36.

37_Lyndon_Johnson_3x4

He rolled over, admiring her still-naked body in the mid-afternoon light. “Let’s get married!”

She been nearly asleep when his voice jolted her awake. It was always jolting. She didn’t bother to turn and face him, “You’re already married. And stop shouting.”

“The details. And this is my indoor voice,” he replied loudly, pulling himself up to sitting.

“Chilling,” she chuckled, finally rotating to face him. His craggy face was lit up; it was charming. His charms were unexpected. “You’ve only known me a week.”

“I’m very proud of my ability to know what I want when I see it.”

“I’ve noticed.  Zero impulse control.”

He waved her away. “It’s for pussies.”

She laughed, privately delighted that he was the kind of person who acted impulsively and didn’t take no for an answer. He’d put the first black justice on the Supreme Court; she was sure he could handle anything that came his way. Still, her preferred method of showing affection was endless sass. She was barely human.

“Don’t you have to get back to wiretapping civil rights leaders or fighting endless wars or whatever it is you do?”

He frowned. Or maybe that was just his face. “That’s not all I do.” A beat. “And who the fuck are you?”

“I actually have a world class political mind.”

“Just no actual class,” he smirked.

“That hasn’t seemed to bother you so far.”

“Quite the opposite; it gets me hard when you’re hard on me.”

He wasn’t lying either; she could see evidence of that under the very thin sheet. She couldn’t remember if either of them had put clothes on at any point in the last few days. This was the best job interview of her life.

She reached under the sheet to stroke him. “Again? Doesn’t this thing ever get tired?”

“Jumbo’s got a mind of his own.”

“Yeah and it’s got exactly one track,” she chuckled, wrapping her hand around his member.

“Guilty,” he inhaled sharply, his eyes once again traveling to her ass. “Unless you want to rethink–”

She stopped him, “I swear if you suggest ramming that massive thing in my bunghole again I’m going to cut it off and bury it as far away from Texas as possible.”

He laughed heartily. “I might love you.”

“You don’t.”

“Fair. I am going to fuck you again though.” He moved down the bed to her, and she faced away from him, feeling his well funded national endowment eagerly pressing up against her back. She shuddered, and grinded into him. Operation rolling thunder was a go. She couldn’t wait to feel him again, but the moments of anticipation were equally titillating.

“You should, but darling, be gentle; you’re wearing me out,” she admitted.

He spread her legs gently, his hand exploring her ass as he positioned himself. He hesitated for a moment, and she moaned softly. Her lips swelled, and she was so wet it bordered on embarrassing.

Three days into their unplanned hump marathon, she was still stunned every time he entered her. Which was frequently, as his appetite for sex was more voracious than his appetite for passing legislation, and no less aggressive. Her body was prepared now, but that didn’t mean the feeling was dulled; he stretched her to the limit, again, entering slowly out of habit.

“Fucking hell,” she swore. “That’s fucking perfect.”

He barely had to move; just the feeling of him was enough to make her crazy. Last night they’d both imbibed a little too much and she’d pushed him to do his worst. This morning he’d taken her standing against the back of the door, while shouting instructions on his education legislation to bewildered assistants. (Even her body wouldn’t keep him from funding public education.) The nonstop sexcapades left her more than a little sore, and the gentle pressure exerted from behind was about all she needed.

“Christ,” she moaned as he carefully pulled out and reentered like an Apollo astronaut.

“Careful with the Christ talk,” he admonished.

She ignored it, “He gave you this wang, what did he expect?”

He thrust into her aggressively. He couldn’t help getting a little rough; it was nice to take his anger out on something on than Congress. “Does this hurt?”

“Oh fuck,” she winced, but the pain only intensified how good she felt. “It’s so fucking good though.”

“I know what you want,” he growled, attacking her like she was civil rights. From his position behind her he was able to stop short of going too deep, applying just the right amount of force. He knew what he was doing, as surely as he knew the South was going to be solidly Republican for decades now. Her body submitted to his will, and he gruffly nipped at her neck, his rhythm uninterrupted.

“Oh my god right there,” she tried not to shout this, but was unsuccessful. She pushed his hand to her clit and he happily caressed it.

“You want to cum for me again, don’t you sweetheart?”

Her breath hitched, “Yes fuck keep doing that.”

His great society continued to fill her while he stroked her clit. She tried to think of something, anything to make it last longer, but the sensations were just so perfect that she didn’t think it would be possible.

He picked up his pace, sensing how close she was. He was engorged, ready to burst. His brain was blissfully focused on her body and taking them both to orgasm and it was so nice to escape the many annoyances of the presidency. He was tired of idiot Republicans using segregation and Jim Crow to justify their own racism. He was tired of the pervasive inequality, of children drinking unclean water, of being left to tackle Kennedy’s impossibly lofty agenda. He refocused, thrust harder, felt his orgasm building.

“Baby baby,” she called suddenly. “Fuck I’m gonna cum don’t stop fuck fuck fuck.”

Her very vocal orgasm pushed him over the edge too and he came with her, their bodies messily convulsing together. This was the American fucking dream, he realized; every kid from a poor rural area should have the chance to grow up and spend three or four blissful days squirting all over a sharp-tongued girl who he barely knew.

“You didn’t pull out,” she chastised, but then pulling out wasn’t his strong suit. He wasn’t perfect.

 

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