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.