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From: zifferman@aol.com (Zifferman)
Subject: Story: Clinton 1
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     Bill Clinton was out on the campaign trail once again.  There was nothing
he liked more than getting out into the hinterlands of America and surveying
the lovely landscapes, the noble vistas, and getting to know the people. 
That's what he was known for.  Shaking hands, kissing babies, and rubbing
elbows with the voters.  He was considered the most personable President of the
last twelve years because of his way with people.  He might not be much of a
decision maker, but he was dynamite during a one-on-one interview.  Indeed,
more than one challenger had learned the hard way that during a face-to-face
town hall meeting he couldn't be beat.  He was so empathetic, so understanding,
so compassionate when speaking directly to an individual.  He had the ability
to make a person believe that he could feel their pain.
  Yes, Bill Clinton was a politician's politician. He seemed at ease with
making promises which he knew he couldn't keep, making plans on the spur of the
moment which he knew were balderdash, and pulling foreign policy decisions out
of his ass. Philosophically, no one could figure him out because he stated so
many different positions on the same issue.  One minute he was a conservative,
the next he was a liberal, and the next a libertarian.  Then he would switch
back to being a conservative.  He reversed himself on so many issues that he
earned the name "Slick Willie".  Hell!  Sometimes he would give three or four
different positions on the same topic on the same day!  He even confused the 
professional political pundits.  Even they couldn't pin him down.
  But on one issue he never wavered.  Not one iota. It was just too important. 
It was pussy.  He loved pussy.  He loved to look at it, he loved to pet it and
he loved to stroke it.  Indeed, he loved to play with it, tongue it, and most
of all, he loved to stick his cock into it.  As far as he was concerned a man
could never get too much pussy.  Never!  Pussy and politics went together like
peanut butter and jelly.
   He also liked going out to the hinterlands of America for another reason. 
He got to check out the quality pussy in the small towns and far-flung counties
of this great land.
   Ah yes, pussy!  That was what he was truly interested in.  All shapes-all
sizes-all colors. Politics was secondary to pussy.  Principles were nothing
compared to pussy.  The only thing that  mattered was the pursuit of pussy.
   He loved travelling to the Southern states.  States like Mississippi,
Tennessee, and Alabama.  He loved meeting those pretty Southern women with
their pretty Southern drawl.  He liked the way they allowed their honeyed
tongues to pronounce those elongated vowels.  Moreover, those Southern women
were so cordial and pleasant.  They always had a smile on their pretty faces,
always had a gleam in their pretty eyes, and always had a sway to their shapely
hips.  He especially liked burying his cock far up inside their pretty little
pussies and shooting a load of warm viscous semen into their pretty little
bellies.
 He remembered meeting an attractive redhead campaign worker from Georgia.  She
was so very pretty.  She simply loved him and loved his cock. During a
whistle-stop tour between speeches he fucked her for nearly two days straight. 
And he was still thinking about her to this day!  Mmmmm!  She was so sweet!  So
very, very sweet.  And she was still working on his campaign committee
somewhere down in the South.  He would have to check up on her and on her pussy
the next time he was down that way.  He wouldn't mind shooting a couple of more
loads of semen into her snatch.
   Bill also loved travelling to the Midwest, to states like Michigan,
Missouri, and Minnesota.  He loved to go into the small towns in those states.
There was some quality pussy in those little communities.  And because he was a
bigshot politician from Washington D.C., those small town girls were especially
impressed with his balderdash speeches and his nonsensical promises.
   He loved meeting the Midwestern women, getting to know them, becoming
familiar with them, and coaxing them into the sack.  They had such friendly
attitudes.  Mmmmm!  They were so hospitable to the idea of receiving new cock
deep into their snatches.  They would spread themselves especially wide for
newcomers.
  Bill could remember a lovely blonde he had met in Minneapolis nearly three
weeks beforehand. She had the nicest personality, the sweetest smile, and the
most friendly little pussy.  She was a farmer's  wife and didn't mind accepting
his seeds into her fertile field.  He left her a couple batches worth of sperm
to remember him by.
   Bill Clinton also enjoyed visiting California. He loved meeting the shapely
women with their lovely tans.  He loved to go to the southern California
beaches and watch the lovely hips in motion, the jiggling titties bouncing, and
the long legs scissoring.  Once during a campaign swing to Malibu he got one of
the local girls to stand on her head and fuck in the sand.  He loved it.  Of
course, sand-fucking did have its drawbacks.  A man had to avoid getting debris
in his shorts.  Such an occurrence could cause undue embarrassment by  inducing
a pair of scratchy balls for the rest of the day.  And a President of the
United States wasn't supposed to have scratchy balls.
   Bill Clinton even had a fondness for Brooklyn women.  He liked them because
they were so vulgar.  Moreover, they were the most sexually demanding of all
American females.  They used words like "fuck", "suck", and "cock" with the
familiarity and ease of a Seventh Fleet sailor on shore leave.  They were also
sexually insatiable.  They couldn't get enough cock.  No matter the time of day
or night, Brooklyn women needed sex frequently and desperately.
  The President even liked travelling to the far reaches of Alaska.  The women
up there were few and far between, but they loved sex.  And because there were
so many cold nights in the land of the last frontier, snuggling was all the
more fun.  Indeed, bear-blanket fucking was considered the state past time.
  Yes, Bill Clinton loved American women.
  Especially the shapely ones.  Especially the ones with the gorgeous bodies. 
Especially the ones with the curvaceous asses which swayed nicely when they
walked.  Especially the ones who looked as if they could give a man a ride
which could leave him exhausted and living on a cloud of bliss.
  Over the years he had fucked his fair share of curvaceous and scintillating
beauties.  And since he had entered national politics he had really been
privileged to score.  He had sunk his cock into more cunts than he cared to
count.  That was why he had chosen politics as a profession.  "Serving the
public" was utter bullshit.  He was a politician because he loved cunt.  Plain
and simple.  He didn't care if it belonged to a tall woman, a short woman, a
blonde,  a brunette, a redhead, or a woman with green hair.  As long as that
cunt was clean and tight, well-lubed and deep, he chased it.
   The American people had some inkling that Bill was a cunthound.  They had
heard rumors in the press that he had been involved with quite a few women over
the years and that he had carried on extramarital affairs with numerous ladies.
Nevertheless, he had been elected President and those stories seemed to
flounder.  Apparently Americans no longer cared if their President was an
adulterer.  However, they might have been a bit more concerned if they knew he
hadn't stopped his adulterous ways.  Far from it.  He was still fucking up a
storm anywhere he could find willing partners.
  He'd been pronging women ever since he had been a Governor.  Back in those
days it was easier to get the pussy because no one cared what a Governor of a
small state did with his spare time.  Now it was a bit more difficult to hide
his infidelities.  He had to be more discreet.  Fortunately he had the Secret
Service agents available to keep the reporters and the prying eyes at bay.
  On this particular day, President Clinton stepped into the television studio.
 The Secret Service agents directed him to the center of the stage.  He looked
around for his place to sit.  Just then he noticed a very pretty brunette
sitting in a chair who was having her face touched up by a make-up woman.
  He stopped dead in his tracks.  He could smell quality pussy when in the
vicinity thereof.  As a serious cunthound he had developed a sixth sense over
the years.  There was some prime snatch within the reach of his nostrils.  He
paused as he gazed at her.  He noticed that with each stroke of her luscious
brunette locks that her large pendulous breasts swayed a tiny bit from
side-to-side in a most enticing and exciting way.  They appeared to resemble
overfilled water balloons.  Yet, there was no indication of dangling or
drooping.  Everything beneath her jacket seemed to be genuinely firm female
flesh. Indeed, those mounds of hers moved like the central pivot of a
metronome, rocking nicely, rolling enticingly, calling our for attention, and
telegraphing their sumptuous beauty to passersby.
  Being a serious cunthound, President Bill Clinton smacked his lips at the
appetizing sight.
  Being a connoisseur Of women, he knew that those breasts were perfectly
formed globes of female flesh. He didn't have to see them out in the open,
displayed like those of a Las Vegas showgirl to know they were gorgeous.  He
knew they were ripe.  He could tell just by the way they filled her blouse and
lifted her jacket.  Their beauty was indicated by their spherical geometry.
   Simply looking at her made his hormones race. His cock gave a twitch, his
balls gave a tug, and his eyes did a double take.
   "That's the reporter who will be interviewing you, Mister President," said
John, the Secret Service agent who was standing next to him, directing him
across the stage to his seat.
  "Mmmm!  Mmmm!  She is a pretty one, isn't she?" replied Bill.
  "Yes she is, Mister President."   John had been a Secret Service agent for
nearly twenty years.  During all that time he had never met a public official
with a higher libido and a more outrageous moral code than that of President
Clinton.  The President was always looking at females, checking out tits,
comparing asses, making lewd comments, and fucking quite a few of them during
the course of a day.  John thought the fellow-was insatiable.  Sometimes he'd
fuck five and six women in a single day.  John suspected that Bill had an
overabundance of testosterone in his system.  The President needed some way to
work it off-and fucking was the most pleasurable way to do it.
  "Wouldn't you love to fuck something like that?" asked Bill in a low, barely
audible voice.
   John cleared his throat and nervously looked around him.  In many ways he
hated to be on assignment with President Clinton.  Clinton had started out by
getting pretty female Secret Service Agents assigned to his security detail.  
He had said he wanted the detail to 'resemble America'.  Well, it resembled
America, alright, if America was made up of athletic fuckable women.  When
three of the female agents turned up pregnant within a few weeks of being
assigned to the Presidential guard detail even Clinton had to admit that a
dominantly-female guard team perhaps wasn't such a great idea.  The man was
always putting the Secret Service agents on the spot by requesting that they
transport willing ladies to the Presidential Suite.  Although many agents 
resented being nothing more than pimps for the President, they went along with
the program because they often got to sample the "leftovers".
  Bill was known to share the discards.  It was the least he could do for the
guys who were willing to take a bullet for him.
  "Er...yes I would like to fuck something like that, Mister President."
  "I thought you might."
  The Secret Service agents standing around the President looked at each other
and winked.  Apparently they were going to be sampling some brunette pussy
later that night.     
  "She's got nice jugs, hasn't she John?"
  "Nice indeed, sir."
  "Wouldn't you love to crawl between her thighs and lick her until Tuesday?"
 Although John wasn't a devotee of cunnilingus he always agreed with the
President of the United  States.  Failure to do so could result in his
reassignment to guarding the former Vice President, Dan Quayle.  Nothing could
be duller for a Secret Service agent.  "I would love to lick her, sir."
   "You've got excellent taste in women, John."
   "You've taught me everything, sir."
   "Heh heh!  Stick with me kid and we'll leave a set of memoirs which will
make those of Casanova seem like a Sunday School picnic."
  The longer that President Clinton looked at the pretty reporter the more he
realized that she certainly met all the criteria of a fuckable female.
 He gazed at her incredibly pretty face.  He noticed her wide mouth and her
full sensual lips.  Not only did she possess a fuckable body, but she also had
a very kissable face.  He liked it when he got two-for-one.
  He immediately wondered what those pretty lips of hers would feel like when
they were wrapped around his cock, sucking and lapping away.  He had a hunch
that she could suck the blubber off of a beached walrus, or the rubber coating
off a new golf ball.
  He felt a twitch in his cock.  He wanted to fuck her now!
  He looked lower and marvelled at her upper torso. He noticed that she had a
pair of full, uptilted tits. They appeared to be a size 36-D.  He loved women
with tits that size.  They were so malleable, so squeezable, so wonderful to
play with while fucking.
   Yes indeed, the more he looked at the shapely brunette, the more he liked
her. However, in keeping with the dignity of the Presidency, he would have to
feel her out, before he felt her up.
  The President stepped over and sat down in the chair opposite her.  She
looked at him and smiled.
  Although he was partial to blondes, he had to confess that she was a genuine
knockout.  She was a sleek thoroughbred amongst television newswomen -and that
was quite a compliment considering the large number of good-looking women
currently working as reporters and anchors at the local affiliates and at the
network level.  Even though the news business was filled with quality cunt, she
stood out from the pack.
  He wondered why.  Her body was in league with dozens of other women, and she
didn't possess any physical attributes which they didn't have.  He came to the
conclusion that her beauty was the result of the way she carried herself.  Her
posture was perfect. Utterly perfect.  As a result, her breasts were thrust out
that much more than they would have been. Also, her tummy curved inward more
than it might have.  And her face was displayed in all of its perfect glory
above her sensually sloping shoulders.
  He was told by the Secret Service agent that her name was Phyllis Barret.
  "Phyllis, eh!" asked the President while surveying her.
  "Yes sir."
  In every way, Bill concluded that Phyllis was fuckable.  Having met his
criteria, meant that Phyllis would soon be fucked.
  He stepped over to where she was sitting.  "Hello Phyllis.  My name is Bill."
  Her smile broadened into a sweet angelic grin. "Yes, I'm quite aware of your
name, Mister President."
   "Oh please, let's not be formal.  Call me Bill."
   "Er .. I don't think I should do that."
   "Why?" he asked.
   "Because this is a television interview.  The viewers will expect some
formality with an interview conducted of the President of the United States."
 Bill sighed.  "Oh!  Very well!  Have it your way. I swear, the things I do for
the American people."
   This was to be a preliminary interview.  In other words, the questions to be
asked were those he would be asked during the live interview scheduled in an
hour.  The purpose of doing it was to give the President an opportunity to
familiarize himself with the subject matter so that he wouldn't sound like a
total idiot.  Many Americans did not realize such preliminary press conferences
took place in television broadcasting.  Instead, they were led to believe that
their politicians always conducted candid interviews and studied their subject
matter tirelessly. Little did the citizenry realize the amount of time,
preparation, and coaching which went into every answer given by a politician. 
In fact, in recent years the television "interview" had become a quasi-science
of misrepresentation and distortion.  There were now teams of political
professionals assembled in the White House who did nothing other than
image-making.  The modem Presidency had become nothing more than a series of
photo ops and evasive answers designed to make mediocre politicians look like
world-class statesmen.
 Phyllis crossed her long legs.  She was flipping through some notes on her
clipboard, doing some last minute preparation for the interview, apparently
unaware of the luscious tableau she presented to a man possessing a high
libido.
  Bill looked at her legs intently.  He couldn't help but admire their sensual
loveliness and their alluring curvature.  He savored their sight.  They were
simply spectacular.  They could have belonged to a professional dancer or a
top-notch acrobat.  He had never seen better Of course, he wished that he could
see more of them.  For example, he wanted to see the entire expanse of her
inner thighs. Moreover, he wanted to get a glimpse of that region up around her
crotch-that area where her legs joined her passion pit.  That was an especially
nice region.  Heterosexual men like Bill could gaze upon that region of the
female anatomy indefinitely.
  But for the moment Bill had to be content  with merely gazing at her legs
below the knees.
  But the limited amount of leg which he could see was savory enough.
 He glanced at her calves.  He wanted to reach out and fondle them.  He wanted
to run his fingers along their sleek lines.  He wanted to caress the warm flesh
in his palms.  He wanted to lick her shin with his tongue and nibble on her
knees with his teeth.
  He swore that she had the loveliest pair of legs he had ever laid eyes on. 
He wanted to strip them of clothing. and admire them for hours.  He wanted to
spread them wide.  He wanted to hold on to her calves, fold her legs over his
shoulder, and lick her pussy until she begged for mercy.
   Phyllis sensed that she was being stared at.  She looked up from her notes
and was surprised to see the President of the United States looking directly at
her legs.  He had a lecherous expression on his face and his eyes were dilated
with the tell-tale signs of primal passion.
   Out of habit, she squeezed her legs more tightly together in an attempt to
protect her inner thighs, and more importantly, her pussy.
  She cleared her throat.  "Are you ready to begin the interview, Mister
President?"
  "Oh yea!". he replied.  He was ready to begin all right.  He was ready to
begin stripping her, spreading her wide, and fucking her for the next
fortnight.  If there hadn't been others present in the studio, he might very
well have commenced his carnal designs right then and there.  "Yes, ma'am, I'm
ready," he said.
  "Very well.  Let's begin." Phyllis looked at her clipboard for a second and
then asked, "So Mister President, what is your stand on foreign policy?"
  Bill didn't bother to look up from her legs.  He kept his pupils fixed on the
womanly wedge formed at the juncture of her thighs.  That lovely vee was his
destiny.  That region of prime womanly real estate was his goal.  Until he
scored that goal he wouldn't be satisfied.  Getting Phyllis into the sack now
became an all-consuming passion.
  Several Secret Service agents standing around knew that the President's
libido was getting out of control again.  They had seen it happen time and time
again.  Anytime there was an extraordinarily lovely woman in his presence, the
President would get a hard-on.  They could always tell because he would start
to move his hips in a flagrant imitation of intercourse.  In fact, he was
beginning to do that now.  Thankfully, the young reporter didn't see anything
awry with his pelvic movements as of yet. Apparently she was too enthralled
with being in the presence of the President of the United States.
  However she did think that something was awry with Bill, for he had failed to
respond to her question.  She was also disturbed by the fact he had neglected
to look at her face.  He was still staring at the folds of her skirt that
defined her crotch.  She pressed her legs together that much more tightly,
effectively sealing her pussy away.
  Phyllis was dismayed that he wasn't answering. In fact, he was behaving as if
he hadn't heard the question.  She cleared her throat and decided to try 
again.  "Mister President!  Your stand on foreign policy --what is it?"
  He continued to stare at her crotch.  He was wondering how deep it was.  He
bet that she had a deep one.  All passionate women had deep cunts. He also
wondered how much pubic hair she had down there.  Was there a lot, or just a
little? Did she trim it?  What color was it? He was also attempting to figure
out if she were tight or not.  He bet that she was because she seemed so
modest.  Modest women were usually more virginal.
  He smacked his lips.  He loved tight pussy.  He often said that if he were
stranded on a tropical isle, the only thing he would want would be a beautiful
woman with a tight pussy who knew how to cook fish.  He could live out the rest
of his life contentedly.
  Once more Phyllis was flustered by his lack of response to her question.  The
man was still staring at her crotch.  He wasn't even attempting to hide the
fact that he was gawking like a lecher, nor where he was staring.
  She looked down at the juncture of her legs.  She wondered if perhaps there
was something wrong with her snug fitting skirt.  Perhaps she had spilled some
coffee, or maybe there was a spaghetti stain on her lap.  When she realized
there wasn't any food stains or discoloration evident on her garment, she
looked back at him.  His eyes were still fixed on her midsection.  His pupils
were literally drilling into her and stripping her of her clothes.
  She realized that she couldn't squeeze her thighs together any tighter, so
she swiveled the chair a little to side so he wouldn't have a direct view of
her crotch.
 The President didn't mind the fact that she swiveled around in her chair. 
Ironically the position she assumed was that much more sensual than the
previous one.  It allowed him to feast on her magnificent body that much more
and appreciate it from a different angle.
  Phyllis cleared her throat and once more said,  "Mister President, if I may
please have your attention."
  "Oh you have my attention, all right.  You've had my attention ever since I
walked into the studio, you exceedingly lovely female."
  She blinked.  The President of the United States seemed to be bantering with
her in a sexual manner.
  She couldn't believe it!
  She had never felt so much like a sex object in her life!  Not since Senator
Packwood had stopped by for an interview and during a commercial break had
reached up under her skirt.
  "Mister President!" Phyllis exclaimed in an exasperated tone of voice.  The
young reporter could feel the color rising to her face.  "What is your foreign
policy?" she stammered.
 Bill finally answered her.  "I think that all women have rights.  Everywhere. 
In every country on the globe.  I think that each and every woman should have
the right to vote for whom she believes in.  Women should not be denied the
vote on the basis of gender.  Furthermore, I firmly believe that all women have
an unequivocal right to abortions on demand. It's utter nonsense to  a child
into the world which is not wanted.  And in regards to freedom of expression,
women should be allowed to go topless, or bottomless, anywhere they
choose-anytime of day they choose.  Nude beaches are perfectly natural.  Nude
boulevards in certain sections of our cites should be equally acceptable. 
Equal rights for all - that's what I say."
 Phyllis looked at him with a mixture of confusion and concern.  She was
surprised that the President wasn't answering her question.  Indeed, he wasn't
even on the same subject matter!  He was blubbering nonsense about women's
rights and nudie beaches.
   Quickly she interrupted.  "Mister President.  I asked you about your views
on foreign policy, not about your views on women."
 Immediately he ceased blubbering and became apologetic.  "Oh, I'm sorry.  I
guess I got carried away."
  "That's all right.  We'll begin again."
  "Thank you," he replied, feigning remorse that he had ruined her
pre-interview.  "I was looking at you and thinking of how beautiful you were. 
You have such a pretty face.  It's so expressive.  And your  eyes.  They
radiate warmth.  I don't think I've every seen a woman as sensual as you." He
was using his old ploy.  Whenever a pretty reporter asked about anything, he
would launch into his women's rights routine.  That was his way of breaking the
ice and redirecting the conversation back to her.  It never failed to earn him
brownie points.  And if a man built up enough brownie points, he got to score.
   Phyllis listened to his apology and his explanation  of why he had lost
track of the subject matter.  She blushed.  She immediately came to the
conclusion that Bill Clinton wasn't like the other politicians she had known. 
He wasn't afraid of making a few comments about her looks while in the middle
of a television studio.  Most modem politicians were  more circumspect in their
conversations with female reporters.  Nowadays they were scared shitless of
sexual harassment lawsuits.
  Naturally, like all women, Phyllis liked to be complimented about her
attractive appearance.  She  was proud of her looks.  She had a very nice body
and very pretty features.  She supposed that was why she chose to enter
television news.  If she had been born in the 1930s, she would have travelled
to Hollywood and become an actress.  But she was living in the 1990s. 
Nowadays, beautiful women attempted to make it in the glamorous world of news. 
A woman didn't have to have a brain to be selected as an on-the-air
personality, she simply had to took pretty and have an outstanding hair
stylist.
  "My my my!" exclaimed Bill.  "I just love looking at your eyes.  They're so
blue, and so pretty. I feel as if I could swim in them.  Really, I do." 
Actually, Bill had spent very little time gazing at her eyes.  He had occupied
himself with her body. As far as he was concerned, she might have a face like a
wombat-he wouldn't care.  He would simply put a bag over her head when fucking
her.
  But Phyllis had a body which was second to none. The fact that she had a
pretty face was an added bonus.  "Your entire face is gorgeous."
  Phyllis looked around her nervously.  She had been a reporter for several
years now, but this was the first time anyone famous had made such comments
about her appearance.  Keeping her voice low she said, "Mister President, I
appreciate the compliments, but I don't think you should be saying these things
to me."
  "Why?" he asked as he scooted his chair around so that it was closer to hers.
  "Because we're in a television studio.  Someone  might overhear.  I wouldn't
want you to be quoted out of context." She was becoming increasingly nervous
the closer he got. His armrest abutted hers.  He leaned forward a bit.  He
fixed his voice at a husky tone.  "Perhaps we should conduct the interview in
your dressing room?  Then no one will hear us."
  She blushed.  During her three years in television, she had yet to interview
someone in her dressing room.  Things like that weren't done in the modern era.
 It was positively indecent of him to-suggest such a thing.
  He noted the blush of her cheeks.  He found that heightened her sensual
appeal.  He had long had a particular fondness for women who blushed.  On
numerous occasions, he had found that blushing women were more passionate in
the sack.  He wondered if the attractive reporter blushed like that when she
was getting fucked?  He bet she did.  She looked like the sweet and innocent
type who still retained her modesty when getting reamed by a giant pecker.
	And nature had given Bill a giant pecker.  He took it as his mandate
to use it as much and as often on as many women as possible.  At this moment
only his tight shorts kept all eight inches of it from tenting the crotch of
his slacks obscenely.
  He loved her blush. He couldn't help wonder how far down that blush extended
on her lush body.  For example, did her breasts display color as well?  The
tits of some women did; the tits of others didn't.
 He would like to know to which group of women she belonged.  Perhaps she was a
member of that select group whose tits flushed entirely.
 He decided that the time had come to get to know the pretty reporter better. 
Much better.  Much much better.
  "Tell me, are you married?" he asked with the bright beaming smile which was
his political trademark.  He might be a dunce on foreign affairs, and he might
be ineffective on domestic policy, but he was a sure-fire winner in front of
television cameras and with one-on-one interviews.
  The question seemed to unnerve Phyllis.  The blush deepened considerably on
her cheeks, making her appear that much more attractive to him.  He  wondered
if the blush deepened on her tits as well.

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