He was buried pretty deep in her ass when he heard the knock.

“Mr. President?” The voice called, “Sir… they’ve called the election for you.”

“Just a second,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by her body. He extracted himself from her, and called back to the door, “I thought the papers said Dewey.”

“Votes are counted now, Mr. President. You’re the winner,” the aide called back.

Truman was elated, of course, though quickly realized this meant his time inside her would be limited. He turned to her, “I’m sorry, darling, it seems like I’ve been reelected.”

“And they said your record on civil rights would ruin you.”

“Well Strom Thurmond can bite me.” He grinned, and called back to the man outside the door, “Jolly good, then!”

“We’re all meeting downstairs. The papers want a statement, too,” the voice responded.

Truman sighed, dramatically. It was nice to have a term on his own merit and not just because the actual president died, but he wasn’t quite ready to be done with his extracurriculars.

Finally he responded, I’ll be down in a minute!”

She pulled him back to her, cooing. “Make sure you let the Tribune know you had your tongue in my bum when you heard the news.”

“I’d love to,” he grinned.

“Does this mean we have to finish quickly?” She asked, clearly disappointed.

“Dewey can’t even lose right,” the presidented lamented. “But don’t fret dear, I’m not going to leave you just yet.”

She resumed her position, on all fours, eager for him to continue his work. He ran his hand over her body, taking precious time they didn’t have.

“You have a truly wonderful rear,” he mused, punctuating this with a spank. “Or ass isn’t my middle name.”

“I don’t think it is, sir.”

“Close enough,” he shrugged, finally joining her on the bed and positioning himself behind her. “I could live here.”

“I wish you would.”

“May I?”

She adored his habit of checking for consent, as if moments ago his tongue hadn’t been worming its way inside her. He drove her wild with his respect, his earnestness, and his very finely tailored suits. She didn’t want to downplay the importance of the suits.

“It does seem our time is limited, so please, come here.”

He grabbed her hips and slammed his doctrine into her. His aggressive nature was not new to her, nor was it undesired, and she welcomed him like anticommunist allies would welcome American intervention. Even when they weren’t pressed for time, he was in a hurry.

“Oh fuck, Mr. President,” she gasped. “Don’t stop.”

“Don’t worry,” he replied, speeding up. “I know what you like.”

He continued pounding her, thrusting himself deeper as she moaned for him. She encouraged him to keep his pace, to wreck her, and his reputation as an overzealous destroyer had been cemented since August of 1945. He pulled out, and took a moment to catch his breath while she lay panting in front of him. She was still on her hands and knees (such a good girl), and he pressed into her ass with his erection.

“Baby…” she managed a whisper.

“You want more?”

“You know I do, don’t make me fucking beg.”

He reached for the glass of bourbon on the nightstand. There was always a glass of bourbon on his nightstand. He downed it.

“I think you should beg,” he reached around to stroke her swollen clit, lightly; he didn’t want her finishing yet.

“You can be a real fucking asshole sometimes,” she shot back, her body still screaming for him to resume.

He loved her vulgar mouth more than he loved national health care.

“You love it. Tell me you want this cock.”

“Get the fuck back inside me before I slap you,” came her reply and he grinned and pushed her face down into the pillow. He haberdashed back inside her, harder than before, more violently than he’d gone after railroad strikers. She scrambled to maintain her bearings, grabbing at the bed as he so wonderfully regained his control. She could override him if she wanted; like Congress she had that power, but unlike them she more often let him win. He rolled them both so they were on their sides, so he could squeeze her breasts as he continued pounding her. He pinched one of nipples and she yelled his name. They were both aware that his absence at the election party was now embarrassingly obvious and yet still he thrust into her, holding her body against his, feeling her ass slap against his cock.

“Touch yourself for me too, sweetheart,” he directed her, and his gruff voice in her ear was more titillating than anything they’d done so far. She obeyed this time, desperately ready to come. He was there too, and watching her rub her clit was neater than lowering income tax rates, and almost as sexy.

“I want to feel you come,” she moaned. “Fill my pussy.”

He was ready to burst, and happy to oblige her. He found her hips again, thrusting quickly, pushing them both to the limit as she furiously continued touching herself. She could feel him cumming and he growled into her ear. He wrapped around her, filling her, and she allowed herself to finish too. She did so loudly, twitching in his arms as his seed dripped down her legs.

“That’s my girl,” he sighed.

She certainly wasn’t his girl, and generally had no desire to be more than a worthy playmate and fellow lover of a stiff drink. Still, following his impressive pounding, she’d let him think whatever he wanted. That seemed like a fair deal.


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