Chester Arthur was an accomplished fisherman. He loved any opportunity to show off, and had been delighting in competing with Senator Vest for who could bring in the most impressive specimen. So far, it had been a tough competition, but there were a few days left on his Yellowstone expedition and the president was confident he could scoop a trout that would best the senator’s three pounder. He was happily baiting his hook, his Bright’s disease all but forgotten, when she wandered up to the river.
“Good morning, sir!” She said cheerfully, stooping to fill a kettle.
He smiled back, nodded. Then he considered her. There were not many women on this expedition (judging from the pictures it would seem there were none, but it’s uncanny how a group of men away from the pressures of society seem to attract certain kinds of women), and the bachelor Arthur was intrigued. He’d seen this particular lady fire a shotgun at least as well as the men on the trip, and she easily out-whiskeyed the best of them. He felt a familiar twinge in his loins, and he discarded the bait and pole, no longer needing it to fish.
“How are you enjoying the trip?” He asked, approaching her.
“Oh it’s beautiful here! I hope this inspires more people to visit. I think the National Parks are such treasures. Keep protecting them,” she smiled.
“For you I will,” he grinned.
She almost rolled her eyes at his obvious flirtation, but checked herself. This was the president, not some Stalwart off the street. Plus, he was a likeable president who’d pushed through the Pendleton Act even after being staunchly opposed to patronage reform for years. Still, that wasn’t enough to get him off the hook completely.
“Are you flirting with me? Because it usually takes some time before a man promises me the national parks.”
“I’m feeling amative.”
“You do look well. I’d heard you’d been under the weather.”
He frowned, “Where did you hear that?”
She backpedaled, gently. “You know men talk, they don’t think we’re listening sometimes. My dad would say women have no brain for politics.”
“You shouldn’t have to worry about such things,” he replied, hoping chivalry would work on her.
“But I want to worry about those things. It’d be nice to have a voice in your government,” she sighed, brought the conversation back around. “Anyway, my father was wrong. It’s why I don’t trust old men with mustaches.”
“I’d like to change your opinion on old men with mustaches.”
“Mr. President,” she feigned offense. “What kind of a lady do you think I am?”
“I know exactly the kind of lady you are — I watched you down half a bottle last night while sitting in Frank’s lap.”
“Ah so you think I’ve an easy virtue.”
He was unsure if she took genuine offense to this, and hesitated, “I just… well,” he cleared his throat.
“You’d prefer I were sitting in your lap?”
“I think I’ve made it clear I do,” he grinned, and closed the gap between them.
His proximity sent shivers through her body, and she welcomed his embrace. Still, she continued to toy with him. “It’s an interesting proposition to be sure. But you’re not the only man here thinking about slipping under my dress. Mr. Haynes is rather dishy, and Bobby Lincoln has made it clear I should see the inside of his tent.”
He swallowed, refusing to be bested by her. He’d fended off Conkling, fired fraudulent government contractors, and stood up to Congress on the budget: it was important to him that he not have the reputation of a man easily rattled.
“You can if you want, but I have a better offer.”
“Visit mine,” he paused. “And don’t bother using them to make me jealous; I don’t mind if you spend time with every man on this trip as long as you remember who your president is.”
“Let’s go now,” she answered immediately, pressing up against him.
He flinched. Heightening dictated her only move was this, but the authority with which she spoke surprised him. He nodded and took her by the arm. He realized as he was leading her to the tent that it was probably a mess, and not the most impressive place to bed a lady. He also realized he didn’t care enough to back down, and the thrill of having her was too great to deny.
Once inside she embraced him instantly, wasting no time in loosening the ties on her dress and the buttons on his pants. He was impeccably dressed, as usual, not seeing this trip as a reason to dress down, and she made a bit of a show pulling off his many layers.
He’d been with women since he’d lost his wife, but it was infrequent and he suddenly worried that for all his bravado it would be unimpressive. For her part, she was kissing his face, and guiding his hands to a very firm and welcoming body.
“I want to take care of you,” he announced, this time honestly and without his annoying desire to be chivalrous.
“Same,” she agreed, pushing him down onto the cot, which, she noticed, was a whole lot nicer than the rest of the campsite.
“No, no,” he countered. “Come up here, sit on my face.”
She smiled, feeling herself tingle at the suggestion.
“I can do that,” she positioned herself over him, gingerly. He grabbed her and pulled her down on his mouth, and she exploded with pleasure.
His whiskers tickled the inside of her thighs as she rode him. He moved his hands up and down her legs, pulling her in closer, encouraging her to grind on his face. Any trace of nervousness was gone and now she only felt powerful, like this was how a woman should be treated. He ate her pussy with gusto; his tongue exploring every crevice. She was dripping onto his face, soaking his mutton chops.
“Mmmmfff,” he called excitedly from between her legs.
She delighted in his excitement, as much aroused by that as his very skilled tongue. “Yes, baby, you’re so good to me.”
He darted in deeper; she let out a moan.
“Oh holy fuck,” she swore, grabbing at his hair. “Don’t you dare stop.”
He didn’t plan on stopping until she finished, and so he redoubled his effort. He looked up at her, pride clearly shining in his eyes, and licked her up and down. His hands moved around her body to her backside, and he grabbed her ass as he continued his lick marathon on her body.
Outside the tent, she could hear rustling, and she was sure by now everyone knew the president had taken a lover. It didn’t seem to faze the man buried in her clinch, however, so she made no attempt to be quiet. He was open minded (to a point, and that point was polygamy), and she reveled in his enjoyment. She’d initially planned on stopping, and moving to other activities, but his mouth felt so good and he was hitting her clit in a way it was rarely stimulated by inexperienced men. To think she’d considered Bobby Lincoln, a man so unlucky he’d been present at two presidential assassinations.
“Oh my god, you’ve got me so close this is absurd,” she exclaimed, suddenly wondering if it would be impolite to finish on his glorious mustache. Again he met her gaze, said something muffled into her snatch, and continued his efforts. It seemed clear to her he was encouraging, and indeed the idea of bringing to orgasm was driving him crazy. Women weren’t second class anythings, he understood; they should be worshipped and spoiled, just not with government jobs, but that wasn’t a gender rule that was a no patronage rule.
“Baby I’m,” she inhaled, “I’m so close oh fuck oh mmmmm,” she tried to temper her volume but he knew what he was doing and she couldn’t resist any longer. She bucked her hips on his face, trying to stay gentle, riding a very powerful orgasm. He soaked it in, figuratively, literally, until her body stopped convulsing and she collapsed next to him.
“Oh my lord you are more fun than a lame-duck congress,” she exhaled, exhausted.
“I’ve had some fun with those!” He laughed, wiping his face, rock hard and proud of his work.
“As soon as I can move again you are getting spoiled,” she promised him. “I’ve wanted to spoil you since I read about your work in the Graham case, you wonderful elegant man.”
He was feeling better than he’d felt in years; his doctors had been right about this trip to Yellowstone restoring him. Though whether it was the trip or the friendly company, he’d never really know. Historians would muse on this point for decades.