A young woman offered her hand. “Happy birthday, Mr. President!”
There were lots of wonderful things about being president, to be sure, but Grover Cleveland particularly enjoyed the parties. It had been a tough year, tougher for strikers and laborers, and he was glad to see it finished. And he was equally glad to have a drink surrounded by people who made him feel good about his accomplishments. He took the woman’s hand, and kissed it. She blushed. He liked seeing her blush. She couldn’t be much older than his still very young wife, and he was instantly curious as to what she’d look like wearing only her pearl necklace.
From behind him there came another voice, interrupting his impure thoughts.
“You’re getting old.”
He turned around to meet the voice, losing the young woman in the process. He knew before turning who it was.
“You,” he grinned. “I knew you’d be back.”
She leaned in to kiss his cheek, “Only to revel in your rapidly increasing age.”
“Men age gracefully,” he explained. “Worry about your own obsolescence.”
“Look at me,” she gestured. He did (and damn), taking care to linger on her curves, remembering how she’d felt in his hands, and how her eager body responded to his touch. “Now tell me again I’m obsolete.”
“I’d tell you anything you wanted to hear,” he admitted.
“That explains how you got the American public to vote for you again. How is that tariff reform coming along?”
“You know, no one talks to me this way when you’re not around,” he replied, as if he weren’t loving it.
“You need me.”
“Come upstairs with me. I want to show you something,” he extended his hand, which she willingly accepted.
“Is it your secret surgery scar?”
He shot her an annoyed look, but his libido dictated he continue toward the bedroom.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he countered, assisting her on the stairs.
Her disdain was obvious, and it would have bothered him under different circumstances.
“You’re a straight talker so no one questions it when you’re not,” she frowned. “Have I accused you of that before?”
He swung open the bedroom door, “Probably. I stopped listening when you talk ages ago though.”
She entered the room, he followed, locking the door behind them. She pulled off her gloves, and loosened her bodice. She was dressed well, as always, but that meant she would require his assistance to reach her natural state. She hoped he still proved worth it.
He undressed her, quickly, untying her corset with ease. She met his lips, coyly — convinced now there was something different and that the rumors of his surgery were founded. She said nothing. If she wanted to mock him (and she did), she preferred his pushing the country into financial crisis, and not his secret medical conditions. We all have things we care about.
“Tell me you haven’t missed this body everyday,” she demanded, his hands tightening around her waist.
“I loathe you,” came his reply. A beat. “But of course I’m more obsessed with this ass than I am with the gold standard.”
“At least we’re agreed,” she wrapped a friendly hand around his cock, stroking him.
“Mmmfssfmm,” came his eloquent reply.
He twirled her around aggressively, and pushed her face into the bed. She offered a throaty Grover, as he buried her face in the blankets.
He spanked her once, she cried out. The delighted moans she made turned him on, and he spanked her again, and a third time, imagining he was slapping idiot Pullman strikers or poor people. Lord, he hated poor people.
“Jesus Mr. President,” she moaned, breathless, her voice edged with pain. “I need that cock now.”
He considered continuing to fight with her, but he was swollen and ready and could barely think beyond having his way with her.
“Take it,” he brusquely invaded her. “Oh fuck.”
She grabbed the bed; he grabbed her waist. Though he was considerably older on this go-around, she had to admit he hadn’t lost his touch. He was firm, rough, and without restraint as he assailed her again and again. He grinded against her, and pulled her hair as he went deeper. He was wrecking her like the Panic had wrecked the country, and the pace with which he did so stunned her.
“Oh god like that,” she encouraged him. “Don’t hold back.”
He obliged, filling her up, demanding her body accommodate him. “I can’t get enough of this,” he admitted.
“You like this? You can have my ass if you want.”
He paused, thrilled, sweat dripping from his brow. “Of course I want.”
“Support Lodge’s bill,” she continued. It had been a brilliant tactical move on her part. It would almost work.
Her ass was the best argument he’d ever seen for changing his opinion on the Lodge Bill. Maybe the country could use more federal oversight of voting. He shook his head, and slammed back into her, remaining content with what he had. She screamed. He grinned. Her desire to mix pain with pleasure was the only reason he kept coming back.
“Shut the fuck up,” he grunted, pushing deeper inside.
“Oh fuck you,” she shot back, bracing herself on the bed.
“No,” he commanded, grabbing her hips and forcing her back on his cock.
Even for him, this was rough. She loved it. If she was going to keep going back to this man who had once told her that sensible women did not want the vote, she deserved to be in pain for it. And, when he threw her around like one of baby Ruth’s dolls, it drove her crazy.
“Is that all you’ve got, old man?”
He rammed into her again as an answer.
Unlike Coxey’s Army, whose protest march on Washington had been met with arrests and defeat, she was not disappointed.