Sometimes the most powerful man in the world is a little kinky

1To the left, if you must know.
“Thank you so much for coming,” says the President of all the United States. “They understood that our power alone cannot protect us, nor does it entitle us to do as we please. Instead, they knew that our power grows through its prudent use; our security emanates from the justness of our cause, the force of our example, the tempering qualities of humility and restraint.  As we consider the road that unfolds before us, we remember with humble gratitude those brave Americans who, at this very hour, patrol far-off deserts and distant mountains.”
(It was the thirty-sixth American president, Lydon Johnson, who said that pantyhose ruined finger-fucking).
And yet, at this moment – a moment that will define a generation – it is precisely this spirit that must inhabit us all.
I gaze into his eyes. Only a street address. His pupils are wide, dilated.
”Nobody dismisses me.”
I cross my legs, let my skirt ride halfway up my thighs. Just anything.
Still holding my hand he reads the press card hanging low down my chest.  Maybe even glimpse a nipple.
What question?
Who cares?
I’m overwhelmed.
What must the President of the United States think of a foreign correspondent who giggles inanely? He doesn’t seem to mind at all.
I decide I have nothing to lose so I slide the skirt a little higher, right up to the darker stocking top.
“Don’t answer it, Mr. President.”
He works fast.
“It’s so big it can get real lonely sometimes.”
The telephone rings again. For our common defense, we reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals.
“Bill.”
Fuck.  He admires a lot longer than is quite necessary to read the words on the pass.  I have to.
“My secretary will give you the answer to your question on the way out. And those of us who manage the public’s dollars will be held to account – to spend wisely, reform bad habits, and do our business in the light of day – because only then can we restore the vital trust between a people and their government.”
I realize this could be a cue.  I shudder, sigh encouragement.
The President of the United States struggles up from the couch, scoots across the Oval Office carpet holding his trousers up with one hand, his rampant cock swaying in front of him.
“You’re new here and I just wanted to meet you.”
I guess he has a busy schedule. I know this dance.  Where the answer is no, programs will end.
Now that it’s fully erect, the presidential cock is bent half-way along. He tries to get up but I hold onto his zip.  I’ve made a lot of money out of knowing the symptoms.
“I noticed you at the news conference.”
His eyes flicker back to my breasts. He waves me away imperiously, gestures towards the door.
“I feel cold, lonely, exposed, silly.”
Not even the most powerful man in the world.  The thought so excites him that he cums right then.  I lean forward, put one hand behind his head, pull him down to me, he asks and “oh jesus it’s a lot bigger than where I live”.
He grins again.  He changes the subject.
“Nor is the question before us whether the market is a force for good or ill. It is the firefighter’s courage to storm a stairway filled with smoke, but also a parent’s willingness to nurture a child, that finally decides our fate. Sixty-four Sussex Drive.”
It’s a gentle, rolling laugh.  I go around the desk to the front, get down on hands and knees and crawl under.  He realizes that’s not believable and grins like a small boy caught stealing candy. One hand cups a breast, fingers the nipple, leaves the breast, runs down my belly to my knee.
To the people of poor nations, we pledge to work alongside you to make your farms flourish and let clean waters flow; to nourish starved bodies and feed hungry minds.  He struggles to get away.  I try to sit on his lap.  The hand goes to my pussy. We’re a bit different. It would look really great with a yo-yo hanging from it.
“Call me Bill. Cretin, or something similar.”
“Sam.”
So the President of the United States can be a bit kinky. And a lot handsomer, although there’s greying at his temples and lines starting around his eyes. He smells of man and power and really expensive cologne.
“But what if I really, really want something and I’m prepared to pay whatever price?”
I squeeze the presidential hand and put him on.
“Whoever it is can wait.”
”You might get it” he quotes ruefully. His tongue slips between my lips.
“That’s very kind of you.”
Still kissing me, his hand slides up my skirt, past my stocking top.
“For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness.”
“But you’ve got all these flunkies around to do your every whim.”
I let go of his cock. Its power to generate wealth and expand freedom is unmatched, but this crisis has reminded us that without a watchful eye, the market can spin out of control – and that a nation cannot prosper long when it favors only the prosperous.
I’ll wait.
When he looks up I hold his gaze to show I know exactly what he’s thinking, provocatively run my tongue around my lips. Sometimes the most powerful man in the world is a little kinky.
No.
“I know.  Never want anything too much.”
“So how do you like it? The White House, I mean.”
We will not apologize for our way of life, nor will we waver in its defense, and for those who seek to advance their aims by inducing terror and slaughtering innocents, we say to you now that our spirit is stronger and cannot be broken; you cannot outlast us, and we will defeat you.  The timing is awful. Such a good start.
The most powerful man in the world puts down his pen, gets up from behind the desk and walks toward me across the carpet with his hand out. I sit and smile demurely.
“You saucy hussy you.”
Like the time he talks sweet nothings to his wife on the phone while jerking off in my hair and I have to walk back through the White House and work in the Press Room with the presidential cum doubling as Revlon mousse.  Anything you want. The President of the United States is horny.  I’ll try and remember.
”Any time you want it”
I’m glad I’m wearing stockings and not pantyhose.
“I’m glad you did.”
“This your first time in the White House, Samantha?”
“My friends call me Sam.”
A telephone rings.  I’ve dined there.  It fits the dance. He groans. The question we ask today is not whether our government is too big or too small, but whether it works – whether it helps families find jobs at a decent wage, care they can afford, a retirement that is dignified.
”Funny name.”
He’s a man who likes breasts. I’ve danced it myself.  Please let go.
“We don’t have a White House in Canada,” I blather.
A finger slips easily inside me. I lean towards him so the dress falls open again just like it’s supposed to and he can see my breasts again just like he’s supposed to. I kneel between the presidential legs right in front of the presidential cock still thrusting out of the presidential trousers.  Like maybe kiss the President of the United States. Other than that, it’s a fine example of a rampant, rigid medium-to-large, mid-West, middle-aged male sexual organ.
For a moment I wonder if it’s a crude, unpresidential order.To the Muslim world, we seek a new way forward, based on mutual interest and mutual respect.
“I don’t think we’ve met before,” I giggle inanely.
I understand men who like breasts.
“We know where you live.”
His hand is strong.  Our Founding Fathers, faced with perils we can scarcely imagine, drafted a charter to assure the rule of law and the rights of man, a charter expanded by the blood of generations. The President of the United States smiles a dazzling, friendly smile, lets go of my hand, gestures me to the deep, leathered couch. Those ideals still light the world, and we will not give them up for expedience’s sake. Like the time he hands out awards to a gaggle of Boy Scouts in badges, knotted scarves and cute little khaki shorts.  If it is, he’s moving fast.
“To tell the truth, only the really good-looking ones.”
I know the symptoms. I like speed so I take a chance.
“To those leaders around the globe who seek to sow conflict, or blame their society’s ills on the West – know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy,” says the President of the United States. “We honor them not only because they are guardians of our liberty, but because they embody the spirit of service; a willingness to find meaning in something greater than themselves.”
He’s even bigger than he was in the Rose Garden. I groan back. To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history; but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist.
”They have something to tell us, just as the fallen heroes who lie in Arlington whisper through the ages.”
I feel considerably better.
“Why honey.”
“Lots of times.”
“Hi Samantha.”
“Like what, Samantha?”
“Call me Sam.”
We are shaped by every language and culture, drawn from every end of this Earth; and because we have tasted the bitter swill of civil war and segregation, and emerged from that dark chapter stronger and more united, we cannot help but believe that the old hatreds shall someday pass; that the lines of tribe shall soon dissolve; that as the world grows smaller, our common humanity shall reveal itself; and that America must play its role in ushering in a new era of peace.
I savour his taste. I step out of the thong, toss it on the couch and follow.  Thank god I shaved this morning. He has a very nice grin.  Like the time he keeps the President of Mexico waiting in the anteroom until I cum, sprawled and groaning in the presidential chair with my skirt hiked up around my waist and the President of the United States ramming a fine Cuban cigar in and out of my pussy.
We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus – and non-believers.
And so to all other peoples and governments who are watching today, from the grandest capitals to the small village where my father was born: know that America is a friend of each nation and every man, woman, and child who seeks a future of peace and dignity, and we are ready to lead once more.  I have to answer it.  It can wait. I’m not used to men hesitating when I offer to kiss them.
He sits down behind the desk, picks up the phone.
“Do you meet all the White House correspondents on their first day, sir?”
“I try to.”
Like the time I ask him about the meaning of the Great Seal of the United States of America woven into the centre of the Oval Office’s royal blue carpet.
”You can answer it but. ”
The President of the United States rests a large presidential hand on my thigh, just above my knee.
“Where the answer is yes, we intend to move forward.”
I’m alone in the Oval Office with the President of all the United States.
“Pretty good Canadian wine though.”
The success of our economy has always depended not just on the size of our Gross Domestic Product, but on the reach of our prosperity; on the ability to extend opportunity to every willing heart – not out of charity, but because it is the surest route to our common good.
“It means make peace, not war” he says.
It is the kindness to take in a stranger when the levees break, the selflessness of workers who would rather cut their hours than see a friend lose their job which sees us through our darkest hours.
Still kissing him, I undo the top buttons on my dress, take a presidential hand and guide it inside. And to those nations like ours that enjoy relative plenty, we say we can no longer afford indifference to the suffering outside our borders; nor can we consume the world’s resources without regard to effect.  I angle my shoulders forward so my dress gapes like it’s supposed to and the President of the United States can admire my breasts cupped inside the wispy, black, demi-cut flower-lace bra like he’s supposed to. The Scouts can’t take their eyes off my shaved pussy. His fingers linger.  We are the keepers of this legacy.
He stiffens for a moment, grasps the idea and bends.
“Please honey,” he laughs.
Guided by these principles once more, we can meet those new threats that demand even greater effort – even greater cooperation and understanding between nations.  It’s the yellow phone.  Just a little.
I pretend to be the kidnapper negotiating ransom in a thousand movies.  It’s a perfectly normal White House scene – a reporter sitting on the couch taking notes during a routine presidential ceremony – except that on presidential instructions I’m wearing a miniskirt with no panties and don’t always remember to keep my legs crossed.
Possibly even a nipple or two.
With old friends and former foes, we’ll work tirelessly to lessen the nuclear threat, and roll back the specter of a warming planet. For the world has changed, and we must change with it. For as much as government can do and must do, it is ultimately the faith and determination of the American people upon which this nation relies. Particularly the female good-looking ones.
He pulls his hand out from under my skirt and sits up.  Immediately I’m embarrassed.  With that French guy who hardly speaks English.
I pull down the zip, fumble inside his trousers for the presidential cock, find it half erect, pull it out.
I smile sweetly throughout the ceremony and wonder what the hell the kids tell their parents.  Like the time he fucks me on my hands and knees on the presidential desk while I study a photograph of him with his wife and daughter at some beach and try not to knock Top Secret files off the desk.  He pushes me off.
“Ok .”
Suddenly everything’s going so wrong. He takes his eyes off my legs, sits on the couch next to me. Recall that earlier generations faced down fascism and communism not just with missiles and tanks, but with the sturdy alliances and enduring convictions.
He hesitates. He groans, pushes me back on the couch, half under him. All my friends do.  But the moose was a little tough.
Still standing, the present American president studies my legs. While he’s fucking me he explains that underneath me – only inches from my nipples in fact – is an eagle clutching arrows in one claw, olive branches in the other.
“You want an answer to your question?”
For a moment I don’t know what he’s talking about.  We shake hands. What the cynics fail to understand is that the ground has shifted beneath them – that the stale political arguments that have consumed us for so long no longer apply.
Casually I put my small hand on top of the large hand on my thigh.  Stocking tops and garter-belts are so much sexier than pantyhose. I don’t mean to be rude.
I reach for the presidential zipper.  I shift on the couch to give him a better view.  We will begin to responsibly leave Iraq to its people, and forge a hard-earned peace in Afghanistan.  The rumours are true.
“Yes.”
I lift my buttocks so he can pull my thong down.  But what if my getting his rocks off stops him from raising taxes or getting really, really mad and dropping bombs on people he doesn’t like?
What if I’m not just getting the world’s most powerful rocks off?
What if instead, I’m actually helping poor people and saving innocent lives around the world, all at the same time? What if I’m nobly performing a vital public service!
I decide I deserve the Nobel Peace Prize and wonder what I’ll wear at the ceremony.
In between thrusts the President of the United States and Commander-in-Chief of the most powerful military the world has ever known, explains that the eagle’s head is turned away from the arrows towards the olive branches.
His lips touch mine. His answer is to reach up my skirt, pull down my panties, push me onto hands and knees in the middle of the Oval office.
I can’t.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s