UnBooks:The Black and White House: Hillary and Barack
She stepped into the Oval Office. "How perfect," she thought, "How entirely appropriate."
This was after all the site of her husband's greatest betrayals. What seemed like a lifetime ago now. A tacky affair, the most mundane one can imagine, to remind us all that no matter how high a man has risen, there is no accounting for the ordinariness of his desires. For the dullness of his thrills.
She glanced again at her iPhone. He'd said he'd be here by now. He was five minutes late. She hated herself for it, but there was a sinking feeling in her stomach, something like misery. How had she let herself get so attached so quickly, at her age?
She didn't have time to finish her thought. The door opened, and she turned, much more quickly than she would have liked. He was lit from behind, his silhouette unmistakeable.
She was alone with the President.
"Hello there," he said, the timbre of his voice at once unmistakeable from a million speeches, and yet at the same time with an added layer of intimacy reserved just for her. "I'm sorry to have kept you."
He closed the door and she found herself approaching him. The room was lit only by the distant street lights. He came to her and seized her powerfully, kissing her warmly. She tilted her head back submissively, feeling her legs weaken like a schoolgirl's, but her arms wrapped knowingly around him, clasping his slender but powerful back. They kissed longingly, drinking in the essence of the other, a hint of desperation in their movements. She lost herself so in the kiss that it was almost a shock when he pushed things further, peeling off her designer jacket. She felt it fall to the floor behind her. She almost trampled it as she staggered backwards towards his desk. He was leading her now. She was being led.
She felt her backside slide over the sinuous curve of the Resolute desk. He stood back for a second to slip off his tie and throw his jacket to one side in a movement of almost boyish glee. He stretched, puffing out his chest, approaching her with that charming grin, kissing her once more and leaning her back on the desk. A surge of passion went through her and she clamped her calves around his body, her heels digging into his narrow hips. She let out an excited squeal at the first intimation of his hardness, through his suit pants, as it brushed against the back of her thigh, inches from her ass.
"I've been waiting for this all day," he said, his voice suddenly different, almost brutal. "I've been thinking about you...and this," he said, reaching between her legs and squeezing her firmly through her wet panties.
"Take them off," she heard herself saying, "Just take them off." He reached in and cupped her mound again before pinching at her panties with his thumb and index finger and pulling them down her legs, the first movement rough, the succeeding ones gentle and teasing, leaving them around her knees. His hand darted once more to her crotch, just a hint of the outside cold in his touch, but the sensations it produced sent warm glows coursing through her stomach. At first her turned his hand around, as though wanting to explore her sex and her thighs with every inch: she felt the back of his hand, his knuckles, his nails, all investigating her. A murmur escaped his swollen lips as he laid his palm on her labia for the first time, massaging them, firmly as before, making tiny little circles and easing them stickily open. She whimpered as he brought his middle fingertip to her opening, holding it there, threatening to enter her, waiting for her wetness to pool around him. Then with a flourish he raised the finger up, parting her lips, making an impish circle around her clitoris and then diving down again for more wetness.
She reached up and grabbed him by the tie, pulling him onto her, wanting his lips on hers as he touched her. He put his left elbow on the desk at her side, but she swept it away, longing to feeling his weight, all of it, on her breast. A different man's weight on her. A different man's hand between her legs. Everything in that moment felt different and delicious.
He stroked her patiently as she had come to expect. It was his style, somewhat gentlemanly, and she knew him well enough by now to know that as a lover he could be driven on, unleashed anew at each stage of affairs. She took his large hand by the wrist and bit her lip as she placed his fingers again on her opening. Her buttocks clenched and rose slightly off the desk as he obligingly slid his first two fingers inside her, inch by thrilling inch. He kept them deep inside her for a few moments, his thumb flicking the last of her wetness around her sizzling clitoris, while his left hand slid eagerly over her blouse, pulling it open with indecent violence.
Her mature breasts - which she had long despised - were for some reason a huge object of his desire. When they had first made love it had embarrassed her, his apparent delight in them, but such was the sincerity of his lust that he had convinced her of their beauty and had done much more than simply stimulate her physically: he had made her love her body again. She lifted her back instinctively to allow him to unhook her bra. He reached for it and threatened to unhook it with a ladykiller's aplomb, but faltered slightly, meaning the move was just a touch less smooth than he may have liked. She loved that too. Their imperfection. Their occasional awkwardness. These manifestations of their insecurities which were raised each time they made love, only to be swept away by the rush of orgasmic pleasure that always followed. What else could be more successful, or more secure, or more perfect than to come or make come?
His right hand threatened to slide out of her, such was his desire to handle both of her untamed breasts. She placed a nervous hand on his wrist, keeping him where he was, and he growled almost paternally over her. He manoeuvred her breasts together with his left hand, pawing at them like an adolescent, leaning over to lick them or rub, seemingly wanting to stimulate both of her bullet hard nipples at once.
I can't take any more," he whispered. "Can we do it?"
"Yes we can," she cackled. It was their private joke.
He stood up, and began to undo his belt with his left hand, his right hand increasingly occupied as it made thick, slow movements between her thighs. His belt buckle jangled and glimmered in the darkness and he eased his pants and presidential silk boxers off.
She saw his erection in the moonlight and moaned. It was a thing of beauty. Long but not excessively long. Nothing like the negro penises her male school friends used to draw in the history books in school. But big, it thrilled her when he breached her, it filled her differently to Bill's. She reached out for it, her milky white hands stroking it, his darkness visibly through the gaps in her fingers. She twisted lovingly as her hand approached his dark unknowable helmet.
"I want to be inside you," he said, his voice neither entirely authoritative nor pleading, but demanding, sensual. She re-positioned herself slightly on the desk, holding his manhood like a leash and drawing him between her legs, pushing the head of it around her creamy mound, before delivering it to her wetness and leaving it to him. His hand slide over her thighs, seizing her, sliding down towards her buttocks and driving himself inside her. He grunted his approval and penetrated her smoothly. It was as though he had complete confidence in his physicality and was in no rush to impose it upon her. He guided himself in slowly, two or three inches inside her, and they began to move together gingerly. His grip alternated in firmness on her thighs and she felt him stiffen further inside her. Her legs opened wider in response and he moaned, taking in a sharp breath before probing her more deeply.
She arched her back lightly on his desk, her heels digging into the back of his thighs, urging him on. He responded to her. He was a devil for that. He could read her mind. The slightest little signal that her body gave him, he responded to. His hands moved under the back of her thighs, supporting her behind her knees, splaying her as he finally drove himself in, to the hilt. She yelped. Every time there was a moment in which she felt he would split her entirely in half, but then her body would respond and accommodate him, and that turned her on even more: that she could convert herself into his able lover, that she had the capacity to envelop him, to absorb all his efforts.
Her head fell to one side on the desk, she realized suddenly that her mouth was open. It was as though she was narcotized, tranquilized, when he made love to her. She gazed out stupidly at her own feet, her heels dangling in the air just beyond the point of his elbow, and watched them as though they were someone else's. He growled bestially over her, smearing her nipples with the now-warm palm of his hand, the action seemingly driving him on in his passion, causing their movements to become intensified. He leaned over her, and she snapped out of her somnolence. He was kissing her and she responded, she felt her legs wrap around him, her hamstrings tight around his writhing waist, one heel occasionally nestling in the crack of his backside.
He kissed her messily, primally, shaking and nodding his head so every other moment there was an exhaling nose, a hint of teeth, an unexpected grazing of lips flashing between each moment of labial unison. She grabbed the back of his head, feeling her orgasm approach suddenly. She moaned to give him notice, unable to speak the words. He moved his head away for a moment, "I know darling, me too. You want it inside you?" he whispered, his voice at his most tender. She moaned into his lips again and nodded her response, her toes curling as they drove on towards their climax. No thought process now, their movements entirely instinctive, mutually selfish one could say as their bodies, crave, sought their satisfaction in the darkness of their wombs.
She was first. Her body jolted suddenly, and the waves of pleasure that had been undulating inside her of suddenly crackled and exploded. Hot silvery stars fell from the ceiling and pierced her stomach. She called out. Any semblance of discretion, any fear of being caught suddenly ridiculous, as the inherent truth of pleasure ordered her onward, dictating all of her body's movements, throat and all.
"I can feel it," Obama whispered, gritting his teeth as though still trying to resist the onset of his own orgasm. "I can feel you pulsing and gripping me baby." He pressed his narrow chest onto her breasts, biting her shoulder, gently at first, but then firmly enough to break the skin. It extended her orgasm, she writhed and thrashed underneath him. "I'm coming," he said through gritted teeth, his voice muffled by his own saliva, and then he let out a low, animal moan that made her think of Africa and the slave trade, and all her other ridiculous white-woman associations all at once and it was delicious and she loved him.
He lay on top of her, spent, for some minutes. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, exposing her neck to him, imagining his seed deep inside her. She had never betrayed Bill in this way and she knew that there would be moments this evening when she would feel pangs of guilt. She could see herself inspecting the bite mark in the bathroom, taking all-too-simple precautions that Bill would never see them. That was the horrible thing about cheating, she had discovered: it was easy to conceal, and it didn't touch your heart quite as much as you expected. The moments of guilt were just that, moments. For the most part she looked on her relationship with Barack as more honest, more pure, than the one she had had with her husband.
That was the stable emotional state. Apart from that there would be the heightened moments; the almost sickening yearning that burned in her heart as it had done just an hour ago. That desire which felt more clear and coherent than any other: to be with him. And now, post orgasmic, she felt the release, the reassurance, the almost spiritual calmness which made one question why anyone did anything malicious, why people had to worry about death so much, when in that moment a God and an afterlife seemed either an absolute certainty or an impossibility, and that both alternatives were entirely acceptable.
He finally stood up and slid out of her. His gorgeous manhood, still rather hard, quivered visibly with the exertion. He picked up his clothes and made an exaggerated hop as he pushed his wet cock back inside his underwear. These were the only tawdry moments; the regathering of everything, it seemed as surreal and out of place to her as if he had started hoovering. Fully dressed now, he leant over and kissed her on the cheek. "I have to get going," he whispered. "Are you gonna stay there all night?" His cheeky smile gleamed.
"I'll go soon, just leave me for five minutes," she replied.
"Alright," he said, "I'll see you soon, OK?"
And she knew he would.