35.

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The door to the Oval Office swung open.

“Bobby!” Jack yelped. “I’m just.. Working. Cuba. You know. Cuba.”

Hidden by the desk, she continued her detailed exploration of his cock. Bobby Kennedy, no stranger to his brother’s many dalliances, feigned ignorance.

“Indeed,” came Bobby’s amused reply. “Guests are asking about you. Your absence is conspicuous.”

Her tongue swirled around the head, and Jack struggled to make words with his mouth hole.

“I’m.. nearly finished,” he breathed.

Bobby choked back a laugh, and left his brother to it. Under the desk, she paused and looked up at the president.

“Your brother is a dreamboat.”

“I liked you better with your mouth full.”

“He’s a pit bull. Why isn’t he president?”

“I was born first. Can we stop talking about him; it’s my birthday.”

He helped her up and she stood between his legs, leaning against the desk. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t get swept up in Jack Kennedy’s charms (again), but goodness the Oval Office was a real panty dropper.

“It is your birthday, and you heard him — your absence is conspicuous.”

He stood too, stretched, tried to hide the constant pain in his secret-Addison’s riddled back. She noticed his expression, but ignored it. He kissed her.

“I only need a few minutes,” he growled.

“That shouldn’t be a selling feature,” she tried to remain coy, but his mouth was moving down her neck and she was struggling to catch her breath.

“Quantity over quality.”

“Again — how do you ever get laid?”

He paused, backed away from her. “Look at me.”

She couldn’t argue with that; he was unbearably handsome. And his sartorial choices were as on point as his test ban treaty. She nodded; he grinned, and they resumed their greedy exploits. He was a cad, to be sure, but as her dress slipped off and lay casually on the floor, she decided not to care. He was just efficient. She supposed he would have to be, if the rumors of his non-existent satiation were true, or at least less embellished than his war stories.

She deepened the kiss, his erection poking at her hip. They’d spent enough time on foreplay, and it was time to feel him inside her.

“I can’t wait any longer,” she whispered, drawing closer to him.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have my brother?” He retorted, still wounded.

“Oh Jack darling,” she laughed. “You’ll do for now.”

“Get on the desk,” he ordered, as if there were any chance he wasn’t going to go to town on her like she was a jelly donut. “And I’d prefer if it you address me as Mr. President.”

“I’ll address you however I please,” she chuckled, her eyes widening as she followed his instructions. “On the desk. What will people think of me?”

“It’s not because you are easy,” he explained, hovering over her, expectantly. “But because I am hard.”

She nearly rolled her eyes at his lameness, but then he pushed into her welcoming slit and once again all was forgiven. He was not an easy man to dislike, as much as she wanted to. He thrust into her, invading her bay of pigs with abandon. She fell back onto the desk, and he nearly bent her in half, her legs stretched nearly over her head as he continued his practiced assault. Though it was not the most comfortable position, it was well worth it; the sensation of his movements sent shivers through her body. She pulled him onto the desk to join her, confident it could support them both. He offered no hesitation (a gentle reminder she was not the first woman to take a pounding on the Resolute desk), the position change allowing him to get the leverage he needed to explore her new frontier.

“Christ,” she moaned. “You’re a fucking machine.”

He looked down at her, her dress pushed up, legs still extended over her head. “You like this?”

“Harder,” came her fiery reply. “Show me what my country can do for me.”

He obliged, gliding in and out as covertly as the CIA. The orgasm was building; it never took him long to climax. Sex was his favorite extracurricular. It was better than sailing. And the idea that someone could find them (they wouldn’t; AG Bobby always saw to that) was helping him along. It drove him crazy to think they could be caught, of course, but that was manufactured danger, that was a turn-on. This wasn’t exactly the Cuban Missile Crisis.

“This is incredible,” she tried to stay quiet, but her body was screaming. He was averagely endowed, but their position allowed him to fill her completely.

He was racing now, full of the pent-up energy that would likely propel America to the moon. He held her down as he knelt before her, furiously chasing his climax. He was possessed, and barely contained. She grabbed her ankles, her high heels in the air, holding on as he sped up. He was ready to burst now, holding off as best he could, thinking about Khruschev, about Berlin, about the ever-present threats foreign and domestic, anything to make the moment last longer.

“Finish for me darling,” she called, a little because she was tired of being uncomfortably folded in half on the hard wood. Still, she was optimistic about this president, pictured trysts on yachts while they talked about Civil Rights, the way white people could afford to just chat about Civil Rights. Plus he was about to sign an Equal Pay Act, so all her gender’s problems were going to be solved forever.

“Baby I’m — Jesus holy shit,” he grunted as he came.

“Good, baby,” she encouraged him, grabbing his shoulders. He convulsed gently; she took the opportunity to stretch, finally.

“Let’s do this again sometime,” he grinned, unromantically handing her a tissue.

“You know where to find me,” she replied, cleaning herself off. A thin line of sweat creased his brow, but that was the only hint he’d engaged in anything untoward. Gosh. He was a pro.

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