The Stories



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.”



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.



“Did you need anything else?”

She paused. Their meeting had not been productive, and she was frustrated. He was not the warmest person to begin with, and while she was pleased with his slow withdrawal from Vietnam, she was exhausted by just about everything else. Except the EPA. She really liked the EPA.

“Just a stiff drink,” she responded, a wan smile on her face.

Now he hesitated, sizing her up. He didn’t trust her (or anyone), but it would be nice to have a companion.

“Let’s have a drink then. My office?”

She nodded, cautiously. He was volatile, and seemed perpetually stressed and unfun. And yet, there was a loneliness about him that intrigued her. Plus, if she were being completely honest with herself, she liked a challenge.

She followed him into his private office, trailing just far enough behind as to not raise suspicion. It was moot gesture; the west wing was permanently suspect and replacing his vice president had done nothing to alleviate suspicion.

He gestured toward a chair, closed the door behind them. She sat, dutifully, tugging at her blouse while his back was turned. She’d taken enough meetings in the boys club that was the White House to know the jokes about his nonexistent sex life.

Challenge accepted, she thought.

“You’re not here to get information out of me are you?” He asked, pouring their drinks. His bar was well-stocked, and appeared frequently used.

She leaned back, “Would I tell you if I were?”

He frowned. “That’s a fair point.”

For a moment they silently sipped their beverages. She waited for him to toss her out, or accuse her of being a communist spy. He seemed to be toying with the idea, but the liquor and her exposed cleavage were having their intended effects.

“I’m not a crook!” He blurted.

She waved him off, aware he was lying. “I’m not here for information. Sometimes a lady just needs a drink.”

“Don’t we all?” He poured himself another, downed it, and refilled the glass a third time before taking the seat next to her. “I’m sorry you didn’t get what you came for.”

“The night isn’t over yet.”

He was aware what she was doing, but he was never fully comfortable with [frank] sexual talk — especially from women. He bristled slightly, trying not to stare down her shirt, thinking of anything but what it would be like to violate her Constitution.

“It’s late,” he answered lamely, awkwardly standing up. “Perhaps it’s time for you to leave?”

She stood up, but made no moves toward the door, “Why did you ask me to come back here?”

He hesitated, and leaned against the desk. “I drink alone every night.”

“I hear you do more than drink alone,” came her soft reply, and she moved closer to him. Her insinuation was not off-base; he couldn’t remember the last time he and Pat shared a bed. He closed his eyes, willing himself to follow his moral code. She reached for his hand; the gesture was both gentle and terrifying all at once. His pants tightened. It didn’t take much.

“I was right to think you’re dangerous,” he whispered, his paranoia finally confirmed.

He liked the attention, to be sure, but he liked space exploration too and that didn’t mean he was going to fully fund NASA.

Her hand was on his belt now, and he knew the window where he could stop this was closing.

“Should I stop?” She asked, giving him an opportunity for a graceful exit.

He shook his head, giving in. Gracefully exiting would not be his legacy.

“I really want,” he stumbled, nervously. “I think I need this.”

“You need it more than limitations on strategic arms,” she agreed and his belt was undone and she was sliding his pants off his [redacted]. She was on her knees in front of him seconds later, and this was the kind of stuff he’d only heard about in those deepthroat pornographic movies he’d futilely tried to ban.

He understood the appeal now.

“That’s insane,” he exclaimed as she easily took him deeper. He was ready to come immediately, but was able to gain control. For now. He wasn’t going to last long, and he was sure his inexperience was obvious. She looked up at him, his tricky dick hitting the back of her throat. It was incredible. He wondered if he should tell her it was incredible. He wished he’d spent more time doing this and less time spying on the Democratic Party. He pulled out of her mouth, and she saw the layer of sweat on his brow. She pitied him. It made her feel powerful.

“Come down here,” she directed, and he followed her to the office floor. “Don’t be nervous. I’m really fucking good at this; I’ve been with over 35 men. Sometimes two at once.”

He was fairly sure that was hyperbole but he couldn’t be positive. She guided his hand between her legs.

“See how much I want you,” she smiled, meeting his nervous eyes.

Her watergate opened and he felt how ready she was. Frankly, he couldn’t believe he was capable of driving her this crazy, and he swelled with a pride he hadn’t felt since the kitchen debate. She lowered herself to the floor, on her back, holding his gaze. He was uncharacteristically hesitant.

“Get inside me,” she growled finally, and he was happy to acquiesce. He scrambled to position himself on top of her and pushed inside before his nerves could get the better of him.

She laughed in relief, “That’s what I wanted.”

“Is it ok?”

She nodded, “Go harder. I can take it.”

He listened, withdrawing like she was Vietnam before slamming into her again. With each thrust his confidence built, and she moaned. She wrapped her legs around him for better leverage, forcing him to go deeper. He was certain he would burst soon, but at this point it was clear they’d both gotten what they came for.

“There you go, darling,” she urged him to keep his pace. “Give me that cock.”

He sped up, channeling an anger usually saved for Saturday night massacres or Southern schools who wouldn’t follow his desegregation policies. She took it all, wanting him to enjoy himself. She knew when he slowed he was trying to make it last longer, and she tightened around him.

“Go on,” she nodded, “Come for me.”

He did, happily, his body releasing for the first time since detente. It was incredible for him, but she delighted in knowing she’d facilitated it. She reasoned his presidency could’ve taken a whole different direction if he’d spent more time boinking and less time obsessing about his perceived enemies.

He collapsed on top of her, exhausted and briefly happy. He couldn’t believe they’d done this, in his office, in the middle of a national scandal. He couldn’t believe how badly he needed her. He sighed.

“[expletive deleted].”



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.




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.