She was ready to give up. The rest of the staff had long since left the office; she was sitting in near dark still trying to make words appear. There were no words. Her muse had taken the night off, had probably gone to Grenada or Berlin or somewhere words were in higher demand. The surly bitch. She took another sip of wine, and glanced down at the blank page before her.

“Come on,” she frowned. Touch the face of god.

She was surrounded by incredibly talented writers, full of gorgeous imagery and the right amount of folksiness. Soon someone would realize she was an imposter, and not even a Republican one at that.

“Well you’re here late.”

She startled up, unaware that anyone was still around. Her eyes met the president’s and she was sure she was either dreaming or had crawled deeper into that bottle of wine than she intended. She stood up anyway, her fuzzy brain aware enough to remember manners.

“Mr. Um. I didn’t know anyone else was in the. Mr. President, hi, what can I do for you?”

She was blowing it. He either didn’t notice, or politely refused to acknowledge it.

“Mind if I sit? I didn’t know anyone was still here — I was about to head to the residence; saw your light.”

“Please sit,” she fumbled, gesturing to the chair. “Do you need anything?”

“I wouldn’t say no to a glass of your wine,” he gestured to the open bottle. She blushed.

“I don’t usually — I mean I’m not a lush, sir.”

“It’s one in the morning, I’m not here to chastise you.”

“I didn’t know you drank at all, to be honest,” she handed him a glass. “It’s a pretty rad pinot.”

“I don’t often,” he explained. “Seemed like the right call now. Sit down; you’re making me nervous.”

She did. “I’ve been working on this war on drugs speech.”

He waved her off, “I don’t want to talk about that right now. I think you could use a break.”

He wasn’t wrong. Besides, how many chances does a young lady get to have wine in paper cups with the president? She refilled hers.

“Nancy doesn’t think I should drink,” he told her, winking.

“I’ve heard there are lots of rules for what you can and can’t do,” she replied, trying to remain respectful. “Lots of people put stock in astrology.”

“Do you?”

Again, she paused. But then, fuck it, he was in her office in the middle of the night and she didn’t see any reason to humor him.

“Not at all. I see the appeal but… well there’s no real map for what we’re doing, right? We’re all just making it up as we go and if we stumble into something worthy we’re lucky.” She looked at the empty bottle, “Or drunk.”

He smiled, “I like you. I’m glad we wooed you away from the Democrats.”

“Well I don’t always fancy your politics, but the money is good and I like the way you make my words sound.”

“So you’re a narcissist.”

“Aren’t we all.”

He laughed, enjoying her candor. “I was liberal at your age too, you know.”

“You’re not going to convince me I’ll change my mind,” she retorted. “But if we disagreed on everything I wouldn’t be here.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because I’m onto you,” she shrugged, and the words continued to tumble out. “You’re funny and charming, but you’re ruthless too and you don’t let anyone in — not those men, not even your family and I’ve always liked a challenge.”

He looked at her for a long moment, neither of them saying anything. He couldn’t decide if she’d meant to be suggestive, but it had been a long time since a woman talked to him this way and he knew he wanted more.

“You’ve got me figured out,” he chuckled, cautiously edging forward. His guard was down now, washed away like his memory during the first Mondale debate.

“It’s not hard.” She was on a roll now, “And what you did to those air traffic controllers — you’ve gotta be careful with unions or you’ll trash the working class and there’ll be no one left to vote for you.”

“Who else would they vote for?” He laughed. He wasn’t wrong.

“Why did you come in here?” She asked, finally. It came out harsher than she meant it, but she suspected his motives were about as benign as mandatory minimums.

“I didn’t come in here for anything untoward.”

“I don’t think you did,” she replied. “But you did come in here.” Eager to hold the upper hand, it was she who stood, and purposefully walked to his side of the desk. She leaned against it, looking down at him.

“Perhaps I should go,” he half-whispered, and stood. She made no move out of his way, maintaining peace through strength, and he took a nervous breath as the gap between them closed.

“You could just say no,” she smirked, but his hands were on her waist now and there was no other way to go than forward.

“I think I’d rather tear down these walls.”

“I’ll be careful with you,” she promised. “I know you’re old and frail and that was before someone tried to kill you.”

He pushed her against the desk, sharply, his strength surprising them both and sending her on a one way trip to splooshville. He wanted her like he wanted prayer in school. His intentions had been pure when he entered the room, but somehow a switch had flipped and his hands were sliding under her dress and she was encouraging it as if he were young and handsome and not an old man with a hearing aid.

His coat fell to the floor, errant jelly beans spilling out of the pockets. She was undressing him quickly, trying to outrun her boozy brain. For his part, he was sliding off her panties, lowering them like unemployment and pushing her back onto the desk. She struggled with his belt.

His belt wasn’t the solution, like government it was the problem. She was aware of her decisions as she pulled it off, and yet some part of her was screaming about how he was the president, and old enough to be her grandfather. She ignored that part; she could judge herself for this choice in the morning.

She scooted back onto the desk, exposing her welcoming slit.

“Would you trade arms for this?” She asked, coyly.

“You know there’s a 40% chance this could kill me.”

She laughed, “Well, don’t forget to duck.”

His doctrine entered her, expanding her deficit. She moaned and wrapped her legs around him. He thrust into her excitedly, like a man who had left his sex glory days a long time ago. Yet, he was eager, thrilled, and she delighted in the way that made her feel.

So far, he was the oldest man to occupy the White House, but that certainly didn’t stop him from commanding operation urgent fury. He slammed into her again, and she grabbed the sides of the desk to keep upright. She noted he didn’t even hint at using a condom, as only a man blissfully ignorant of the AIDS crisis could. Still, she didn’t have to agree with his politics to take his cock, and the way he expertly moved in and out felt incredible. She met his body with each thrust, aware they were making a mess of her desk. She didn’t care. She sped up.

“This is fucking fun,” she exclaimed into his ear.

He was slowing down a bit, but grinned.

“I’m not usually like this,” he admitted, breathless, pushing deeper.

“Well,” she dug her nails into his back, moaning. “I’m happy to bring it out of you.”

He came finally, and nearly immediately dropped back into her chair, exhausted and panting. She straightened up, smiled, adjusted her dress as his reaganomics trickled down her leg. (At least something he’d done would trickle down.) She wondered if she would have time to sleep before being expected back at her desk. They were both aware it was going to be a long day. It was morning in America, and they had work to do.


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