16.

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The president moved gracefully around the room, experiencing each piece of furniture as if it were new. She watched him from her position in his plush slipper chair, where she’d been reviewing Union expense reports. This was far from her job description, but he knew better than to articulate that thought.

“Am I dreaming?” He paused at the window, looking out onto the snowy lawn.

“This is real,” she assured him. “It’s worrisome you can’t tell the difference, sir.”

“I have such vivid dreams.”

She set the reports aside, her attention refocused on him. “I know you do; I’ve heard every detail.”

A thin, tired smile crossed his face. “You’re weary of me.”

“I’m not. I couldn’t be,” she paused. “I just worry about this sadness.”

“There’s no curing it,” he informed her. “I’m melancholy by design.”

She knew that. She was drawn to it, really; most of her attraction to this man was rooted in desire to cheer his sadness, to feel needed and useful, to focus on him rather than turn that gaze inward. Neither of them had much use for well-adjusted.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t worry,” she reiterated, finally approaching him. “You’re going to tell me I shouldn’t, so let’s skip that because the country needs you, and because you know it’s useless telling me not to do something.”

“I have learned that you enjoy defying me.”

“Yeah, but only for the turn on.”

He pulled her into an embrace, and kissed the top of her head tenderly. “I needed you today.”

“And I’m here.”

She liked his height; even without his signature hat she always felt so small with him. It made her feminine, and cared for. She would unpack her dual desires to run his White House and feel cared for by its president later.

“Is the First Lady home?” She asked delicately, hating this part of their quiet arrangement.

“She’s in her chambers, talking to Willie. She won’t bother us.”

“Isn’t Willie, um,” she stopped herself, unsure how to approach his dead son without ensuring a full stop on any imminent extracurriculars.

“Yeah,” he replied. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“The report I was reading looks almost hopeful,” she changed the subject with aplomb. “We might actually win this thing.”

“We shall prevail,” he countered. “I’ve already started thinking about the inaugural.”

“Tempting fate.”

“I think about conceding too. About ending the war before a new administration. I’m going to ask the Cabinet to pledge that with me. Privately I feel…,” he hesitated.

“What?”

“I feel I may be victorious in November, but it will be a short lived victory.”

“Well that’s a mobid thought,” she tilted her head up to meet his eyes. “Without you, who would enforce the suspension of habeas corpus?”

He chuckled, a musical sound of which she never tired. His sense of humor remained intact through any number of horrors — though perhaps the horrors were why he needed the humor.

“Ah, your constant scrutiny is always welcome.”

She smirked, “You say that, but I sense you don’t mean it.”

“How perceptive. It appears you’re aware you possess a wicked nature.”

“I’m aware you’re keen on my nature.”

He didn’t disagree, and instead leaned in to kiss her. Their lips met impatiently, with a self assuredness neither of them possessed naturally. She tugged at the knot in his tie; he gracefully unfastened the buttons on her back. There had been times previously where they worried about interruption, but none came and now they both felt comfortable enough taking their time. It was a luxury to have this time, he realized, emancipating her from her dress and discarding it on the green carpet. His jacket fell undignified next to it, and they kissed again with the urgency of two people failing to prolong an experience.

“Out out, damn cock,” she muttered, struggling with the buttons on his trousers.

He laughed, a reference to his favorite play was never wasted. He helped her with the troublesome buttons, her fingers grazing his exposed shaft.

Sans clothes, they wasted no time progressing. Her hand wrapped around him, stroking it while he continued to run his hands over her body, paying ample attention to her chest. He spun her around, she felt him hard against her lower back. They both hovered over that edge; her body was begging to feel his cock, his was begging to fill her. The moments before copulation were revelatory, those nervous fumblings and the imminent release they promised were thrilling.

He picked her up, pushed her against the window. She was sure someone outside would notice this, but it didn’t matter because once his lincoln log entered her nothing mattered. He was impressive biologically, to be sure, but he wasn’t known as the rail candidate by accident. He supported her with one arm, used the other for leverage, and pushed into her. She gasped as he filled her. He pulled out again, slowly, letting the anticipation build again, enjoying the sight of her body expanding to welcome him. Her hands were gripping his shoulders, encouraging him to keep going. He did, still cautiously, with malice toward no part of her. His tenderness was remarkable; his rhythm divinely deliberate.

“Kiss me,” she whispered, and he did, as though their lives depended on it, as though spoiling her would absolve him of the blood on his hands. Her tongue explored his mouth; his brow tensed in a passionate frustration.

“I can’t get enough of this,” he confessed, scooping her back into his arms. He carried her across the room, lowering her onto his desk, which, she noticed, was suspiciously cleaner than usual. For a moment he just admired her, and teased her folds with a practiced hand.

“I need you back inside me,” she begged. Her body screamed for him to continue; she was hotter than Atlanta. He nodded, grabbed her hips, was less gentle this time as he invaded her. This was just as welcome; she wanted to feel him stretch her like he stretched the boundaries of the Constitution. The gentleness evaporated and he slammed into her again and again. Her loud moans encouraged him to be rougher, to ignore the better angels of his nature.

“Touch yourself,” he directed her, a bit surprised by his boldness. She listened, of course; she was poised on the edge of orgasm anyway. He went harder; she arched her hips and continued to stroke her clit. He grabbed her waist, thrust in and out aggressively. He knew he was close, and he expended his remaining energy pounding her willing body.

“Mr. President,” she moaned, tensing around him.

“Take it,” he responded, penetrating her with such force the the desk shook, and a map of the confederacy fell from the wall. She hoped that was foreshadowing, and fought the urge to laugh. She leaned forward, propping herself up, he met her lips again and came, finally, harder than he’d come in scores. She wrapped herself around him, felt his body shudder. She collapsed satisfied on the desk; he leaned above her still in the throes of a just and lasting orgasm.

“Come here,” she reached for him.

“It would be hard to explain why my desk is in pieces,” he laughed, pulling her up instead. He kissed her forehead, eyes shining, relaxed in a way rare for him.

“You don’t have to explain anything to anyone. You’re the president.”

“I think that unfortunately means I have more explaining to do.”

“Well tell your critics you saved their country and fuck like a stallion.”

“Saved the country is debatable.”

“It’s not. In less capable hands there wouldn’t be a union at all. I do admire you; I’m not just here for your very impressive cock.”

“You say this to all your presidents.”

She scoffed, “You know I do no such thing. Your mind is first rate. You have empathy… you were elected by a people so divided they’ve spent the last four years trying to kill each other and I think under a different man… well, under someone else it might have been the end of the American experiment.”

“Well I appreciate you saying that. I worry far too much about the choices I’ve made, what I leave behind.”

“Your legacy is secure. I’ll see to it personally.”

He considered this. “Keep the part about my very impressive cock.”

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