EIGHT.

vanburen

“I can’t make the fucking economy do what I want it to!” He yelled, slamming a fist on the oak desk.

She shrugged, remaining comfortably unfazed by his outburst. “Do you feel better?”

“No I don’t feel better!” He was up out of his seat now, his petite frame wracked with stress and rage. “They’re blaming me for this Panic!”

“Well, you’re the president. That’s how it goes.”

“It’s not fucking fair don’t they know,” he took a deep breath, steeled himself, “Don’t they know I’m trying?”

She rose to meet him, finally, blurring lines in their friendship as she approached. “Some of them know. You’ve done a lot of good too. The Democratic Party owes you everything.”

“It would be nice if they remembered that sometimes.”

He looked utterly defeated. She tried to view him as the villain, the pro-slavery, anti-Indian monster she imagined he was. But in the moment he was just a sweet, small man, with too much facial hair and permanent frown lines she could set up camp in.

She kissed his cheek, “Don’t think about them right now.”

“Well I’m sorry it’s all I can think about sometimes!”

“Martin,” she was firm, reasonable, going to get what she wanted out of this interaction if it was the last thing she did.

He took a deep breath, met her eyes. “I’m sorry. I truly didn’t invite you here to discuss politics.”

“I didn’t come here to discuss politics. I’m not sure I’m a fan of your politics,” she gestured to the portrait of Andrew Jackson, whose presence was definitely not helping the mood. “I’m certainly not a fan of his.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “Well it’s a good thing you can’t vote, then.”

“For now.” She kissed him, partly to keep him from saying anything else inane. She was gentle, friendly, trying not to betray how lonely she’d been or how badly she wanted him. He returned her kiss apprehensively, then pulled away and leaned against the desk.

“What is it?” She asked, a gentle hand running through his mutton chop.

“I’m not much of a magician,” he admitted, nervously.

“Don’t undersell yourself.”

“I mean. I haven’t been with anyone since my wife.”

She took his hands, again meeting his eyes. “We don’t have to.. We can take it slow. Whatever you want.” She was privately impressed with her ability to remain demure in this moment. His desire for the diplomatic approach was rubbing off on her.

“I want to,” he assured her. “I want you.”

In fact, he realized he wanted her something fierce, that his body was responding faster than his brain. He was always so cautious, stayed out of war with Mexico, left Texas to Texas, had no time for things outside his constitutionally-granted powers. It would be nice, he decided, brushing her hair from her face, to let his guard down, just a bit, just tonight.

He pressed his lips to hers, and it surprised her, but she happily kissed back. She wasted no time, her hands unfastening buttons with impressive haste. Even his many elegant layers of dress (too many, she thought, and far too much velvet) were no match for her practiced hands. Her dress proved more cumbersome, but he followed her lead, the anticipation mounting with each second.

“Oh, I should’ve taken you to my chambers,” he was sheepish, out of practice.

She looked around the office, “This’ll do. You worry too much.” She positioned herself on the edge of the desk, and pulled him to her again. Here was a petticoat affair he could understand, and it suddenly didn’t matter he hadn’t done this in years; he knew what he was doing. He grabbed her hips; she wrapped her arms around him, and his cock easily slid inside her. That first moment was sublime, he realized; it felt nearly as good as taking the oath of office and perhaps even better than leaving the presidency would feel.

He pulled out, and slammed back into her again, with more aggression than he’d displayed in his lifetime. She was warm, inviting, and she whispered his name among grunts of pleasure, and he couldn’t stop it just felt too good. He just wanted to feel this forever; he wasn’t sure how he’d been living this long without it.

“Oh god I’ve missed this,” he admitted, loving the way she looked as he penetrated her again and again.

“You’re amazing,” she assured him. “I could take you all night.”

“You might have to,” he agreed, slowing his pace, knowing there was very little chance this would last much longer. Her legs were wrapped around him and she was bracing herself tenuously on the desk. Something was digging into her back, but the pain was easy to ignore when taking his beautiful dutch elm was so incredible. The angle allowed him to go deeper still; she dug fingernails into his back and thrust into him. Her body was shaking and she was lost in the moment, sure she was going to wake the capital with her impassioned screams.

He was close now, which was wonderful and terrible all at once. He wanted to keep pounding her, to feel that wonderful wet slit over and over all night. But it had been too long, and it was just too good, and Good Lord she was enjoying it, which only made him more aroused. She tightened around him, and begged him to come, and he had to acquiesce.

He was free for a blissful moment, free of the pressures of the presidency, the gripes of the Whigs, free like the Mormons would be when the left Missouri (too bad really, he couldn’t offer assistance). He was free like the soil should be, were he brave enough to champion abolition.

“I’m sorry about your dress,” he gestured to the stain.

She laughed, clearly unconcerned. .“Martin Van Ruin.”

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