“You look tired,” she offered.
He sighed. “Yeah. I confess I never wanted this job.”
“Martyrdom does not look good on you.”
He smiled wanly, “Doesn’t it?”
She approached him, stroking his luscious hair in response. “Well. I still have no patience for it.”
“Did you come here just to insult me?”
She shrugged, “It’s definitely a perk.”
“You’re more infuriating than Congress,” he gestured toward the desk. “Bring me my drink.”
She could tell by the way the words left his mouth he didn’t need another drink, but she obsequiously did as he asked. She made a mental note to keep him off horses; a second arrest would surely do him in. He downed the rest of the drink in one sip, discarding the glass as he stood.
Instinctively, she touched his cheek, the gesture more pitying than romantic.
“Are you ok?” She inquired, already knowing the answer.
“Not at all,” he admitted. “But I didn’t ask you here to talk about it.”
She knew she could pry if she wanted; on some level he did actually want to talk about it. But tonight she gave them both refuge. Her warm body would be enough to fill their evening. Sometimes feeling was too much.
He met her mouth with his, no trace of the sad, tired man she’d greeted moments ago. He turned the sadness off, like he did for the electorate, like he did when he was trying to run a country without thinking about his wife, his son. The alcohol helped, but the welcome distraction of the flesh helped more.
He was a patient lover, dominant but gentle. He guided her to the bed; she laid agreeably and offered herself to him. His lips covered her neck, and she moaned impatiently.
“You make me crazy,” she told him, trying to be quiet.
“That’s all I want,” he replied. This was a lie of course, he also wanted to reform the Treasury Department, but that wasn’t relevant.
His body responded to her every her every moan as he kissed his way down. He found her erect nipples, and teased one with his tongue. She grabbed the back of his head, the feeling of his mouth sending shivers through her.
“You like that?” He looked up at her; she nodded breathless. He smiled and continued exploring her body, knowing she couldn’t wait to feel his mouth on her slit. He positioned himself between her legs; she arched her hips begging for him. He tasted her, pushing his tongue aggressively into her.
“You spoil me,” she grabbed the bedding for support while he ran his tongue along her clit before sliding it back inside her. He knew by now what she wanted and what set her off. He was a man who had committed an entire inaugural address to memory: making this woman come was barely a challenge. And he could feel her shuddering already, aware her orgasm was close.
“It’s too good,” she whispered. “Slow down.”
He did, of course, but slipped a finger inside her to coax her along. She thrust into him; the gentle pressure of his tongue on her now more frustrating than sexy. He loved having her like this, completely at his mercy, begging for release while simultaneously not wanting it to stop. And then suddenly he pulled back, glanced up at her, his eyes shining from the booze.
“Don’t stop,” her eyes widened. “Baby it’s incredible.”
He loved this too, because he knew she had the obnoxious habit of not shutting up, especially about his politics (that Fugitive Slave Act was problematic, but states had rights and who was she to blame him entirely for it), but now she was his, and she had to wait for him to finish it.
“Turn over,” he instructed.
She knew what he wanted, and rolled over. Almost immediately his tongue was inside her and before she could think it was odd she thought oh fuck it was right. He was a man possessed now, neither shy nor inhibited; a true border ruffian. And she was responding favorably, demanding he keep going, assuring him he was very naughty and that she loved it. He thought blissfully for a moment that he would die happily here, just drunk and buried in her shapely and inviting backside. But then he remembered of course he had no vice president, and without him who knows what kind of chaos Atchison would wreak. Plus if he didn’t oppose the Gadsden Purchase, who would?
He refocused on her body, pushing those thoughts down, wanting another drink. She was touching herself now too, and that alone was enough to get him off if he stopped thinking about how to annex Canada and stayed here with her.
“Baby… Mr. President I’m…,” her words failed her and she, too, lost herself in the dual pleasures of his tongue and the thought that the president of the United States was happily buried in her ass. This, finally, brought her to the edge and she relaxed and let herself come. Violently. Incredibly. Until she thought her body couldn’t survive this, and she collapsed and he landed on top of her. She tried to tell him it was incredible, and that he could feel free to access her behind any time she consented, but words were lost like the war in Kansas.
*MERRY CHRISTMAS – I’ll be back in the new year with new presidents and new positions! If you’re enjoying this, please share it with other equally weird and wonderful people. Xo*