The Stories



He was buried pretty deep in her ass when he heard the knock.

“Mr. President?” The voice called, “Sir… they’ve called the election for you.”

“Just a second,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by her body. He extracted himself from her, and called back to the door, “I thought the papers said Dewey.”

“Votes are counted now, Mr. President. You’re the winner,” the aide called back.

Truman was elated, of course, though quickly realized this meant his time inside her would be limited. He turned to her, “I’m sorry, darling, it seems like I’ve been reelected.”

“And they said your record on civil rights would ruin you.”

“Well Strom Thurmond can bite me.” He grinned, and called back to the man outside the door, “Jolly good, then!”

“We’re all meeting downstairs. The papers want a statement, too,” the voice responded.

Truman sighed, dramatically. It was nice to have a term on his own merit and not just because the actual president died, but he wasn’t quite ready to be done with his extracurriculars.

Finally he responded, I’ll be down in a minute!”

She pulled him back to her, cooing. “Make sure you let the Tribune know you had your tongue in my bum when you heard the news.”

“I’d love to,” he grinned.

“Does this mean we have to finish quickly?” She asked, clearly disappointed.

“Dewey can’t even lose right,” the presidented lamented. “But don’t fret dear, I’m not going to leave you just yet.”

She resumed her position, on all fours, eager for him to continue his work. He ran his hand over her body, taking precious time they didn’t have.

“You have a truly wonderful rear,” he mused, punctuating this with a spank. “Or ass isn’t my middle name.”

“I don’t think it is, sir.”

“Close enough,” he shrugged, finally joining her on the bed and positioning himself behind her. “I could live here.”

“I wish you would.”

“May I?”

She adored his habit of checking for consent, as if moments ago his tongue hadn’t been worming its way inside her. He drove her wild with his respect, his earnestness, and his very finely tailored suits. She didn’t want to downplay the importance of the suits.

“It does seem our time is limited, so please, come here.”

He grabbed her hips and slammed his doctrine into her. His aggressive nature was not new to her, nor was it undesired, and she welcomed him like anticommunist allies would welcome American intervention. Even when they weren’t pressed for time, he was in a hurry.

“Oh fuck, Mr. President,” she gasped. “Don’t stop.”

“Don’t worry,” he replied, speeding up. “I know what you like.”

He continued pounding her, thrusting himself deeper as she moaned for him. She encouraged him to keep his pace, to wreck her, and his reputation as an overzealous destroyer had been cemented since August of 1945. He pulled out, and took a moment to catch his breath while she lay panting in front of him. She was still on her hands and knees (such a good girl), and he pressed into her ass with his erection.

“Baby…” she managed a whisper.

“You want more?”

“You know I do, don’t make me fucking beg.”

He reached for the glass of bourbon on the nightstand. There was always a glass of bourbon on his nightstand. He downed it.

“I think you should beg,” he reached around to stroke her swollen clit, lightly; he didn’t want her finishing yet.

“You can be a real fucking asshole sometimes,” she shot back, her body still screaming for him to resume.

He loved her vulgar mouth more than he loved national health care.

“You love it. Tell me you want this cock.”

“Get the fuck back inside me before I slap you,” came her reply and he grinned and pushed her face down into the pillow. He haberdashed back inside her, harder than before, more violently than he’d gone after railroad strikers. She scrambled to maintain her bearings, grabbing at the bed as he so wonderfully regained his control. She could override him if she wanted; like Congress she had that power, but unlike them she more often let him win. He rolled them both so they were on their sides, so he could squeeze her breasts as he continued pounding her. He pinched one of nipples and she yelled his name. They were both aware that his absence at the election party was now embarrassingly obvious and yet still he thrust into her, holding her body against his, feeling her ass slap against his cock.

“Touch yourself for me too, sweetheart,” he directed her, and his gruff voice in her ear was more titillating than anything they’d done so far. She obeyed this time, desperately ready to come. He was there too, and watching her rub her clit was neater than lowering income tax rates, and almost as sexy.

“I want to feel you come,” she moaned. “Fill my pussy.”

He was ready to burst, and happy to oblige her. He found her hips again, thrusting quickly, pushing them both to the limit as she furiously continued touching herself. She could feel him cumming and he growled into her ear. He wrapped around her, filling her, and she allowed herself to finish too. She did so loudly, twitching in his arms as his seed dripped down her legs.

“That’s my girl,” he sighed.

She certainly wasn’t his girl, and generally had no desire to be more than a worthy playmate and fellow lover of a stiff drink. Still, following his impressive pounding, she’d let him think whatever he wanted. That seemed like a fair deal.


Good day loyal followers and fans of presidential love! I know I’ve been remiss in weekly updates but I have a really important excuse: I’ve been balls-deep in a new political sketch show process. We open in two weeks, so if you’re in the area please come check us out. Once we’re up and running I promise to resume boning all the presidents, because I, like you, am curious to think about Truman’s dong. xo.




This was the only place he ever felt like himself. His family home at Hyde Park was a close second, but here at Warm Springs in his little white house, he could truly relax. He stretched out best he could on the deck, reveling in the welcome sunlight. Guilt over taking time away from Washington, especially during a war, gnawed at him, but he did his best to suppress it. Sometimes he needed to escape the bickering about the constitutionality of Social Security (he was confident its popularity would increase with time) and enjoy the view. It was a very nice view.

“Franklin?” She called from inside. “It’s nearly time for dinner!”

“Come out here, darling,” he called back, grateful for their privacy. Reporters were rarely antagonistic toward him, but here in Warm Springs they all but let him be.

She did as he asked, joining him outside. She fussed a little, adjusting his chair and his blanket, and taking away his empty glass.

“Stop,” he directed her. “Enjoy this day with me. Sit on my lap.”

She shook her head, “You enjoy putting me in compromising positions.”

“Let me have my fun.”

“Oh, don’t worry, you know I’m going to ride you like the New Deal through Congress.”

She was unsure about the elegance of that metaphor (it would take 100 days and be declared unconstitutional?), but it pleased him. He was exceptionally proud of his record, and his endless electability.

“You flatter me.”

“Well I’m a woman with needs, Franklin, and I know what delights you. Also I confess my legs are bare because it’s not in fashion to wear nylons anymore.”

“I’m not offended.”

“Shall I take you inside, or would you rather watch the sunset?”

He considered this. His free time was so limited, but his thoughts were now consumed by the desire to have his way with her. It had been awhile since they’d been together, and he was already rock hard at her suggestion.

“I think tonight I don’t care about the sunset.”

She grinned, “Fair enough.”

She took him back into the house, and helped him into the bed. She was tender, for the moment, and began covering his face with excited kisses. He wanted her something fierce; his slacks were about ready to burst. She pulled them off, battled with his bulge, and felt a warm rush in her pearl harbor.

“God,” she gushed. “I want you.”

She met his lips again, continuing to let the anticipation build. Neither of them could contain their excitement, and she was stroking him as they kissed, which only made him more desperate to be inside her. Her clinch was begging to feel him, and he was erect in her experienced hands. She moved on top of him, straddling him, feeling him hard against her. Still, she took her time. It made them both crazy.

“You tease me,” he whispered, throbbing almost painfully.

“I like making you wait.”

“I need you.”

She hovered above him still, and he could feel how wet and ready she was. He wanted to plant himself inside her like he worked for the CCC.

“You want me, baby?” She asked, her eyes shining.

“You know I fucking do. Give me your pussy.”

“Tell me what you want. Beg for it.”

“I want to have a fireside chat with your vagina.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” she nodded, and finally guided him inside her, moaning with pleasure as he filled her up.

He invaded her like Normandy, using what strength he had to thrust into her. She marveled at his ability; though Warm Springs was always restorative. He raised her up like she was the minimum wage, and she took his cock fully. She was happy to do most of the work; like her contemporaries she was eager to prove the overlooked badassery of the fairer sex. He encouraged her to slow down, to make it last, and she gave this a real effort before resuming her pace.

“It’s just too good!” She exclaimed.

“I know, you spoil me,” he replied, out of breath. This would be a lot of activity for a man who didn’t have polio; surely he could be forgiven for not keeping up. Still, he didn’t want it to stop. He wanted to relish in her welcoming foxhole, and for a moment to exist in a world where he didn’t have to think about politics or fighting a war or whether internment of Japanese Americans was a-ok. He grabbed her hips, helping her to ride him. Her breasts bounced beautifully, and he reached up to caress them. She delighted at this, and let out a squeal. He coaxed her forward so he could take one into his mouth, swirling his greedy tongue over her erect nipple. God he fucking loved this; it made him feel like a wee babe to suckle from her, and he truly loved being babied. He also really missed his mother.

“I can’t get enough of this,” he breathed, burying himself in her tits.

“They’re yours, darling; and this cock is mine.”

She slowed, and he felt himself go deeper; packing her like she was the Supreme Court. She pulled at his hair, her legs starting to tire. She wanted him to give her his federal deposit, before she was completely worn out.

“Come for me baby. Come for me like I’m your neighbor and my house is on fire.”

“I will, baby; I’m so close.”

She picked up her pace again, knowing it would push him over the edge. They been doing this for years now, longer than anyone else would ever hold the presidency, and she knew what worked for him. He came hard for her (he always did), and she dismounted, content.

“Well, there’s a lay that will live in infamy,” she laughed, falling down next to him.

Sometimes, he truly loathed her.



“People do not like you,” she laughed, stating the obvious as she watched protesters in front of the residence.

He sighed, joining her at the window. “They’re living on the White House lawn. Protesting me is a full time job now.”

“To be fair, there aren’t many other opportunities for employment.”

“I’m doing the best I can! You know the market will sort this out; it always does. The worst thing I can do is meddle.” He was trying to stay calm, channeling his Quaker upbringing with all of his might.

“I don’t believe that.”

He saw an opening while she was facing the window, and wrapped his arms around her. “Well on some level you must. You’re in here, not out there.”

“It’s warm in here,” she shrugged, privately enjoying the way his body felt pressed up against hers. “What are they protesting?”

“They want to cash in service certificates.”

“They’re military?”

“Yeah. The certificates aren’t worth anything for another 10 years but they are trying to cash them in early. As if it’s my fault they don’t have jobs.” He frowned, realizing this was an inconvenient time to feel his body respond to her proximity.

“Do you have a.. swelling right now?”

(He did).

“It’s because they’re chanting my name.”

Part of her hoped this was true; it was one of those egotistical things that sometimes sent her on a one way ticket to sploosh-town. But she knew him better than that. “You don’t have that kind of ego.”

“You’re right. It’s because I’ve wanted to be this close to you for months now, and you’re in my room, and I’m only a man.”

She turned around, wondering if the Bonus Army was able to see them through the glass pane. She’d imagined him taking her against this window, a bunch of angry army veterans watching them. It was as thrilling as it was mean. This week, she was feeling mean. It had been a week.


“Close the curtains,” she decided, finally. “They don’t need to know you’re in here pounding me.”

He scrambled to close them, suddenly very nervous. “I.. yes.. Yes ma’am.”

“I’ve wanted you too,” she replied, sizing him up. “I’ve been very taken with you for awhile.”


She moved closer to him. “I liked your openness with the press. Your accessibility. And.. you’re very handsome.”

He ran his hands up her waist, pulling her in. “I’m going to kiss you.”

“You should.”

(He did).

Their lips met hungrily. She felt the intense relief of finally attaining the intimacy she wanted, though as they kissed she knew she wanted more. He was firm, passionate, holding her almost paternally. She guessed she’d have to unpack that later.

“Take me to the bed,” she begged, her eyes shining. He nodded, and scooped her into his arms. He was strong, running on adrenaline, and thrilled to be doing something in the White House that wouldn’t be remembered poorly by history.

“You work out,” she mumbled, as he laid her on the bed.

“Hooverball,” he replied. “It’s important to stay healthy.”

“Keep kissing me. Don’t stop.”

He obliged. They were undressing each other as he covered her body with gentle kisses. He was sweet, she realized, not from inexperience, but because that was his nature. His lips moved over her neck and down her body, and he slid her dress off to find her breasts with his mouth. He suckled her erect nipple; she moaned loudly, encouraging him. And then he was moving down, down like the stock market, to find her great depression. His tongue moved teasingly slow; again she was surprised by his abilities. He ran his tongue over her wet mound, barely grazing the surface. She arched her hips, desperate to feel more of him. He would not give her that relief, not yet, and still barely made contact with her body. It was enough to make her gush, and try and move closer to his mouth. His tongue found her clit, teased it, and then moved away again as he kissed her inner thigh. She was swelling now, her body was tingling and she knew she needed to feel more.

“You like this, baby?” He asked.

“You’re driving me crazy,” she admitted. “I want you inside me.”

If there were a better five words in the English language, Hoover was unaware (The Great Depression is over?). He repositioned himself, his meat whistle as rigid as the country’s wages. She nodded, looking into his eyes, affirming her consent. With this, he gently entered her, again his ministrations more affectionate than she deserved. He was controlled without being rough, and his rod (lord, he missed fishing) filled her fully. She gasped, pulled him toward her.

“I’m yours,” he told her.

She thrust her hips to meet his, taking him as deeply as she could. Unlike his actual foreign policy, he invaded her Southern Hemisphere without hesitation. He pulled out, slowly again, and then entered her once more. He was almost frustratingly slow to act (she should’ve foreseen this), but it was only making her body crave him more. He wanted her to beg for more, and he loved the feeling of letting it build for both of them.

“Darling,” she whispered, her hands digging into his back. “I want to come. I want to come on your cock.”

It wasn’t every day someone expressed a desire to go to Hooverville, and he would not leave her disappointed. He thrust again, and stroked her clit as he pushed in and out slowly. She moaned; she called his name, then his title, then his name again. She grasped at the bed. He sped up his pressure on her love button, the way he pressured Congress to pass anti-lynching legislation (literally the least he could do; but, he thought, he clearly wasn’t racist he had a Native American vice president and a wife who dined with a black woman once).

She sensed he’d left her for a moment, and coaxed him back by kissing him deeply, and pulling at his hair. She was unused to men who took their time, and he acted as if he had nothing but time. Though she supposed he knew his presidency had ended on Black Tuesday and he did have nothing but time. He increased his pace, harder on her than he’d been on tax rates for the wealthy.

“Oh fuck,” she tried not to shout this. “Fuck fuck fuck don’t stop.”

He removed his thick cock from her, like he was removing Mexicans from the US, but then slipped it back in. She was rubbing herself now too, bringing herself closer.

“I’m close, I’m so close,” she called out, and he went faster, and pushed himself harder than he’d thought himself capable. She only moaned louder, encouraging him, her pussy contracting.

“Come for me, that’s my girl, drench me.”

She nodded, and her free hand grabbed the bed as her body convulsed and the orgasm washed over her.

“Baby, fuck fuck, I’m going to come too.”

(He did).



“You can talk to me, if you want,” she offered, leaving a breakfast tray on his desk. “I’ve been told I’m real friendly!”

“Thanks,” he replied, quietly. It was unclear whether he meant for the food or her offer. She didn’t mind; she dealt in uncertainties.

“How are you liking South Dakota, Mr. President?”

“It’s nice,” he answered painfully, as if answering questions hurt him. Nevertheless, she persisted.

“Did I notice a raccoon in the hallway?”

“That’s Rebecca.”

She waited for him to continue, but Rebecca the raccoon would have to remain a mystery. She pushed him more:

“We’re very excited to have you staying here! I’ve been here my whole life and I know it sounds curious, but I think it’s just the most lovely place in the world. Fresh air, and a good stiff drink if you know the right people. Is there anything else I can get you?”


“Golly. You are quiet; the papers haven’t lied about that!”

He frowned, well-aware he’d cultivated a reputation as a man of few words. This was how he preferred it. Usually people left him alone, and he preferred that most of all.

“It’s ok,” she continued, and now she came around to his side of the desk, and leaned against it and he noticed she smelled quite lovely and her dress was quite a bit shorter than was the fashion for respectable women. “What do you like?”

He wasn’t sure what she meant, “The food you brought looks fine.”

“Oh, darling I didn’t mean the food.”

“Then I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

She sighed. Some men really were so thick. Uninvited, she dropped onto his lap. He was stunned, his arms flailed, but he didn’t move her away.

“I’m your president,” he finally stammered, his hands having finally found her arms.

“That hasn’t escaped me, but I follow your meaning. I’ll go if you want.”

He was surprised to find he did not want that either, but he was still more caught off guard by the entire situation than he’d been by the flood in Mississippi. Unlike that, however, here he felt his presence might be useful.

“I think I,” he paused. “Stay.”

She grinned, and drew his hands to her thighs. He followed her lead, felt up her leg and under her dress, unsure of his every move.

“You don’t need many words for what I have in mind,” she ran her hand through his thinning hair. “I’ll figure you out.”

Unlike his approach to business, he was all hands with her. He moved up her body, as if thrilled to have permission to touch. He was eager, controlled, still not saying much but she was past needing to hear his voice.

He was having an out of body experience; surely he would realize later this was all a dream. He’d come to Dakota to summer, where he’d been promptly flower bombed and insulted for his efforts. He didn’t love the presidency and already dreamed of retiring quietly and leaving the whole mess to someone who wanted it more. Perhaps all of this weighing on his mind was enough to render him defenseless against her advances. Perhaps it was a poor excuse for the bulge pressing against her, but in that moment a feeble excuse was all he needed. Her lips traveled his cheek and jaw, and her tongue darted into his ear. He shivered.

She kissed him, gingerly at first and then deeper as he responded to her. He wanted to feel all of her at once, and he genuinely couldn’t remember the last time his human desires fought off his better angels. All he knew was that for the moment he escaped everything, most notably his ever-present sadness, and just focused on her.

Her hand tightened around his throat, and he continued to kiss her even as he lost his breath. His dick throbbed, and he closed his eyes encouraging her to keep charge of the situation. She wasn’t strong enough to snuff out his life completely, but the thought of death by her hand was strangely thrilling for him. God, he was sad. At least he’d made Native Americans U.S. citizens. He hoped people would remember that.

“Can we,” he whispered, and she loosened her grip. “I want you.”

“He speaks!” She left his lap, and pulled him to standing, immediately tugging at his waist. “And I’m yours!”

It was so easy, he ruminated. If only Congress had been this easy; if only he hadn’t been forced to sign that Immigration Act with its pesky exclusion of Japanese immigrants. While his brain went on safari, she’d removed his pants and freed its member, and was now stroking him roughly. To be honest it was almost too rough, but there was something wonderful about the violence she brought to this interaction. It took him back to the police strike of 1919, and the incredible humping being decisive brought him.

“How do you want me?” She was asking now, bringing him back to the room.

“I just..” he trailed off. Why were there so many questions??

“My sweet silent Cal,” she stroked his cheek, then turned to lower herself over his chair, like he’d lowered marginal tax rates. “Just take me, all right?”

He did as she directed, immediately, with no thought to anything but burying himself inside her. It was better than he’d imagined, and he instantly moaned audibly. He grabbed her hips, thrust into her again, harder.

“You feel incredible.”

“Go harder. I can take it.”

He was happy to oblige and picked up his pace, pounding her. She gripped the arms of the chair, moaning, begging him to wreck her like she was a farm subsidy. He loved watching his cock push in and out, glistening with her wetness. Her body welcomed him, and she encouraged him to explore a side he didn’t even realize he had. He was slamming into her with everything he had, using her pussy to work out every frustration of being president. Sure, he kept a mechanical horse in Washington, but that was child’s play now. This was all he wanted. He didn’t even want another term as president; he’d resign right now inside her and dedicate the rest of his life to covering her ass with his presidential seal.

“Oh my fucking god oh my god,” he screamed out, the thought of destroying her daily driving him to a premature orgasm.

She laughed, “Well sure, now you’re loud.”



Despite the late hour, she anticipated having no trouble waking the president.

“Darling?” She asked, entering his room. An agent closed the door behind her — they were so endlessly helpful and discreet — and she fumbled around for a light.

He was awake, of course; the moment he’d heard she was coming for a visit he was up and not just mentally. This was the best part of his presidency: the part devoid of his corrupt cabinet (his fault, he knew) endlessly bloviating. He welcomed this distraction. He’d replayed their last tryst countless times, and was already imagining burying his face in her pillowing breasts, and yielding to his wild desire.

“Baby doll,” he gestured her toward the bed. “Come give Jerry a kiss.”

She neglected to follow his instructions, instead slowly removing her coat to reveal a flattering pink lace slip. She left the coat on his chair, and faced him, fluffing her short hair.

“Don’t you ever tire of coitus?” She asked, her hands on her hips. “I know I’m not your only pet.”

He still wasn’t bothered to get out of bed, but he did sit up to explain. “You are daddy’s favorite, though.”

Despite her affection and willingness to play along, she inwardly winced when he called himself daddy. It would always be gross. But, sometimes foreplay was about getting a little gross.

“You just like this,” she smiled, coyly, lifting the back of her slip.

“I adore every inch of your young perfect supple body; promise me that rose will not wilt.”

“Oh never, papa; I promise never to gain more than 29 years,” she replied solemnly, his preference for young women well documented. She sat next to him on the bed, taking her time with her approach, wanting to make him wait. He reached for her, his hand traced her face and neck, and pushed aside the flimsy strap on her dress.

“I’m prepared for you already,” he admitted. “I confess I was at full attention the moment I was told you were on your way up.”

All of this only stroked her ego. She noted he wasn’t exaggerating, and his erection was clearly outlined under the sheet. She found it easily, and touched him almost mockingly.

“Be honest with me darling — have you had another today?”

He paused, “I wasn’t aware you’d be in town.”

“How do you find time to govern when you’re so busy juggling all these ladies?” She laughed, wrapping her hand around his shaft, teasing him as she peppered him with insulting questions. This was high on her list of favorite power moves.

“I have the stamina of many men. Don’t be jealous, my dear.”

“Hardly. It’s your wife who should be jealous.”

“There isn’t one iota of affection in that relationship. We keep up appearances.”

Her hand maneuvered under the sheet now, where she could properly stroke him. He closed his eyes, and leaned back against the headboard, feeling his body respond to her practiced hand.

“You don’t think she has affection for you, daddy?”

His breath caught. It was obviously intentional that she would needle him in this moment, but she’d also slipped daddy into her question which, as always, thrilled him more than Dawes’s plan for German reparations.

“I think you should swallow my cock and silence that wicked tongue of yours.”

“Ah, a return to normalcy,” she chuckled. He noticed for the first time that she’d obviously been drinking, and he applauded her for breaking the law before entering his bedroom.

“You reek of gin,” he blurted.

She shrugged, “Allow me to apologize.”

Her lips found his Warren G. Hard-on, and she wasted no time swallowing him. He found the back of her throat immediately, and she choked on him, but showed no sign of stopping. He rather liked hearing her struggle to swallow him, like his white supporters had struggled to swallow his speech for voting equality between races, and she was gagging audibly. She paused for a breath, and he pushed her back down, swelling in her mouth. Her tongue swirled the head, her pace varying between aggressively fast and achingly slow. He did not care if she turned out to be another opportunistic blackmailer like so many of his women; he’d pay handsomely for this.

“Baby,” he whispered. She looked up at him, her eyes watering.

“What do you want?”

“Come up here.”

She pulled herself up, and to his delight immediately straddled him, sliding his rod into her teapot dome. He was still seated on the bed, and he pulled her in close, kissing her gruffly as she mounted him as skillfully as he mounted anti-immigration legislation.

“Tell me I’m your favorite president,” he demanded.

She rose up, slammed back on him, taking him deeper and trying to ignore the obligatory leg workout this position entailed.

“I didn’t even vote for you,” she bit his ear to punctuate this.

“This is why we shouldn’t have given you the vote,” he sighed, lifting her as she continued to ride him.

She sped up, tiring and hoping she could finish him before her legs gave out and she was forced to admit a weakness. He buried his face in her breasts, as he’d promised to do in his last letter. She pushed aside the persistent thought that his presidency was littered with corruption, noting that his tendency toward the immoral was why bouncing on his prick was such fun. And he was loud, too, which drove her crazy, and made her giggle anytime someone called him the peace president. If she had to choose between the league of nations or his appreciatively loud moans well, she’d made her choice. She contracted around him, encouraging his release. For his part, he was giddy this girl 30 years his junior would deign to call him daddy and spoil his cock. It made him feel like he could do anything. Even fire his Director of the Veterans’ Bureau (as much as that bothered him).

He came sharply, finishing sooner than either of them expected. She didn’t mind; she didn’t trifle with older men because they had impressive stamina. Also, what else could you expect — he was from Ohio.

“You keep me young,” he sighed, kissing her glowing forehead.

“Or I’m stressing your old man body into an early grave,” she laughed, dismounting and lying next to him.

He slapped her ass. “Worth it.”



“I’m not unsympathetic to your cause,” he folded his hands, and looked down his nose at the young suffragette.

It took all of her self-control to refrain from biting back. She remained tight-lipped, knowing she was lucky to have this meeting.

“I just don’t think it’s prudent yet to call for women’s suffrage,” he continued. “Not when we’re about to go to war.”

“I disagree.”

He chuckled, “Well, I expect nothing less. I’m hoping we can reach some sort of compromise; seeing you girls force fed in jail is hardly good press for me.”

“Women. Not girls. We’re not your daughters.”

He hesitated, forming his answer. Despite their differences, he was anxious to work with her, and avoid the reputation he was anti-women. It was a delicate line, and he walked it beautifully.

“Let us try and keep calm,” he answered, finally. “I’m sure we can be rational.”

She snapped. “Don’t patronize me. I don’t need a 14-point treatise on how sympathetic you are. Suffrage is right — you know it’s right — and while I respect you need it to be politically convenient, I respectfully add: fuck you.”

He was stunned. No one talked to him this way, and certainly not a woman. She seemed to regret the outburst, and tried to soften. Still, it amused him to see such vitriol and fearlessness. It did more than amuse him, he realized, and he felt something he hadn’t felt since the passing of his wife. He shifted in his seat, holding her gaze.

“Do you want to apologize for that?”

She considered it. “Perhaps for the language, but not for the sentiment. Mr. President,” she was pleading now, “We need to you to be on our side. Not sympathetic. Supportive. Publicly.”

“You want me to speak out for suffrage?”

“Yes. You know as well as I do that your speeches are lauded, and if I have to get into bed with you on this, I will.”

He raised an eyebrow, the stirring in his trousers growing. “Oh?”

“Not literally.”

“Of course not,” he smirked, and stood up, offering his hand. “I’ll do what I can for you. I mean that.”

She didn’t trust him. His public and private views were often in conflict, but she knew her best chance at the vote was letting this play out. It was icky, and it didn’t feel right, but at the moment it was all she had. Plus, he was a good public speaker, and his habit of delivering the state of the union in person was titillating.

He escorted her to the door, his hand around her waist.

“My daughter Jessie pushes me on suffrage, though I’d add with much less venom,” he told her, conversationally. “She’s about your age.”

“Is that weird for you, then?” She asked, detecting an opportunity to make sure she left the meeting with the upper hand.

“What do you mean?”

“I could be your daughter.”


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

Caught off guard, he tried to respond. “I… I.. no, I certainly have not.”

She laughed, and stroked his face. “It’s quite all right. I’d let you.”

“I assure you, miss, I have not been considering anything improper,” he began. “And, frankly the—”

“Oh come off it,” she interrupted. “You’re a single man until you make an honest woman of Ms. Galt, and I don’t believe for a moment you are nearly as scandalized as you’re pretending.”

“Well I…”

“Don’t you want to be inside me?”

He nodded, almost against his will. “I really do.”

“Then do it.”

Once he had her permission, his entire approach changed. He guided her to the couch, kissing her, and she pulled off his top hat with abandon (had he been wearing that the whole time? Was he always wearing a top hat? Why was he so fancy?). He set his glasses carefully on the table, his ministrations distinguished and professorial, even as his desires were not. She pulled him back toward her, forcefully. His lips moved over her neck, and his tongue darted into her ear, sending chills through her body. She felt a warm gush in her knickers, and moaned. Then suddenly, she stopped, and pushed him away.

“Darling?” He asked, hoping she wasn’t going to leave him in this state.

“I should… I need to tell you..”  she trailed off, nervously.


“Well, it’s my… red scare.”

It took him a moment to understand her meaning, but once he did, it didn’t matter. Perhaps lesser men would be scared off by this, but he was a worldly man and his intellectual sensibilities were not to be trifled with. Besides, he’d lived in New Jersey.

“I want to spoil you,” he replied. “That’s not going to stop me.”

He vetoed her dress like it was the Volstead Act, but with more success. The way he laid his blanket on the couch made it clear to her that while he’d passed the sedition act, he was not always afraid of reds. She exposed her glistening mound to him, and he released his League of Nations. She gasped, nodded, and arched her hips to meet him. He pushed her legs back, over her head, folding her in half as he easily slid inside her. Her body welcomed him, and she grasped his shoulders harder. He slammed his $100,000 bill into her federal reserve.

“Oh my god this is better than Birth of a Nation,” he exclaimed.

“Stop saying that, it’s why people think you’re racist.”

“I’m not racist I was just born in the Confederate South and miss it and also I hate everyone except white people. Well that’s not true, Germans are white and I hate them too.” He said all this while continuing to pound her, not missing a beat.

“Oh good god you are just,” (he thrust deeper) “just fuck you, why is this so good.”

They were making a mess of his office, but it didn’t matter to him. He was embattled in her trench, which was wonderfully wet and inviting. There was no better argument for invasion than his continued assault; if only Creel could film this for the public.

He tried to be a man of faith, but he’d long been familiar with the joys of period sex. Plus, he had a strict policy against yankee children and here was a good way to safeguard against that. It was good for her too; her body was extra responsive and her senses heightened. Despite his politics, he made her feel attractive and wanted, and seemed to delight in her monthly visitor rather than ignore it. He continued to invade her like she was a Latin American country, his excitement threatening to burst each time she called out his name.

“Right there,” she encouraged.

Finally, his body convulsed and his silent sentinel emptied. He took a breath, and another, and for a terrible moment she wondered what if he just stroked out in this moment, his blanket covered in blood, and then she’d have no choice but to run a shadow government. She shrugged. There were worse things.