“Oh my goodness,” he inhaled sharply, the feeling of her tongue on his shaft driving him dangerously close to taking the Lord’s name in vain.

“Careful,” she looked up, played demure. “This from the man who wouldn’t take the Oath of Office on a Sunday.”

He frowned. Her teasing was not unjust, but that didn’t mean it was welcome. He opened his mouth to chastise, but she’d found his cock again, and he’d found the back of her throat, and the admonishment died on his lips.

“We should not be… oh my,” he tried lamely to stop her.

She released him, wiped her mouth delicately, and stood. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist.”

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Don’t be sorry. I. That. I want you.”

“Should I keep going?”

“I want to feel you,” he found himself saying, aware that only a few moments ago he’d been protesting, albeit weakly, her advances.

He knew her only a little, knew that she’d come to the White House that evening with Clayton, but seemed uninterested in him. She’d engaged the president swiftly on the Compromise of 1850, and he found her insight remarkable though tiresome. He’d heard all the arguments on the Compromise. He was against the Compromise, nothing was going to change it; it would be pushed through only over his dead body. But it was different to be engaged on the subject by someone who accentuated her points by touching his arm, by steering him toward the coatroom in the hall. He didn’t even really know how she’d done it, but it was thrilling to be shut away in this room with this woman, surrounded by the bustle of a White House party that didn’t know its president was getting sucked off in a closet.

The fabric of her dress was surprisingly light, and she’d pulled it up for him easily. He was a man possessed now; there would be no stopping him as long as she begged him to keep going. Her slit was wet, inviting, and she closed her eyes and leaned into his hand. His fingers darted in and out of her, and he expertly found her clit, while she concentrated on her legs not giving out.

“Mr. President,” she whispered. “I need your cock.”

He grabbed her, pushing her face into the wall of coats hanging in the closet. He slammed into her almost without warning and she had to bite back the urge to scream. Having to be quiet only made it better.

“Take it,” he directed her, invading her like he’d invaded Mexico.

“Fuck,” she tried to lower her voice. “Harder. Hurt me.”

He obliged, bending her arm behind her back, his other hand on her hip for leverage. He thrust into her again, she met him with equal aggression. She was delighted; she’d come to the party tonight with the express purpose of having sordid fun, and the president’s response to her advances was a welcome surprise.

“You like that?” He asked, finding she brought out a violence in him he usually left on the battlefield.

“I said harder old man,” she retorted, desperately.

He did as she wanted, unwilling to lose this battle. He’d negotiated the Clayton-Bulwer Treaty, fought the battle of Buena Vista, surely he could manage himself around the woman who accompanied his Secretary of State to parties. Hell, he was fully prepared to wage civil war if the South didn’t acquiesce to his demands; Zachary Taylor was not the kind of man who would take being called old man lightly.

She knew that. But she knew she wanted to feel him pulsing inside her, smashing her crevices, employing tactics his military biographers would never know. She needed this tonight, from a man who had voted in as many presidential elections as she had. And she took it, deep, biting the coat to keep from moaning. She felt her body expand to welcome him, and she tightened around ol’ rough and ready, urging him to release. Both of his hands were on her hips now, and she found herself bending ever further, grabbing at her heels, impressed with her flexibility in that dress. He was impressed by this also, but focused on her ass.

“I’m close,” he whispered, his breathing labored.

“Good, baby. Take me. Fuck me,” she hoped the music in the parlor would continue to drown her ever more audible moans.

His manners (he had manners, he didn’t care what Henry Clay said) dictated he pull out. Of course that also meant someone would wind up with a surprise on his coat. Zachery Taylor didn’t care. He wasn’t a political man (such a stupid thing to say about a president), but it would be a nice private joke if his legacy were leaving a stain on the coat of one of his cabinet members.

“Let’s see Fillmore do that,” he muttered.

She shrugged, finishing redressing herself. “I plan on it.”


Unfortunately, there will be no update next week. I know we’re all anxious to get to know Fillmore better, so I hope to see you in two weeks!


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