13.

fill2

“Exciting isn’t it? First train to Erie,”he grinned at the young woman on the platform next to him.

She nodded, trying to place the familiar countenance. “Next thing you know we’ll be traveling the nation by train!”

“It’s my fervent wish,” he admitted, smiling.

She wracked her brain, still struggling to place him. “Do I know you?”

“Um, I’m the President,” he replied, sheepishly, his hands in his pockets.

Her face reddened, “My goodness I– well I’m embarrassed now. Mr. President, of course.” She extended her hand warmly, fumbling to regain control of her faculties.

“It’s quite all right,” he remained sheepish. “It happens more than you’d think.”

“Maybe it’s on account of the papers don’t report how handsome you are,” she suggested, punctuating this thought with a sly grin. “Still, my apologies.”

“Please, I’m not offended. Frankly it’s nice to be out of Washington.”

“Hard at work then, are you?”

“Well, aren’t you cheeky?” He laughed. “Not that I need to explain anything to you, but this isn’t just a leisurely trip. I plan on using the time to campaign a bit too.”

“On the Compromise?”

“Indeed.”

“You should save your breath then.”

This amused him, “You’re not a fan?”

“It’s toothless. Temporary. That’s all. I suppose it’s not my place.”

He laughed, “A minute ago you didn’t recognize me and now you’re lecturing me on policy.”

She found something charming about his smile, though she tried not to show it. “The Fugitive Slave Act is troublesome.”

The train whistle interrupted her before she could launch into what was a well prepared diatribe. This was a pity, because she’d prepared many intelligent points in case the opportunity arose (though nearly all of them devolved into yelling “YOU’RE A RACIST,” which, while true, wasn’t helpful).

“Shame I have to go,” he gestured toward the train. “I haven’t been properly chastised in awhile.”

Annoyingly, she felt something in her respond to that sentiment. “Do they have you in a nice sleeping car?”

“What?”

“On the train. Where we could continue this.. Chat.”

He coughed, trying to regain a modicum of composure in the face of her unmistakable intention.

“I do have a sleeping car. It’s really not much, I’ll admit, but I’ll show it to you.”

He led her onto the train, past his Cabinet and Secretary. She was privately thrilled, though her desire to give him an earful about his policies did not wane. His private car was impressive, even in its sparity.

“This is nice,” she barely looked at the room, instead reaching up to stroke his face.

“It does have its perks,” he paused, slid the door closed, found himself moving closer to her. He half expected her to continue with her feelings on his policies; instead she met his gaze, saying nothing at all. Her presence was dazzling. He knew what he wanted, but was unsure how to parlay that into action.

Luckily, she gave him an answer: “You should kiss me.”

He did, excitedly. This was not the sort of thing that happened to him. The train jerked forward suddenly; they both took this opportunity to deepen the kiss. He removed her coat, then his, and his lips greedily found her neck as her hands found the button on his trousers.

“Damn,” she whispered.

“What?” He paused, still buried in her neck.

“Well it’s just a bad Act and I really expected to dislike you.”

He pulled away. “I’m kind of getting mixed signals here,” he admitted.

“I’m a puzzle,” she agreed, meeting his lips again. She tousled his hair, sending shivers through his body. “You just smell so good.”

“Well it’s nice you put politics aside for this.” He was making impressively quick work of the buttons along her back, half-expecting she would stop him.

“I’m sure I’ll regret it in the morning.”

He couldn’t tell how serious she was (very), but decided it didn’t matter when she guided him to the tiny bed. Surely this sleeping car was not designed for two, but he admired her willingness to make it work. She pushed him down onto it, aggressively. It would’ve been hot, but the car lurched causing him to hit his head on the way down.

She fought the urge to laugh, and was mostly successful. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s ok,” he frowned, rubbing his head, not wanting to stop. He’d lost his entire cabinet in one day and it had barely fazed him, surely a slight bump wasn’t going to stop him now. It clearly wasn’t going to stop her either; she’d begun removing his trousers as if the blood rushing there would somehow fix the throbbing in his other head. Maybe it would, he didn’t know; he wasn’t a doctor.

“I didn’t even have formal schooling,” he mumbled.

“Shhhh, Millie. You’re speaking nonsense,” she hesitated, looking up at him. “Are you ok? We can stop.”

He shook his head. Her proximity to his now-exposed member was intoxicating. He wanted to fill her mouth, fill more* than her mouth. Somewhere in his mind he realized she’d called him Millie, and he hoped to remember to admonish her later for that. For now her lips found his pleasure wand and he could do little more than enjoy it. She was not new to this, and her tongue traveled the his length expertly, teasing the head before swallowing him completely. He hit the back of her throat, she gagged and continued without missing a beat. He encouraged her, breathless, hoping the sound of the train would drown them out. She looked up at him, his cock still in her mouth. He worried for a moment he would finish then; he’d never experienced anything like this. His interactions were usually so chaste, even in the Buffalo winters where this would’ve undoubtedly kept him warm.

“Come up here,” he directed, gently lifting her head. The pain in his head had dulled, and he was eager to keep feeling her. She, of course, remained composed even as she stood and slipped out of her dress. He inhaled sharply, sure at any moment his entire Cabinet would walk into the room asking for his thoughts on the Fugitive Slave Act. Luckily, they remained alone. He studied her hungrily.

“I’m not a piece of meat, Millie.”

“Mr. President,” he corrected, refusing to let the name slide.

“I think I’ll call you anything I want while you’re looking at me like that,” she leaned over him and he knew she was right. “We both know you’re not the president in here.”

He nodded (later he would wonder if he’d agreed to this; in his replay he wouldn’t be so docile), relenting. She was in control; this was on her terms. She lowered herself onto his lap, he remained sitting upright on the bed.

“I don’t think these beds are made for this,” she mused as she guided him inside her.

“Probabl—ohhh not. Oh god,” he kissed her to silence them both; the train was only so loud. She bounced on his cock; her pace an impressive cantor. She took him over and over, delighting in his girth and how good it felt. She wrapped her arms around him, using him as leverage to keep riding. He needed this, he realized. For too long he’d been thinking only of how to run the country after Taylor’s death, how to appease northern Whigs, whether Daniel Webster would overtake him in the next election. Now he banished thoughts of Mormons and his oft-debated Omnibus Bill and thought only of how elegantly the breasts in front of him moved as she rode.

He was deep inside her, a passenger on this train letting her control everything. God, he loved trains almost as much as he loved this. It was incredible. She slid him in and out eagerly, her clinch dripping as she spoiled him. If only getting his nominees onto the Supreme Court would be as easy as this woman.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You are incredible.”

“I could take this cock all night,” she replied, slamming into him again.

“You’re so dirty.”

“You fucking love it,” she grinned, quickening her pace. She had no desire to remain ladylike, and she could feel no objection on his part (in fact, she felt quite the opposite).

“I want to fill you up.”

“Try it,” she dared, eyes shining.

That was enough to send him over, and it surprised them both. She tightened around him, taking it, her canal more inviting than the one he’d subsidized in Sault Ste. Marie. For a brief moment she remembered how objectionable his safe politics were, and chided herself for what she was doing. The thought disappeared with her orgasm and she contented herself in the realization that it was likely few people would remember Millard Fillmore anyway.

And if they do, she thought dryly, I hope it’s for his wang.

 
*I had to, and I’m not sorry.

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