The Stories



She quietly looked over the smoldering rubble of Washington DC. Perhaps the White House hadn’t been a dump before, but there was no arguing about that now. Most of the West Wing had been demolished in the riots following the battle of Charlottesville.

Police action, she reminded herself. They weren’t supposed to say battle.

She lit a second cigarette. What did it matter. Either she or the planet would be dead in a few years anyway. That was a funny thought; she’d tweet it if the electric grid still existed. She was seated in the hollowed out remnants of the state dining room, listening to screams from the angry mob on the other side of the fence. It wasn’t much of a fence anymore, she noted wanly, and it was a moot point since there was no one to guard it anyway. The Secret Service had abandoned their posts, long before the Collapse, when the stress of too many weekend trips to Mar-a-Lago and not enough paychecks became too much.

Collapse. She didn’t know if that was the preferred nomenclature, but she liked it because it reminded her of the book by Jared Diamond, and a time when people cared about being well-read. Now, of course, it mattered more you could run quickly and didn’t hesitate when it came to slaughtering the family pets for dinner.

“Who’s there?” His stupid voice echoed through the empty rooms, and for a moment she considered not answering. What’s the worst that could happen? He’d shoot her? Maybe, but the world was aware now he wasn’t a very good shot.

She stood up, making herself visible. She still looked fairly fetching, she thought. A post-apocalyptic Miss America, if Miss America hadn’t bathed in a week and carried a knife in her boot.

“It’s just… I’m alone,” she explained.

He ambled in, still wearing a suit which was hilarious given the state of the union. She supposed he heard the rioting outside and knew soon they’d make their way into what was left of the executive mansion and thus to him. Of course he wanted to meet them well-dressed. Ironic that he’d spent so much of his short presidency obsessed with crowd size, when it seemed clear his end would come from the mob outside.

“Another criminal looter,” he frowned, surely unable to miss the gun in her belt. “Sad.”

She shrugged, “I’ve always wanted to see the Lincoln Bedroom.”

This wasn’t a lie. Her friends thought she was bananas for still caring about US History at a time like this, but in times like this, what else was there?

“Well I won’t stop you.”

“You couldn’t anyway,” she waved him off like he’d waved off the Paris Agreement.

“You liberals are so smug.”

She laughed sharply. He wasn’t wrong about liberals — it certainly wasn’t much comfort now that she’d been on the right side of history. Though. It was SOME comfort. When there had still been cable news, before the power outages, back when the Right Left was still waging its bombing campaign against Fox, she’d seen a story about Mike Pence paying for a male sex worker in a bathroom near the Jefferson Memorial. It was very amusing; she and her friends had a good laugh. She couldn’t remember laughing like that since, though Don Jr’s indictment for treason had offered her a certain schadenfreude, even if the scandal failed to reach his father.

She frowned. It was better not to think about the past. What she would give right now to have the luxury of a twitter fight, or the pain of paying student loans. Her stomach grumbled and she gnawed on a piece of bark, imagining it was avocado toast.

“I think I still have some food upstairs,” he offered. “It’s not KFC but it’s not bad.”

“I don’t want your food. You and your stupid supporters can bite me.”

He seemed more annoyed than angry. “Just how much do you hate me?”

She laughed, “Your entire presidency was predicated on negating everything the black guy did. And then when the second Civil War came, you dared to blame him for the divisiveness you so keenly exploited. Sure, you aren’t alone to blame for it all, but you sure as fuck didn’t do anything to hold us together, and you didn’t mind those Russian bots dismantling everything we’d built. You’re the anti-Lincoln. You’re an orange dumpster fire covered in hate sauce. And the sad part is you aren’t even smart or savvy enough to know how terrible you’ve been. Like if inside Hitler lived an illiterate toddler,” she paused, smirking. “How much do I hate you? It’s hard to say.”

“I bet I could still change your mind. Bigly.”

She realized then he was actually flirting with her, and that made her want to barf. She fought it, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

“I’ll pass,” she replied.

The yells from outside were stronger now, and he seemed as worried as he’d been the day his tax returns were finally leaked. She remembered how liberals had stopped relitigating the Bernie/Hillary debate to cheer in that moment, finding themselves vindicated. It didn’t matter the money trail led to Putin, didn’t matter because Paul Ryan was too chickenshit to consider impeachment. Why, when there was a tax cut for the wealthy to be had? The only joy that came from any of this was Kushner’s resignation, and of course how quickly the wealthy were targeted once Collapse came. That wasn’t much consolation at all. She protectively put her hand on her gun.

“Tell ya this though, you are responsible for me fully embracing gun-ownership. Who’d have thought.”

He seemed skeptical, “Have you fired that?”

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

“I’ve always liked a nasty woman who can fire a gun.”

“Do you even know the words you say? If I didn’t hate you so much, I’d almost feel bad for you,” she stared at him. It was refreshing to feel anything after weeks on her own, to be perfectly frank. Even if it was hate.

“Come on, before they get in here,” he tried to gesture her closer with his tiny hands. She scoffed.

“I’m good, actually,” she paused. “I guess I’d pee on you if you really needed it but. Only if you promise to hate it.”

She entertained many punishing fantasies where he was concerned, but at the end of the day none of them were worth the horror of being near his microwang.

“Fake news.”

She chuckled, “We’ve all seen the tape, dude.”

He continued. “I’ve got the best sex though. I promise you’ll be impressed by how good my sex is.”

“Oh?” She raised her eyebrows. “Is it better than your wall? As good as your healthcare bill?”

He frowned, but didn’t admit defeat. She recalled a time when his supporters loved how he never admitted defeat, but after many of them lost loved ones in the Second Korean War, they stopped caring.

He reached for her, and she slapped his hand away, “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“Come on, sweetheart.”

She pushed him back into the chair, her eyes shining. “Give me your tie.”

He did as she asked, and she easily tied his hands behind his back through the chair. He seemed excited, as if he truly thought this would end well. It shouldn’t have surprised her; somehow he still only viewed women as sex objects or entirely useless. When she unbuckled his belt and exposed his Russian nesting doll, he let out a little grunt. It was the worst noise she’d heard since Kid Rock’s acceptance speech. Back when they’d still had elections.

She used her own scarf as a blindfold, tying it around his eyes, then tightened the ropes on the chair. He realized his mistake too late, and she delighted in his grammatically questionable tirade as she shouldered her pack and prepared to head south. The noise of the mob grew louder, and she scurried away before they destroyed what was left of the capital.

His tiny, angry boner waited impatiently for something that would never come.




She couldn’t help but notice that everyone on the White House staff was her age, and improbably attractive. Like her, they were all eager to work, having been weaned on multiple viewings of The West Wing and fancying themselves the bright future of America. Yet, as she weaved through offices toward her destination, she found she couldn’t remember how words worked. She hoped to regain the ability to speak, but as she was escorted into the Oval Office her tongue welded itself to the roof of her mouth and she felt only reverence and a strong desire to cry. She kept that desire in check, but a tiny gasp escaped her mouth when she saw the president.

He grinned, “Thanks for coming in!”

She berated herself, searching for words, and finally managed to squeak out, “It’s an honor, sir.”

Watching people experience the Oval Office for the first time never ceased to entertain him. It was easy to forget he worked in such a hallowed place, especially when he was dealing with the annoying drama of Mitch McConnell refusing to confirm his Supreme Court nominee.

“It’s a hell of a place right,” he laughed, his demeanor somehow casual and presidential all at once. She was awed.

“I need a cigarette,” she admitted.

“Well you’re going to be a terrible influence, but that’s actually an inspired idea,” he gestured to the door and she followed him outside.

He lit a cigarette for her, and if there had been any hope for her it was lost. Both of them were smart enough to know the dangers of smoking, but at the moment neither of them cared.

“Well this explains why you were so adamant about pre-existing conditions,” she mused, finally relaxing now that they were outside.

“Oh yeah, don’t tell anyone about this,” he laughed. “It’s a whole thing.”

“I can be pretty discreet,” she replied, almost unthinking. She looked at him for a sign of recognition or admonishment, and got neither. She chided herself silently; it was audacious of her to hope for anything more than this quiet moment overlooking the White House lawn.

“Well, that’s good to know,” he responded, finally, and she was fairly sure there was a hint of… something. He was flattered, at the very least.

“Sorry, I know your time is limited and I would love to talk about my job,” she attempted to steer the conversation back to business, giving them both an out before things escalated.

“Oh yes, are you settling in alright?”

She nodded happily, “Everyone is wonderful, and a foot smarter than me. I’m lucky just to be here! Plus no one has yelled at me yet, so I guess that’s a plus.”

He smiled. He needed to stop doing that; it wasn’t fair.

“I forget you worked for Rahm.”

“I haven’t!” She laughed. “It’s not so bad if you don’t want to have a life outside of work and honestly after the first 100 times you’re berated you barely feel it.”

“He’s a character,” he shook his head. “Anyway, we’re glad to have you here.”

She inhaled, nervously, suddenly imagining his hand sliding up her skirt, his hope buried in her change. She tried to compose herself, hoping he felt it too, but knowing it was more likely she was making a fool of herself.

“I’m very happy to be here!” She tried to be careful, but it was hard not to gush. “I… honestly, gay marriage, women’s rights — your legacy is the stuff of my college wet dreams.”

He laughed, a little because liberal white women were just the worst sometimes, but also because he was pretty sure wet dreams was a phrase he never thought he’d hear in the White House.

“College girls’ wet dreams is a truly untapped market,” he chuckled, rolling up his sleeves.

“Oh trust me, it’s tapped. Those forearms,” she stopped short of touching him, but only barely. She felt her nipples harden, aware it wasn’t because of the weather.

She knew him tangentially, had been on his staff in Chicago before she made the jump to city government, but transitioning to Washington left her breathless. They’d crossed paths a few times, but there’d been a Halloween party shortly before his election where she’d been dressed as Bristol Palin and he laughed heartily and made comments about how that was a little inappropriate but his eyes lingered on her pushed up breasts and she’d wondered since then if he privately liked to be a little inappropriate sometimes. And now he was so warm and inviting and his hand was on the small of her back now, which – wait. That was new.

“You’re touching me,” she exclaimed, and he withdrew the offending hand. She shook her head, moved closer to him and casually adjusted the knot in his tie. It needed no such adjusting, and he knew it.

“Come back inside,” he smiled, and led the way back into the office, guiding her toward the couch. Their moves were careful, delicate; neither of them wanted to give the game away.

Usually she was the one in charge; she could play old white dudes like a fiddle. Actually that was a poor simile because she wasn’t very musical, but the point was usually sad middle aged dudes were easy and she was very out of her element now. She was smitten; the upper hand was gone and she was reduced to giggling schoolgirl hopeful for any attention.

“I,” she hesitated, searching for the right words that would not end with her deported like so many under his watch. “I think I’m just very overwhelmed, this office is a dream and I mean let’s face it you’re a dish and I’m afraid I’m–”

But he didn’t seem to care what she was afraid about because he kissed her, sharply, like a man who has known and gotten what he wanted his whole life, even if sometimes it meant just taking it. She tried to refrain from swooning, though her knees buckled a little and her panties were soaked.

She shook her head, pulled away. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, unconvincingly.

“Don’t be. I think we’re on the same page here.”

“I think I’m fetishing you because the Democrat party is such a mess, and you’re the last whisper of my youthful idealism in human form.”

“Well whatever the reason,” he pulled her close again, and she melted into his arms.

“We can’t do this,” she looked up at him.

“Yes. We can.”

It was over then, though she never stood a chance. She hungrily found his lips, desperately wanting to climb him like a tree. A tree which he would protect, because he was so wonderfully erotically pro-science and education (but in a tough guy I killed Bin Laden kind of way).

She was also horrified to realize she was audibly giggling. Great. She closed her eyes and tried to think of his broken promises to close Gitmo and his too-friendly relationship to Wall Street, and how those monsters somehow got bailed out while here she was drowning in student loan debt but it was so hard to care about student loan debt when his lips were so soft.

She knelt on the couch, untucking his shirt and undoing his belt before her brain caught up to her. She exposed his stimulus package, greedily taking it into her mouth. She couldn’t get enough, and his excited moans only encouraged her. He pulled her hair, causing her head to bend backwards, meeting his eyes with his cock still firmly planted in her throat. He thrust into her mouth; she gagged immediately, her eyes watering. She continued swallowing him anyway, wanting to choke on him. He remained calmly in control, making her feel used and safe at the same time.

His hand found the back of her head, reassuring her. He’d fought for fair pay, appointed multiple women to the Supreme Court, had a track record on women’s rights that would’ve dropped her panties years ago — of course she knew he was going to take care of her. He pulled her up to standing, away from his throbbing member so he could kneel this time and crudely told her skirt and panties to take a hike like they were Hosni Mubarak. This was just completely ridiculous now; she was standing in the oval office and he buried his tongue in her pussy. Eventually her legs quit and she crumpled to the floor, but that didn’t stop his commitment to exploration. She reached for the back of his head, holding it between her legs.

“This is fucking unbelievable,” she moaned. He popped up to grin and acknowledge her praise (as if he didn’t know), before returning to her body. His tongue darted deep into her folds, then smoothly back out to run over her swollen clit. Truly the image of his head between her legs would have been enough to make her squirt, but of course he had to be really fucking good too. He knew her body like it was health care legislation. She was dangerously close to finishing, and not quite ready for that yet.

She pulled him up, trying to catch her breath, “I have to feel you. Take me here,” she begged, opening to him like Cuba. He noticed she positioned herself right over the presidential seal, her ass gracing the carpet where he’d made the most important decisions of his presidency. He was rock hard.

“You are trouble,” he shook his head in disbelief, but moved toward her and positioned himself between her legs.

“Give me your cock,” she moved her hips closer. He grabbed her roughly, leaving rug burns on her as he aggressively prepared to invade. He guided his drone inside her; she tried not to scream as he filled her up.

“Is this what you wanted?” He asked, pumping in and out of her.

“Yes!” She exclaimed, well aware of how many useless white dudes she’d had to pork to get to this finale. America was so stupid. He expanded her like federal hate crime laws, and she wrapped her legs around him and dug her fingernails into his shoulder. He growled, and leaned forward:

“Turn over,” he directed, barely waiting for a reply before flipping her. He pushed into her from behind, threatening to bang her into the resolute desk.

“Oh my god fuck yes,” she moaned, thinking of all the idiots who mocked his lettuce or mustard or mom jean choice and how they’d take it all back if they knew he humped like it was part of the oath of office.

“Baby,” he grunted. “I’m close.”

“Let me turn over again. I wanna see you come for me,” she found herself saying, as she returned to her back, looking up at him. His hand found her clit again, encouraging her to come with him as he resumed pounding her. That was not going to be a problem; she was ready to burst and tightened around him. He picked up his pace as he felt her climax, and seconds later he was joining her like the fucking gentleman he was. Like the war in Afghanistan he wasn’t pulling out, and unlike the war she didn’t want him to. He filled her up; if not for his words it would be the best thing to come out of him.

When they’d finished, he collapsed on top of her, making no immediate move to get back to work. She was grateful for a few more stolen moments, though certain this would not be an everyday feature of working in this office. This was dangerous, she realized; a girl could catch feelings from this one.

“There’s a part of your legacy they can’t undo,” she sighed, kissing his forehead. “Thanks, Obama.”

He laughed, still nestled on top of her, his head resting on her chest. Of course she worried about what would come next, but she pushed those thoughts away, just for a moment, to enjoy his weight on top of her, in his office, in this America.




She leaned forward, “I assume somewhere Dick Cheney is listening to this whole conversation.”

“It’s actually a pretty safe bet, but he usually leaves me alone as long as I do what he asks. I’d be lost without him, him and Rummy and Guru and Turd Blossom and that kid who always brings me altoids,” he responded conversationally. He was always conversational, always in a good mood. She hated that, but not enough to stop herself.

“Well if he is listening, let the record show I think the PATRIOT Act is ridiculous and shame on you for pretending nationalism is the same thing as patriotism,” her eyes lit up as she said this, but he was certain the fire in them wasn’t all anger.

“I appreciate–”

She cut him off, “And! This crap that a true patriot wouldn’t be critical of the government. That just frosts my liver.” She folded her arms, and he noticed the top button of her shirt was undone. He knew her well enough to realize this was intentional, and he found her admonishment arousing.

He swallowed, “I’m happy to uh.. Thanks for bringing me your concerns.”

She shrugged, and crossed her legs. “That’s not all I brought you.”

The sentence hung in the air; he was still unsure what to make of her. She’d certainly come to his private chambers with an agenda, he just couldn’t tell yet if it was personal or political.

“Look I didn’t birth any of the hijackers,” she blurted. “But that doesn’t have to stop you from invading.”

Oddly, that didn’t clear anything up.

“I’m open to an invasion,” he said, slowly, hoping he was tracking her subtext. “But I’m not sure what you want.”

“To be honest I’m not very sure either, but maybe you should take your cock out for me and help me decide,” she suggested this with a nonchalance that impressed him. He hadn’t experienced anything this forward since he’d quit drinking, but his body was suddenly aching to go along.

“Uh, excuse me?”

“Just touch yourself. Let me see that weapon of mass destruction you keep going on about.”

His hand moved to his belt, almost of its own volition. He prided himself on not being that kind of guy, at least not anymore, but he made her feel like he had something to prove. She unbuttoned her shirt the rest of the way, and the sight of her breasts pushing up against a lace bra implored him to do as asked. He preferred to think of himself as the decider, but in this moment his decisions were dictated completely by her. She, like a faith-based charity or anti-science PTA, would get what she wanted from this president.

He moved to the bed, gesturing for her to join him, desperate to get busy. She shook her head, wanting him to wait.

“Not yet,” she smirked, slowly continuing to remove her clothes.

“This is torture,” he moaned, throbbing at the sight of her.

“It’s actually enhanced interrogation,” she corrected, moving toward him. “If you’re lucky I’ll waterboard you.”

Moments later she was straddling his face, and he realized he was lucky, and that her definition of waterboarding was a whole lot nicer than the one he’d authorized for the CIA. She swallowed him while riding his face, his titillated screams muffled inside her. She rolled off of him, finally, and lay back on the bed. He eyed her, panting like a character in a Scooter Libby novel.

“What do you want?” He asked.

“I want you to stop talking about marriage amendments and pay more attention to the separation of church and state,” she shot back angrily. Then, composing herself, she added: “But also I guess you should fuck me.”

It was not much of an invitation, but he took what he could get. Normally, she preferred to keep his government out of her vagina, but today would be the rare exception.

“Oh God,” he moaned, plunging into her. “You feel incredible.”

She was wetter than Louisiana and commanded more of his attention. She raised her hips to meet him, and he hammered her harriet miers with his hanging chad. His pace had only one speed, but she’d certainly had worse and most of the fun was in the chase anyway. He ventured as deep as his average sized member would allow, looking to her for consent.

She nodded, “I can take it, baby. Give me everything you’ve got.”

Elated, he continued pounding her, wrapping his hand around her back for leverage. She respected that he made no attempt to kiss her; they both seemed aware that was a level of intimacy unecessary to this encounter.

He was drilling her like he wanted to drill ANWR, and she felt him getting close. It wasn’t the best sex she’d ever had, to be frank, but time would soften her image of this simple man. She supposed she could teach him, just a bit, but someone had to be the child left behind. She wrapped her legs around him, tightened her pussy to encourage him.

“Baby,” he whispered, happily, and his excitement was endearing. Though, she’d been smitten by John Roberts too, and look where that got her. She had to make better choices.

“Come for me,” she begged, wondering if like his vice president, he was prone to face-shooting. Luckily he was much more gentlemanly, finishing on her chest, his load hot enough to melt steel beams.

He was immensely proud of himself for a man who hadn’t done very much. She fully expected a mission accomplished banner to drop from the ceiling.

“Heckuva job,” he grinned, jumping out of bed in search of a towel.



“And anyway,” she finished, waving her hand. “We think you can do better.”

He nodded. He didn’t disagree he wasn’t doing enough for women (as his own wife frequently reminded him), but the things she was proposing would be hard to get through Newt’s Congress.

“Well I appreciate your candor,” he replied, smiling.

“Welfare to work is just, problematic,” she continued. “But look, you’re a smart man, you know this. Incomes fluctuate, jobs sometimes aren’t there, and — well you know our thoughts on marriage incentives.”

“I do. I’m listening. I’m not apathetic.”

“I know. I do like you,” she smiled, and he thought he sensed it was more than simply friendly. He chose not to react, assuming she would push harder if indeed her thoughts tended toward the prurient. He knew by now not to pursue. Better to play it safe. Better to be chased, if not chaste.

He stood, extended his hand. She followed his lead.

“It was a pleasure talking to you,” he grinned.

“Oh same to you! I’ve been a fan since you went on tv and talked about your underwear,” she lingered on his touch just a moment longer than was appropriate. She knew the game just as well as he did, and wow was he even more charming in person than she’d expected. By now everyone knew what kind of man he was, cigars and all, but it was hard not to be taken in by his charisma and sparkling blue eyes.

“I appreciate your support,” he replied warmly, still refusing to fully engage. He did offer a subtle examination of her body, which did not go unnoticed.

She continued: “Plus the saxophone is a real panty dropper.”

Now he moved around the desk, more comfortable with the direction of the conversation. He poured himself a drink, and gestured to the bottle, “Join me? I imagine you’re done working for the day.”

“I won’t be done until there’s a woman in this office and we’re paid as much as you are,” she responded, dryly. “But I suppose I can take a break.”

He handed her a glass and they found their way to opposite couches.

“There have been women in this office,” he answered, finally.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” she retorted. He did. “Besides it hardly counts if they’re just your… interns.”

He blushed. She considered that a win. “Well, it’s like I said I never had… relations, with that woman.”

“I don’t believe you,” she shrugged.

“Why not?” This conversation was a balancing act as careful as his budget, but he sensed she was closer to her point now that he was clearly amenable.

“Because you’ve been thinking about fucking me since I walked in.”

He laughed. There it was. She wasn’t wrong, to be sure, but he’d behaved himself. “Well thinking is hardly the same.”

“And oral sex isn’t actually sex, right?” She inquired, settling into the couch.

“I… well, I choose my words carefully”

“Right. You never inhaled. Look I… put your wang wherever you want it, as long as she consents, I don’t care. But you should, as a rule, stay away from teenagers.”

“And perhaps closer to someone your age?”

“I’m not saying that,” she countered, finishing her drink. “I was actually hoping to get a chance with your wife, but apparently the universe has something very different in store for me.”

“Wait, are you–”

“Don’t ask,” she interrupted. “That’s your policy isn’t it?”

“Is this how you flirt?” He exclaimed, unsure now if this was a lecture, foreplay, or both.

“I’m not proud of how badly I want you,” she admitted. “Sometimes when I’m alone I think about you.” And family medical leave. It couldn’t always be sexy.

He swallowed, thrilled that he was playing with someone on his level, nervous about the same. “What do you do, when you’re alone and thinking of me?”

“You know what I do.”

“Show me.”

She lay down on the couch.

“Like this?” She spread her legs, just a bit, but enough that he could tell she’d gone sans panties. He grinned; he liked her tricks, though he supposed lesser men were unused to such forwardness.

“I want to see what you look like,” he continued, circling closer.

She pulled the skirt up, cautiously, then made quick work of the buttons on her blouse. Like him, she had no shame. She was a worthy adversary. Her bra was exposed now, her chest rising and falling with each excited breath. He reached down to run his finger under her bra, grazing her nipple. Then he stopped, moved away again.

“That’s nice, but I want to see — when you’re alone, thinking about me, show me what you do, then.”

“Ohhhh,” her eyes widened, and her hand moved down to her slit. “Like this?”

He nodded, eyes sparkling, and she gave him the show he wanted. He knew he wouldn’t be able to watch without intervention (it’s not like she was Rwanda) but he held off for the moment as she moaned and gently rubbed her clit. Goddamn the presidency was great.

She looked up at him, conveying the same desire he felt, “I think it’s only fair you show me your cock.”

He’d been waiting for that invitation like he waited for America to warm to his health care plan. He wasted no time taking out his already rock hard executive branch, and she delighted because for once she didn’t have to coax or to lead. He did as she asked, but it wasn’t long before her wide eyes looked up at him and she demanded he fuck her. She got off the couch and immediately bent back over it. He’d always been in favor of background checks, and from the back she checked out.

He entered her troopergate; he couldn’t wait another second to feel her. He slammed into her with the assuredness of a man used to pleasing women. She relished his confidence, and moaned excitedly as he pushed inside.

“Harder,” she encouraged, wondering if she, too, would wind up with stains. “Don’t hold back.”

He didn’t. He loved women, loved them perhaps even more than his early hero Jack Kennedy, who’d been obsessed with quantity. And where there was usually hesitation, with her he found only reckless abandon. It was the erotic equivalent of signing NAFTA. He redoubled his efforts at expanding her Americorps.

She didn’t like DOMA, and she took many many issues with the racial implications of his welfare reform and crime bills, but it was hard to care about that when he was inside her. Was this white privilege? That was rhetorical; she knew the answer. Still, he was trying, he was sympathetic, and he might get there. Time would tell. She had to tell herself something while he was humping her into another dimension.

“Pull my hair too,” she directed, breathless. “I’m yours.”

He pulled her hair, and buried his slick willy deeper. She thrust back on him, driving him crazy and feeling his balls grind into her. He’d passed the violence against women act, but that didn’t mean, with her permission, that he wouldn’t get a little rough. And she was very permissive, and kept insisting his spanks weren’t rough enough.

“Take me,” she demanded, grabbing the couch for support.

He obliged, pounding her like she was eastern Europe. He was proud of this, like he’d been of his crime bill and ban on assault weapons. Similarly, he knew there would be consequences he was smart enough to foresee, but savvy enough to ignore. He wanted to be a good president. He really wanted to be a wartime president, an FDR with email, but all he got were a couple of bombing campaigns and far too many domestic terrorists. White dudes were angry when they weren’t getting any snatch.

He wasn’t angry.



He swung the door to the guest room open, not expecting anyone. Though his family had gathered at the Bush compound for a snowy Christmas, he assumed that other than the Secret Service he was currently alone in the house. He wanted to be alone, to be honest; he was still trying to process the election in his mind.

She was in bathrobe, clearly freshly showered, and not even surprised at his entrance.

“Mr. President,” she smiled. “How are you?”

“I’m — well I’m sorry I just barged in here; I thought everyone had gone to get the tree.”

“No need to be sorry! I had a little work to catch up on. Your son keeps me busy.”

He paused. She was on his son’s staff, but there were whispers she was on more than that, and she knew what the president’s silence portended.

“I know what people say,” she offered. “You’re not going to offend me.”

“Well I try to be polite,” he replied, politely.

“Fuck politeness,” she laughed.

He gave a nervous smile in return. She was forward, but he’d had a long month and he deserved a little fun, “So you and my son — then?”

She liked that he couldn’t even make the words. A man who’d invaded Kuwait and he was nervous talking about sex. Everything about America was bonkers.

“Rich white men are my weakness,” she shrugged.

“Is that so?”

“Maybe. I guess there’s no way to know for sure.”

“But you could just–”

She didn’t let him finish. He was getting used to that. “Should I get dressed?”

“Well, yes. Yes of course you should,” he stammered, concerned he was picking up some flirtatious subtext. He wasn’t wrong.

“You don’t want to examine every one of my thousand points of light?” Sometimes subtlety is boring.

“I’m not even sure what that means.”

She grabbed the knot in his tie and invaded the gulf between them, “You know what I mean.”

He was unused to this, but he wasn’t dumb. Her voodoo economics were working, and he didn’t even want to feign resistance. He kissed her on the same mouth that likely his son had kissed, wishing that bothered him, but after putting Clarence Thomas on the Supreme Court it was clear he had a very pliable moral code. Except when it came to white supremacists. He hated them more than he hated broccoli.

He gingerly lifted the bedspread, “I suppose we could…”

She snorted, “Could what? Bump uglies under a blanket? You want me to hit the lights too, Poppy?”

“Well I…” He hesitated. Now he truly had no idea what she was getting at. She approached him, trying not to chuckle, aware that boners tend not to respond to women laughing at them.

“I was just imagining we could try something different. You don’t have to be such a square.”

“I’ve always been a square,” he protested. “I don’t have the charms with which you’ve endowed me.”

“In my experience, your body will know what to do,” she smirked, dropping her robe. “It’s like the economy.”

He was having a hard time focusing on anything now that she was naked in front of him. He pulled her close, feeling her much-too-young-for-him body. He ran his hands over her exposed flesh, reveling in its softness. She was right, his body was responding of its own volition; he was as helpless as he’d been when barfing on the prime minister of Japan. She exploited his reaction deftly, helping him free of his clothes. Still, she realized that if she was going to get more than a lights-off missionary for procreation only pound sesh, she needed to push a little harder.

“Just imagine,” she offered, quietly, her friendly hand stroking his member. “Few more months and you won’t have to worry about the pressures of the office at all. We could do this full time.”

He harbored no illusions that they would be doing this twice, let alone full time, but it was a nice thought. If only it didn’t mean the country had elected that enormous saxophone playing turd.

“I hate him,” he yelled suddenly.

She paused, hand still wrapped around his shaft, undeterred by his anger. “Who?”

“That fucking Bill Clinton!”

She laughed, “I bet he’d know how to fuck me though.”

Suddenly the rage he’d been holding back bubbled to the surface. He couldn’t believe that draft dodging weasel had beaten him! And why did Buchanan have to come at him from the right, and who the hell did Ross Perot think he was? He tried to suppress his anger, as was his way, but then come on how DARE she suggest Clinton could fuck her better? She saw the change in his countenance (almost as if she wanted him angry) and seized it.

“There you go. Use it. How do you want me?”

His reply was instant, “Bend over.”

She smirked, “What was that?”

“Read my lips. Bend. Over.”

Unlike new taxes, she knew he meant this one. She bent over the bed, presenting her ass to him. It was a better deal than NAFTA. Any hesitation he had was gone, and immediately he guided his cock inside her.

He went after it like she was the deficit. He’d been wasting his life having semi-clothed relations, but the way her ass bounced as he pushed in and out showed him the error of his ways. He went harder, and listened when she demanded he spank her. He hadn’t felt this good in years; she took him back to his pilot days when it was easy for him to make panties drop. He was impressed with his stamina, and from the way she was calling his name (and, blissful, his title), she sounded impressed too.

After four years, he was an expert at invasions, and even better at knowing when to get out. He came hard, nearly flooding her like legal immigration now flooded the country. She encouraged him, moaning excitedly as he covered her. He’d never done that before, and he hadn’t realized it could be met with delight.

This was the best decision he’d made since denouncing that racist shitbag David Duke, or resigning from the NRA in protest. Some things were just above politics.



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.



“It’s freezing in here, isn’t it?” She rubbed her bare shoulders.

He was still across the room, pretending to be working. “We’re conserving heat. We wear sweaters.”

She tried not to roll her eyes. Who was she to critique his love affair with conservation, gaudy solar panels on the White House or not.

“I guess I should count on you to warm me up?” She asked, moving closer to him. She wasted no time, as she had a feeling his time in the office was limited. He took her hand for a moment, then pulled away, nearly knocking over the dish of peanuts he kept on the desk.

“We should talk.”

She cringed. Nothing good followed those words.

“Of course, sir,” she smiled back at him. She’d dressed down for this meeting, as if she knew his weakness was farm girls. (Spoiler: she knew). He struggled to find the words he’d spent the morning rehearsing.

“I’ve had to do many things I’m not proud of,” he stated, carefully. “And I don’t regret them, but they weigh on me. And I’d like to keep everything I do in the future above board.”

“You’re going to be one of those ex-presidents who builds houses and teaches Sunday School, aren’t you?”

“God willing.”

His earnestness was charming, but she couldn’t help trying to corrupt him. “So you’re saying, I’m sorry, Mr. President, but you’re saying what we did last week is something you aren’t proud of?”

“Well,” and he drew closer to her on this; he was sending surprisingly mixed signals. “I’m proud I could keep up with you.”

“You did more than that,” she insisted, but to be honest she couldn’t remember if the sex had been remarkable because it had been good.

“But I don’t think we should do it again, of course.”

“One and done Carter,” she laughed. “Well if you were having this crisis of confidence, why did you summon me? To the Oval Office of all places.”

“I wanted to tell you in person. It seemed respectful.”

“I don’t believe you,” she replied, finally, calling his bluff. “Mind if I sit?”

“Yes — no — what do you mean, you don’t believe me?”

She positioned herself on his couch, “You didn’t need to bring me in here to tell me you haven’t been consumed imagining my mouth around your cock.”

“That language…”

“Oh come off it,” she waved him off. “You’re a good man. You don’t have to act like it.”

There was a pause while he sized her up. He knew she was right, of course; he could have had this conversation over the phone. “I did want to see you again.”

“I know.”

He joined her on the couch, and reached out a nervous hand to stroke her cheek.

“I hate that,” he admitted. “I mean I don’t hate that I don’t — you know what I mean.”

She shushed him. “You’re thinking too much, Jimmy.”

He kissed her, as if to prove he could shut off his brain. She snaked her tongue into his mouth while impatiently clawing at his tie. Like a killer rabbit, she was ready to attack.

“Slower,” he directed. “You exhaust me.”

“You could use a little excitement,” she replied, but she slowed down. It was nice to be genuine and tender with someone, she realized. The way his hand moved up her denim miniskirt was painfully slow, leaving her trim 70s bush dripping with anticipation.

“You wouldn’t rather do this with someone your own age?” He asked, his hand cautiously exploring her slit.

She shook her head, “Children. Sometimes a girl wants a daddy.” The word daddy felt gross leaving her mouth, but it had the effect she desired.

Despite his objections, which were as much for show as his Playboy interview had been, operation eagle claw was commencing. It was what he wanted; he knew that the moment she stepped into his office, knew it when he placed the call. Around her, his strict moral code was suspended, held hostage. He leaned her back on the couch, gently.

“Take me,” she demanded.

He nodded, and pushed his business into her like she was a blind trust. She moaned excitedly, and wrapped her legs around him. He was not particularly inventive, and she knew asking him to speed up was a lost cause. Still, it wasn’t bad. He was strong, and skilled, and she felt cared for in a way she really wanted but pretended not to want because it’s hard to be a woman in the world.

“I really needed you,” she admitted, arching her body in rhythm with his thrusts.

“Is this ok?” He asked, striking her coal mine again.

It wasn’t the Camp David Accords, but it was pretty neat. She nodded, and leaned back to grab the couch while he continued his tender humping. It was almost romantic, if either of them would admit to such feelings.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “I have to feel you.”

He was impressed he’d made it this far, but he was close to orgasm and not about to stop. He sped up, just a bit, wrapping her in his arms as he finished.

He dumped his hazardous materials into her love canal. She pulled him close to her, enjoying the precious post-coital minutes before they had to get back to real life.

“See,” she chuckled. “I told you that was a good idea.”

“Do you ever not get what you want?” He asked, amused.

“Well, no one’s passed the Equal Rights Amendment yet.”