two of your stories open on my tablet."

The audience moaned. Someone clapped slowly. Another chanted, "Let her come!"

You cupped her chin. Lifted her face to yours.

"You want me to touch you now, Jen?"

She nodded. "Please."

"Say it."

"I want you to use me."

You pulled her up. Turned her toward the table.

Bent her over.

The mic picked up everything--the breathy moan as her hips met glass, the soft click of your belt, the hitch in her throat as you slid your hand under her skirt and felt just how wet she already was.

She didn't wear panties. She hadn't lied.

You leaned over her back. Whispered into her ear.

"They're watching."

"I know," she gasped.

"And you love it."

"Yes."

You entered her slowly, deliberately, right there on live television. The lights caught her open mouth. Her fingers clutched the edge of the table. The studio was deathly still--except for the sounds of sex. The rhythm of your bodies. Her moans, increasing in volume.

You held her by the hips and thrust harder.

Jen arched. "Yes--oh God, yes--"

The control she always had, the smirking polish--it melted. She was raw now. Real. The fantasy unwrapped.

You gripped her hair. "Tell them how you feel."

She cried out, "Like I've never been fucked properly until now."

The room exploded. Cheers. Gasps. Someone whistled. Another voice shouted, "Take her, Brad!"

You drove deeper. Faster. Her legs trembled. Her moans turned into desperate whimpers. She was close. So close.

"Come for them," you growled. "Let them see the real you."

Jen screamed--long, loud, and filthy. Her whole body shook, thighs soaked. Her orgasm echoed through the studio, through the broadcast, into the living rooms of a nation now holding its collective breath.

You followed with one last thrust, pulsing deep inside her, hips slamming hard as your own release took over. You stayed inside her, panting over her back, hand tangled in her hair.

The room was silent--awed.

Jen turned her head, still bent over the table, sweat glistening on her spine.

She smiled.

"Well," she said breathlessly into the mic, "that concludes our... special edition."

She looked into the camera.

"Next week, we're taking viewer calls."

Blackout.