TEN.

tyler

He watched her for a moment before interrupting to ask, “What are you doing in here?”

Startled, she dropped the book she’d picked up off his nightstand. “Mr. President. I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I was just,” she hesitated, searching for any excuse that sounded remotely plausible when one is found rifling through the president’s things. “Well, just…”

“Skulking around? Snooping?”

“Ladies don’t skulk,” she protested.

“Ladies don’t disappear during very nice parties and find themselves caught in the president’s bedroom.”

She folded her arms. Nothing in her countenance betrayed any shame or nervousness. “Well, that’s a fair point.”

He crossed the room, “So? Are you one of Clay’s spies? Looking for my secret plans to annex Texas?”

“Those are hardly secret. And I’ve no allegiance to Henry Clay,” she hesitated. “There are a lot of rumors you’re courting again, and so soon.”

“If you were looking for my private correspondence you’re in the wrong room. My office is down the hall.”

“Ah damn.”

“Hardly appropriate language for a lady.”

Again, she seemed devoid of any shame. She delicately situated herself on the edge of his bed, eyeing him. He shivered. The party downstairs was showing no signs of slowing, and he knew the guests would be too consumed dancing the Virginia Reel to notice his absence, at least for a while longer.

“Well,” she addressed him. “Aren’t you going to close the door?”

A soft smile escaped his lips, and he did as she asked. She’d revealed her hand too early, like his Cabinet; this was how he won.

“You aren’t here looking for my letters were you?” He asked, approaching her.

She stood to meet him, “I like gossip. But there are things I like more.”

His hand found the small of her back, and he roughly pulled her close. “Like this?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, and she didn’t need to give one. She met his lips with hers, fearlessly, hungrily; she knew she was going to get everything she wanted, and that this old man would adorably think it was all his idea. They moved to the bed, undressing. His hands were admiring her breasts, aggressively, as if it had been awhile since he’d experienced such things. She responded amenably; his enthusiasm was an incredible stimulant. When she’d arrived at the White House earlier she certainly hadn’t expected this – he was older than she liked, a little vain, and positively dripping in privilege. It was hard to fault him for any of that when his mouth was on her nipple and his hands were eagerly priming her honey pot.

“God,” she moaned, thrusting her hips to meet him. “Your hands are magic.”

She grabbed one of the bedposts for support, and he slipped two fingers inside her. She was moaning wildly now, and he was throbbing at the sight of her. He still felt in control of the situation, she seemed powerless to do more than beg for his touch.

“What do you want?” He asked, bringing her closer with a very intentional finger.

“You. Fuck me.”

He was taken aback by her boldness and vulgarity, but let’s be fair, equally attracted to it. She moved down the bed, on her stomach, and he positioned himself behind her. He was rock hard, harder than it had been to convince Congress he was the rightful president. He grabbed her waist and pushed himself inside her; they both moaned, though hers was muffled by the pillow. He buried himself in her over and over, watching her ass as he slammed his cock into her.

“Harder,” she begged him, grabbing the sheets as he pounded her. “Mr. President.”

That kept him going, harder; it was much more arousing to be Mr. President than Mr. Vice President. He spanked her, she screamed in pleasure. He smacked her ass harder, loving that he was leaving a mark, watching her ass turn red.

He felt invincible; he was twice her age and she was screaming his name into the bed, her hand furiously rubbing her clit as he took her. It didn’t matter that he had no vice president, because nothing could ever take him down. She was grinding against him now, meeting him with each thrust, telling him how close she was getting.

For her it was surprising how good this was; she truly had wandered into his room to discover if he was truly courting a young woman so soon after the death of his wife and now he was deep inside her, his impressive shaft bringing her right to the edge. The Whigs could kick him out of the party but not out of her pussy.

“Oh god I’m close,” she exhaled, and he quickened his pace. “Yes, yes, take me, baby, take me.” Her moans were exactly what he needed and he knew he was going to come, and that he should pull out before His Accidency referred to more than his presidency.

Remarkably they came nearly simultaneously, and neither of of them did so quietly. Her hands tightened on the bedclothes as she rode out the waves of pleasure, and he, breathless and sweating, tried to stand, but only managed a half-hearted roll to lie next to her. Neither of them wanted to move.

“See,” she found the energy to lift her head. “That was much better than another party and endless conversations about tariffs.”

“I find tariffs fairly stimulating, actually.”

She could not have rolled her eyes more, though it was a moot gesture since she was still covered in his orgasm.

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