38.

Portrait

She knocked on the door, “Mr. President?”

The reply was instant and delighted. “Come in!”

She let herself into his bedroom, her stomach suddenly doing tiny somersaults. Gosh, he was handsome, she thought. Clean-cut all-American types weren’t usually her first choice, but she certainly wouldn’t kick them out of bed for eating crackers.

“Sorry, I’m just finishing a call,” he apologized, his hand over the mouthpiece. “That’s polling data yeah?”

She nodded, “No one’s happy about Nixon.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but got [sucked back into the call]. She left the folder on his desk, and walked around behind him. She ran a hand through his hair. He glanced back at her and smiled.

Emboldened, she continued caressing him lightly, her hands running through his hair and across his neck. He shuddered, and turned toward her again, shaking his head. She hesitated, not wanting to push their tame flirtation any further than he wanted.

He was still struggling through his phone call, but leaned back in the chair, facing her. He reached out to run a deliberate finger up her thigh, a new gesture for him. This was enough to offer them both the permission they sought. She leaned closer, bent over him. His conversation was suddenly more confident, but she could sense an arousal in his voice that had not been present before. She wondered if they could sense it on the other end. The whole business was hotter than the Helsinki Accords, and she busied herself burying her tongue in his ear.

He hadn’t been prepared for this moment, but in his defense the Boy Scouts had taught him nothing about what to do when a White House staffer nibbles your earlobe during a call with the Soviet Union. He wrapped up the call, barely, as he was quickly losing the ability to make words happen.

“Sorry,” she grinned, sheepishly.

“I knew you were trouble,” he laughed.

“There’s just something about you today,” she shrugged, then added, “Mr. President.”

“Don’t feign coy,” he stood, trying to regain the upper hand. It was unclear whether he had it to begin with.

“Ok,” she held his gaze. “I’d like to ride your cock. Right now. In this office.”

He swallowed, nervously, but the suggestion was welcome and no part of his brain wanted to decline. He pulled her in closer,

“It’s yours. Like amnesty for draft dodgers.”

“I love it when you talk dirty.”

She skipped the foreplay, aware that his time in this office was limited. They pulled off each others clothes efficiently, moving to the floor as they did. He was certain he’d be on top, despite her insistence on riding him. He was wrong.

“Just lie there,” she directed. “Let me spoil you.”

He nervously nodded his head, “This is new for me.”

“It doesn’t surprise me,” she laughed. “You’re just about the safest bedfellow a girl could imagine.”

“What every man wants to hear,” he sighed. She was particularly skilled at being bad for his ego and turning him on at the same time.

She stroked him, “I didn’t say I wasn’t into it.”

He was ready to feel her, and unused to relinquishing control. In the real world he was perfectly happy to let someone else drive (Lord knows he had no presidential ambitions), but in the bedroom he was generally confident in his ability to have perfunctory missionary relations. Even being on his back was nearly a long national nightmare for the unelected president.

“Are you sure this is how you want it?” He asked, already knowing the answer.

She held a finger to his lips, “Hush. Let me drive.”

She lowered herself onto him, carefully taking him in. Of course he was perfectly endowed. Contrary to popular myth, anything more than 8 inches was only erotic if one enjoyed cervical bruises. He filled up her budget deficit easily and she slowly bounced up and down. He couldn’t believe he’d been averse to this, especially after a lifetime surrounded by pretty badass women. (To be fair, some of those women had tried to kill him). He looked up at her, amazed.

“You feel incredible,” he gasped. This was better than the bicentennial.

“I told you!” She picked up her pace. Instinctively his hands went to her hips and he thrust in tandem. He matched her easily — he was remarkably athletic for a man who once fell down the stairs of Air Force One. She held onto his arms as she rode him, focused first on her pleasure and how good it felt to slide up and down on his rod.

“Slow down,” he directed, knowing he wouldn’t be able to wait if she kept her steady canter.

She listened, but barely, slowing down just a bit. She was easily able to drive him crazy by pulling up, then waiting a few tantalizing moments before slamming back down again.

“Oh my god I could do this all day,” she exclaimed, his shaft covered in her wetness.

“Me too,” he nodded vigorously, squeezing her hips. There was still a shyness in his actions, but she was happy to show him what she wanted. She guided his hands to her breasts, begging him not to forget her more sensitive regions.

For the first time since taking the Oath of Office, he felt like he was doing something well. So far, his presidency was mostly holding the nation together with his bare hands, offering a quiet referendum on the strength of the Constitution. They were exhausting circumstances under which to be president. Meanwhile, the economy slogged along, and he did what he could to end the Vietnam War officially, and he remained acutely aware his chances of being elected were hilariously small.

For the moment though, he didn’t feel small. He needed a win, and the one against inflation didn’t count.

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