THREE.

jefferson

“That’s how you answer the door?”

He shrugged, tightening the belt on his robe. “It’s late.”

“Still,” she gestured to his slippers, which looked older than he was. “You’re the president.”

“Oh god, don’t remind me.”

She laughed, “You aren’t fooling me. You love being president.”

“I take no pleasure in it.”

“Well, you’re a liar, but that’s fine I can take a hint.” She followed him to the library, habit dictated they begin their evenings there. It was in disarray, books tossed about chaotically. She lowered herself into one of the musty red easy chairs, disturbing a thin layer of dust as she did so. She knew he wouldn’t apologize for the mess. She doubted he noticed.

His mind was racing, and his eyes hadn’t left her. They were friends, surely, but he was aware the dangers bringing a single woman into his home in the middle of the night could have on his reputation. He was nearly as fond of his reputation as he was of a nice French red.

“Can I get you anything? I can have one of the girls bring us some tomatoes?”

“Tomatoes,” she scoffed. “You’re a mad man.”

“I like them,” he frowned.

“Well just as well, I’d prefer not to be disturbed, and certainly not by your harem.”

“Careful,” he tried to caution her, but menacing wasn’t a speed with which he was endowed.

She laughed, “I’m sorry. It’s just you know that people talk.”

“Yeah,” he hesitated. “It gets lonely here sometimes.”

She waved her hand, “You don’t have to explain.”

“I do though.”

“Oh I’m sure I’ll get a 50 page treatise on it by morning. How it’s not hypocritical to write pretty declarations and own people, and have relations with people you own.”

“It is more than that,” he started, feeling his face flush. She stood up, interrupting him.

“You use a lot of words when you’re trying to convince yourself that yours is the moral high ground. But you know, Jeff,” she glowered; he twitched, he hated when she called him Jeff almost as much as he hated Chief Justice John Marshall. “You know, you’re wrong about slavery.”

“I’d remind you you’re in the White House,” he barely whispered.

“I know exactly where I am.”

She kissed him, aggressively, daring him to fight back with his mouth in way that was completely foreign to him. His knee-jerk response was to return the kiss; it was controlling in a way he wished he didn’t love, but oh God (if there was a God, who knows; he lived his life by Pascal’s Wager but only like, begrudgingly) he did love it.

“I’m confused,” he said this into her lips.

“I’m confused that you’re talking right now.”

“You were just yelling at me. You called me Jeff and you know I–”

“Hate that,” she finished. “Yes. I do. I’m fascinated by you, your mind, you know that? I don’t always agree. I like to fight. And you need the challenge.”

“So telling me I’m wrong is like foreplay for you.”

“Don’t ruin it. I don’t want to like you right now,” she reached for the belt on his robe. “I want to fuck you.”

He nearly kept talking, but understood she was in charge now. The belt came off easily, and dropped undignified to the floor. She pushed the robe off next, and her lips hungrily found his again. He could hardly keep up; he’d always considered himself a practiced lover, but her barely contained violence was new to him. She pulled away, his lip was bleeding he was certain, and began to remove her dress. He shivered, his thin nightshirt now all that separated them. She had an impossible number of layers to remove; he offered his hand and she swatted it away.

“Don’t touch me,” she snarled, and she pushed him into the chair. He was stunned at first, but as he watched her undress, he realized his error. This night was not about him.

His erection was obvious now. She glanced at it approvingly, but still made no move to touch him. She was nearly undressed now, hovering over him, and for a moment he considered stopping it, but only to tell people later he’d tried. He wanted her as fiercely as he’d ever wanted anything, wanted to explore her body like it was the Louisiana Purchase.

“Touch yourself,” she directed him. “Show me your cock.”

He wasn’t familiar with this level of performance, but he did as she required. Normally he’d be shy; he refused to give speeches; often people terrified him. But he gave in to her, stroking himself as she watched.

“Good boy,” she leaned over him, not touching him. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” he whispered, now throbbing and desperate for her.

“Do better, Jeff.” Her complete disrespect for his title was infuriating, but he needed to be inside her and her demands that he play by her rules only intensified it.

“I want you to use me,” he begged.

“I will,” she finally touched him. “This is my cock now.”

He nodded, flushed, breathless. “Yes it’s yours I’m yours.”

She was stroking him now, intentionally slowly, driving him more insane with every moment. Her dark eyes shined, and he didn’t dare break her gaze. He moaned and called her name, suddenly not caring if he woke the household; nothing mattered at all except her hand around his shaft. Nothing could be this good, it was better than writing the Declaration; it was better than inventing the swivel chair. He would’ve gladly traded all the French wines in cellar for the feeling of her on top of him.

“Please,” he didn’t mean for it to sound so pathetic, but he was sure it did.

She patted his head, stroking his long red hair, “Yes. You’ve been very good.” She straddled him, finally, and guided him inside her. “Oh god,” she cried and he agreed he was reaffirming his Deism. She rode him expertly, and roughly, and when her hand closed around his neck he didn’t even think to reject it. He was hers now, completely, and it was clear he’d underestimated her predisposition toward violence. She was using him, wearing him out; he could barely breathe, but somehow that made it better.

She tightened around him; he knew she was getting close.

“Oh fuck,” she quickened her pace, neither of them concerned with the integrity of the chair. She wrapped her arms around him, and gave in, and he felt her come, her body twitching as she rode him through it. He was close too, and for a moment he feared she’d dismount and leave him, but she kept going, giving him permission to finish. She bit his ear, and the pain was sudden and sharp, but it was what he needed. He barely had time to pull out, which was the gentlemanly thing to do, before coming forcefully and covering them both. He was embarrassed instantly, but she didn’t seem to care. She remained on his lap, both of them exhausted and content.

“That’s better than fighting with you,” she admitted, and her lips grazed his cheek.

“You’re a puzzle. I didn’t think you liked me very much.”

She shrugged, “I don’t think I do. But let’s do that again sometime.”

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