31.

hoooov

“People do not like you,” she laughed, stating the obvious as she watched protesters in front of the residence.

He sighed, joining her at the window. “They’re living on the White House lawn. Protesting me is a full time job now.”

“To be fair, there aren’t many other opportunities for employment.”

“I’m doing the best I can! You know the market will sort this out; it always does. The worst thing I can do is meddle.” He was trying to stay calm, channeling his Quaker upbringing with all of his might.

“I don’t believe that.”

He saw an opening while she was facing the window, and wrapped his arms around her. “Well on some level you must. You’re in here, not out there.”

“It’s warm in here,” she shrugged, privately enjoying the way his body felt pressed up against hers. “What are they protesting?”

“They want to cash in service certificates.”

“They’re military?”

“Yeah. The certificates aren’t worth anything for another 10 years but they are trying to cash them in early. As if it’s my fault they don’t have jobs.” He frowned, realizing this was an inconvenient time to feel his body respond to her proximity.

“Do you have a.. swelling right now?”

(He did).

“It’s because they’re chanting my name.”

Part of her hoped this was true; it was one of those egotistical things that sometimes sent her on a one way ticket to sploosh-town. But she knew him better than that. “You don’t have that kind of ego.”

“You’re right. It’s because I’ve wanted to be this close to you for months now, and you’re in my room, and I’m only a man.”

She turned around, wondering if the Bonus Army was able to see them through the glass pane. She’d imagined him taking her against this window, a bunch of angry army veterans watching them. It was as thrilling as it was mean. This week, she was feeling mean. It had been a week.

Still.

“Close the curtains,” she decided, finally. “They don’t need to know you’re in here pounding me.”

He scrambled to close them, suddenly very nervous. “I.. yes.. Yes ma’am.”

“I’ve wanted you too,” she replied, sizing him up. “I’ve been very taken with you for awhile.”

“Oh?”

She moved closer to him. “I liked your openness with the press. Your accessibility. And.. you’re very handsome.”

He ran his hands up her waist, pulling her in. “I’m going to kiss you.”

“You should.”

(He did).

Their lips met hungrily. She felt the intense relief of finally attaining the intimacy she wanted, though as they kissed she knew she wanted more. He was firm, passionate, holding her almost paternally. She guessed she’d have to unpack that later.

“Take me to the bed,” she begged, her eyes shining. He nodded, and scooped her into his arms. He was strong, running on adrenaline, and thrilled to be doing something in the White House that wouldn’t be remembered poorly by history.

“You work out,” she mumbled, as he laid her on the bed.

“Hooverball,” he replied. “It’s important to stay healthy.”

“Keep kissing me. Don’t stop.”

He obliged. They were undressing each other as he covered her body with gentle kisses. He was sweet, she realized, not from inexperience, but because that was his nature. His lips moved over her neck and down her body, and he slid her dress off to find her breasts with his mouth. He suckled her erect nipple; she moaned loudly, encouraging him. And then he was moving down, down like the stock market, to find her great depression. His tongue moved teasingly slow; again she was surprised by his abilities. He ran his tongue over her wet mound, barely grazing the surface. She arched her hips, desperate to feel more of him. He would not give her that relief, not yet, and still barely made contact with her body. It was enough to make her gush, and try and move closer to his mouth. His tongue found her clit, teased it, and then moved away again as he kissed her inner thigh. She was swelling now, her body was tingling and she knew she needed to feel more.

“You like this, baby?” He asked.

“You’re driving me crazy,” she admitted. “I want you inside me.”

If there were a better five words in the English language, Hoover was unaware (The Great Depression is over?). He repositioned himself, his meat whistle as rigid as the country’s wages. She nodded, looking into his eyes, affirming her consent. With this, he gently entered her, again his ministrations more affectionate than she deserved. He was controlled without being rough, and his rod (lord, he missed fishing) filled her fully. She gasped, pulled him toward her.

“I’m yours,” he told her.

She thrust her hips to meet his, taking him as deeply as she could. Unlike his actual foreign policy, he invaded her Southern Hemisphere without hesitation. He pulled out, slowly again, and then entered her once more. He was almost frustratingly slow to act (she should’ve foreseen this), but it was only making her body crave him more. He wanted her to beg for more, and he loved the feeling of letting it build for both of them.

“Darling,” she whispered, her hands digging into his back. “I want to come. I want to come on your cock.”

It wasn’t every day someone expressed a desire to go to Hooverville, and he would not leave her disappointed. He thrust again, and stroked her clit as he pushed in and out slowly. She moaned; she called his name, then his title, then his name again. She grasped at the bed. He sped up his pressure on her love button, the way he pressured Congress to pass anti-lynching legislation (literally the least he could do; but, he thought, he clearly wasn’t racist he had a Native American vice president and a wife who dined with a black woman once).

She sensed he’d left her for a moment, and coaxed him back by kissing him deeply, and pulling at his hair. She was unused to men who took their time, and he acted as if he had nothing but time. Though she supposed he knew his presidency had ended on Black Tuesday and he did have nothing but time. He increased his pace, harder on her than he’d been on tax rates for the wealthy.

“Oh fuck,” she tried not to shout this. “Fuck fuck fuck don’t stop.”

He removed his thick cock from her, like he was removing Mexicans from the US, but then slipped it back in. She was rubbing herself now too, bringing herself closer.

“I’m close, I’m so close,” she called out, and he went faster, and pushed himself harder than he’d thought himself capable. She only moaned louder, encouraging him, her pussy contracting.

“Come for me, that’s my girl, drench me.”

She nodded, and her free hand grabbed the bed as her body convulsed and the orgasm washed over her.

“Baby, fuck fuck, I’m going to come too.”

(He did).

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