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Presidential Pussy
by NaughtySamantha (samanthachadborn@gmail.com)

***

I don't take rejection from anyone, even the most 
powerful man in the world. I'm neither a recovering 
nymphomaniac nor an amateur easy-after-a-few-drinks-
take-me-home-and-have-your-nasty-way-with-me 
nymphomaniac. I'm an ardent, unabashed, full-fledged, 
let-it-all-hang-out, celebrating, practicing, sucking, 
fucking, raging, roaring, whoring nymphomaniac. (MF, 
exh, mast)

***

After six months of entirely forgettable affairs with 
forgettable men and the occasional forgettable women, 
too many too-quick young guys picked up in beery sports 
bars and too many news conferences starring self-
important power brokers cynically sucking at the public 
tit, I'm bored.

So when our network correspondent assigned to 
Washington D.C. and the White House gets pregnant and 
the newsroom suggests I replace her while she whelps, 
I'm more than ready.

Most political reporters dread covering the US Congress 
and Senate (to say nothing of the various congressional 
committees and sub-committees and sub-sub-committees) 
because they're incredibly boring and filled with 
pompous rich white men who strut and drone and steal 
and seldom think.

The White House is another matter. The White House is 
where Americans keep The Power. Apart from covering a 
war — which I have absolutely no desire to do on 
account of wars are dirty and noisy and smelly and I 
might get hurt and I'm not into pain — the White House 
is arguably the best assignment any journalist from 
anywhere ever gets.

So I fly to Washington.

On my first day I apply for White House credentials. As 
a Canadian alien, I have to swear that I'm not a 
convicted felon, am not now and never have been a 
member of the Communist Party and have no intention of 
assassinating the President of the United States. I do 
so swear.

While I wait for my White House credentials to be 
approved, I fill my time doing stories about the 
handful of American congressmen and senators who come 
from along the Canada-US. border so actually know where 
Canada is. Roughly, anyway. To my surprise, the network 
runs a couple of the stories. I'm duly thankful for the 
dog days of August.

My White House credentials come through. So, like any 
top foreign correspondent, I prepare thoroughly and 
professionally for the biggest assignment of my life.

I go shopping.

I want everything new and everything perfect. First a 
flattering, tight-waisted, blue denim dress from The 
Gap, cut wide and loose at the top with a deep V, 
showing a reasonable amount of cleavage, promising 
more. Outrageous Versace kiss-me-fuck-me slingbacks 
remind me of my hotel hooker days. A wispy black, demi-
cut flower-lace bra, hooked in front (not easily found 
in size 42 G) is so small and transparent that it's 
really only decoration. Luckily, even though my breasts 
are so big, they're still reasonably high and can get 
away without much support. The panties are just a black 
lace thong, uncomfortable but very sexy. Finally the 
sheerest black fishnet stockings I can find and a black 
lace garter belt. Nobody in the White House is likely 
to see any of this sexy underwear I suppose, but a girl 
needs to feel her best if she's going to do her best.

I admire myself in the store mirror. This is power 
dressing. I lean forward and the jacket gapes open just 
like it's supposed to and there are my gorgeous breasts 
inside their wispy, black, demi-cut flower-lace bra 
billowing back at me just like they're supposed to. I 
can just see one perky dark pink nipple through the 
bra. 

Four hours for a facial, manicure, pedicure, Brazilian 
wax (very painful) and massage and an hour at the 
hairdresser and I'm ready to storm America's White 
House.

The place where they keep The Power.

***

I do my best to seem blasι and sophisticated when I 
show my pass at the White House gate and saunter in the 
hot summer sun past the guards and up the drive. But 
blasι and sophisticated aren't easy in this place. 
There's an awful lot of The Power around. You smell it 
in a cloud around the cold-eyed guards, taste it in the 
flags, see it in the stately 200-year-old mansion, the 
oldest public building in Washington. It's male power. 
Raw and sensual. It makes me sweat lightly. I like it, 
feel very much at home. Power places are me. 
Particularly male power places.

I'm in the press room chatting, drinking coffee with my 
crew, when the signal comes. Trying to look like an old 
hand at the game, I grab the tripod (reporters can 
carry crude stuff like tripods and lights but aren't 
considered qualified to touch the camera or sound 
gear), follow the cameraman and soundman and troop out 
to the Rose Garden with the other correspondents and 
crews. Once there, we ladies and gentlemen of the Press 
are herded behind velvet ropes, presumably in case one 
of us gets crazier than usual and does try to 
assassinate the President of the United States.

Dean of the press corps Helen Thomas, who must be close 
to her century by now, arrives. Colleagues let her 
through the pack to the front as if she's the Queen. 
Dan Rather, intense, fierce, like an attack dog hungry 
for meat, pushes his way to the front looking as if the 
fate of the world is in his hands. Sam Donaldson stands 
to one side by himself, pissed-off as always, 
scribbling notes into a reporter's notebook. Fellow 
Canadian Peter Jennings chats up an eager young 
reporter in a tight black dress. I smile hopefully at 
him but he doesn't see me. I make a mental note to make 
him my new best friend as soon as possible. Considering 
his reputation, it should be easy.

Enter The Power.

The most powerful man in all the world leads a group of 
flunkies out of the White House, along the veranda, 
down the steps and ambles across the lawn towards us. 
He's the sort of man who ambles where others walk. He 
stops behind a lectern set up on the grass a few feet 
away. He's taller than I expect with curly salt-and-
pepper hair. And cuter. He has light blue eyes and what 
looks like an interesting body under an expensive 
English-cut grey suit.

The President of the United States reads words about 
some new U.S. governmental initiative that will save 
the world from war and disease and famine and poverty 
and all the reporters wait for him to finish reading so 
they can question him about subjects that interest 
their editors much more than saving the world from war 
and disease and famine and poverty. As he talks I make 
a note: "Has attractive, contagious ability to project 
optimism. Believes everything's going to work out 
great. But something dangerous about his optimism. 
Could be self-delusion. Could get an ambitious man into 
all sorts of trouble".

The most powerful man in the world finishes reading and 
asks for questions. All the correspondents raise their 
hands. I don't want to look like an amateur, so I put 
up my hand, push out my chest and try to think of a 
reasonable question. Something that won't make me look 
too stupid.

The president ignores me, chooses the male reporter 
standing next to me instead. I'm not used to men 
ignoring me. Certainly not for other men. When he 
finishes his answer I put my hand up again. He ignores 
me again. He does seems to glance in my direction a 
couple of times and when he does I smile and pull my 
shoulders back and push my chest out as far as it will 
go. The second time he looks, I'm pretty sure he 
notices my chest. But he still doesn't call on me to 
ask a question. This goes on for some ten minutes. Just 
as I'm about to give up, he points to me. "Last 
question... lady in the blue dress..."

I don't remember the question — I don't even remember 
the subject except that it was about Canada-US. 
relations (what else is there that really matters in 
the world?) — but I do remember him saying he doesn't 
have the answer and will "gladly ask somebody to get it 
for you, m'am."

And I do remember the President of all the United 
States, the most powerful man in the world, staring 
directly into my eyes for a moment then lingering much 
longer than is strictly necessary on my chest before 
turning and carrying The Power with him back into the 
White House.

***

I do my on-camera standupper with the White House as 
backdrop, trying to look as if I hang around here every 
day. I end by warning Canada "the Americans have 
started this sort of crusade to save the world 
before... many times in fact. This is an election year 
so it's likely just domestic politics. But with all the 
American money and all the American power, it's just 
possible that something positive could come of it. Then 
again... (shrug) it is an election year." I sign off.

The cameraman plays it back. Suddenly remembering that 
Arabs — particularly Arab Muslims — don't feel quite 
the same admiration for The Crusades as Christians do, 
and for excellent reason, I re-shoot, substituting 
"campaign" for "crusade." It isn't as strong but it's a 
lot safer. I call a wrap and join the other 
correspondents strolling back to the press room.

I paper-cut the story for the editor, record the voice-
over narration and head out for the White House 
canteen. At the door I'm stopped by a tall, lean man 
with close-cropped hair wearing an unremarkable dark 
blue suit and mirrored sunglasses. Sunglasses reads my 
name on the press pass all White House correspondents 
wear strung around their necks. "We've been looking for 
you, miss. Please come with me" he says firmly. He 
takes my elbow in a very strong hand.

"Where... where to?"

"Please miss... just come with me..."

Seems I'm under arrest. But surely asking a question of 
the President of the United States isn't due cause for 
arrest. Not even at the White House. Not even if the 
question is about Canada and the questioner is an alien 
Canadian. Not even if it isn't a very good question. I 
try to remember which laws I've broken recently. A 
little marijuana of course, occasional coke, some 
unpaid parking tickets for my Miata — nothing more 
serious that I can remember. Maybe it's something to do 
with my work permit.

Oh jesus, the work permit! What if they've checked on 
me and discovered I was a $50 hooker only a couple of 
years ago? I'm ruined, just as my career was getting 
somewhere! Maybe they'll extradite me! Handcuffs, leg 
irons, ignominy!

I break out in a cold sweat as I follow Sunglasses 
along endless White House corridors — past flunky after 
flunky, all wearing versions of the same unremarkable 
dark blue suits and that servile-important look 
flunkies wear when they've sold their souls to somebody 
powerful — until we reach a large reception room. A 
grey woman in a grey suit sits behind a desk typing.

She glances up when I follow Sunglasses into the room. 
"Thank you..." she says to him dismissively.

"Yes ma'am. No problem." He leaves without looking 
back.

The woman examines me as if she's measuring my body for 
a new dress. "Please sit down" she says greyly. "It's 
about your question. He won't be long..." She goes back 
to typing. I sit, try to remember the question. I 
can't.

There's nothing for me to do so I examine portraits of 
silly old men glowering from the walls and watch the 
grey woman ignoring me from behind her desk. After 
maybe two minutes she gets a signal I can't see or 
hear. She looks up from her typing. "He'll see you 
now..." She gestures toward a discreet door behind her.

I'm confused. "Who? Who will see me now? Someone to 
answer my question?"

"He will. Don't keep him waiting." She watches me walk 
to the door with a curiously sad expression on her grey 
face.

***

Two long couches face each other in the centre of the 
huge room like political opponents. Chairs covered in 
some sort of regency stripe form a circle to one side. 
A weirdly smiling portrait of George Washington hangs 
over a fireplace. Busts of Harry Truman and Franklin 
Roosevelt stare disapprovingly at me.

At the far end of the room, blue and gold curtains hang 
at a window framing the trees, lawns and flower beds of 
the Rose Garden. The Stars and Stripes drape 
importantly on one side of a huge carved wooden desk. A 
man sits writing something behind the desk. Family 
pictures line up on a table behind him.

Then it hits me. This is the Oval Office. I'm really in 
the Oval Office. This is where Abraham Lincoln fights 
to keep the Union. Where Franklin Roosevelt saves the 
world from the Great Depression and, eventually, some 
of the horrors of Hitler. Where Harry Truman decides to 
drop the A-Bomb and kill hundreds of thousands of 
Japanese civilians. Where John Kennedy stares down the 
Russians, starts the Viet Nam war and screws the 
gorgeous Marilyn Monroe. Where Richard Nixon plots and 
schemes his nasty little plots and schemes. Where 
Ronald Reagan gives the finest performance of his 
acting career even if, at the end, he doesn't know who 
or where he is.

Great t'underin' jesus, I'm in the Oval Office in the 
White House. The very centre of The Power. And the man 
behind the desk is the President of all the United 
States, the most powerful man in the world.

***

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. He's even bigger than he 
was in the Rose Garden. And a lot handsomer, although 
there's greying at his temples and lines starting 
around his eyes.

"Thank you so much for coming" says the President of 
all the United States. "You want an answer to your 
question?"

For a moment I don't know what he's talking about. What 
question? Who cares? I'm overwhelmed. I'm alone in the 
Oval Office with the President of the United States. 
"That's very kind of you, Mr. President." We shake 
hands. His hand is strong. His fingers linger.

"I don't think we've met before." Still holding my hand 
he reads the press card hanging low down my chest. "Hi 
Samantha..." 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. Maybe even glimpse a nipple. He admires a 
lot longer than is really necessary to read the words 
on the pass. I feel considerably better. He's a man who 
likes fine breasts. I understand men who like fine 
breasts.

The President of the United States smiles a dazzling, 
friendly smile, lets go of my hand, gestures me to the 
deep, leathered couch. "My secretary will give you the 
answer to your question on the way out. You're new here 
and I just wanted to meet you. I noticed you at the 
news conference."

I sit and smile demurely. "I'm glad you did." I cross 
my legs, let my skirt ride halfway up my thighs. "It's 
very kind of you Mr. President." I decide I have 
nothing to lose so slide the skirt a little higher, 
right up to the darker stocking top. I'm glad I'm 
wearing stockings and not pantyhose. Stocking tops and 
garter-belts are so much sexier than pantyhose. (It was 
the thirty-sixth American president, Lyndon Johnson, 
who claimed that pantyhose ruined finger-fucking. He 
was right on that). Still standing, the current 
American president studies my legs. Thank god for the 
Brazilian wax. I shift on the couch to give him a 
better view. "Do you meet all the White House 
correspondents on their first day, Mr. President?"

"I try to." He realizes that's not believable and grins 
like a small boy caught stealing candy. "To tell the 
truth, only the good-looking ones." He corrects 
himself. "The female good-looking ones." He takes his 
eyes off my legs, sits on the couch next to me. "This 
your first time in the White House, Samantha?"

"My friends call me Sam." I blather. "Yes, Mr. 
President. We don't have a White House in Canada... 
only a street address. Sixty-four Sussex Drive. We're a 
bit different." I giggle inanely. Immediately I'm 
embarrassed. 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 know... I've dined 
there. With that French guy who hardly speaks English. 
Cretin, or something similar... funny name. Pretty good 
Canadian wine though... great oysters... but the moose 
was a bit tough." He changes the subject. "So how do 
you like it? The White House, I mean."

"It's a lot bigger than where I live"

He grins again. He has a very nice grin. "It's so big 
it can get real lonesome sometimes."

This could be a cue. If it is, he's moving fast. I like 
speed so I take a chance. "But you've got all these 
flunkies around to do your every whim. Anything you 
want... just anything... any time you want it..."

The President of the United States rests a large 
presidential hand on my leg, just above my knee. "Never 
want anything too much... you might get it" he quotes 
ruefully.

I know this dance. I've danced it myself. Lots of 
times. I gaze into his eyes. He doesn't look away. His 
pupils are wide, dilated. I know the symptoms. I've 
made a lot of money out of knowing the symptoms. The 
President of the United States is horny. "I'll try and 
remember." Casually I put my small hand on top of the 
large hand on my leg. "But what if I really, really 
want something and I'm prepared to pay... whatever 
price?" I squeeze the presidential hand. Just a little.

"Like what, Samantha?"

"Call me Sam. All my friends do." 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. Possibly even a nipple. "Like maybe kiss the 
President of the United States..."

"Whoa honey... you saucy hussy you..." he laughs. It's 
a gentle, rolling laugh. It fits the dance. His eyes 
flicker back to my breasts. When he looks up I hold his 
gaze to show I know exactly what he's thinking, 
provocatively run my tongue around my lips. He 
hesitates. I'm not used to men hesitating when I offer 
to kiss them.

I lean forward, put one hand behind his head, pull him 
down to me. He stiffens for a moment, grasps the idea 
and bends. His lips touch mine. His tongue slips 
between my lips. I savour his taste. Still kissing him, 
I undo the top buttons on my dress, take a presidential 
hand and guide it inside. He groans, pushes me back on 
the couch, half under him. He smells of man and power 
and really expensive cologne. One hand cups a breast, 
fingers the nipple through the lace, leaves the breast, 
runs down my belly to my knee. He works fast. I guess 
he has a busy schedule.

His tongue pushes deeper into my mouth. His hand slides 
up my skirt, past my stocking top. I lift my buttocks 
so he can pull my thong down to my knees. The hand goes 
to my pussy. A finger slips inside. Lucky I lubricate 
so easy. I shudder, sigh encouragement. He groans. I 
groan back.

"Oh Mr. President..." I whisper. "I like that..."

A telephone rings. "Fuck..." says the President of the 
United States. For a moment I wonder if it's a crude, 
unpresidential order.

I reach for the presidential zipper. "Don't answer it, 
Mr. President... it can wait."

"No, no... I have to..." He pulls his hand out from 
under my skirt and sits up. I feel cold, lonely, 
exposed, silly. Such a good start. Suddenly 
everything's going so wrong. The timing is awful. He 
tries to get up but I grab his groin. The telephone 
rings again.

"Ignore it, Mr. President." I pull down the zip, fumble 
inside his trousers for the presidential cock, find it 
half-erect, pull it out. It hardens immediately. 
"Whoever it is can wait. I can't."

"I have to answer it... it's the yellow phone. Please 
let go err... err..."

"Sam..."

"Sam." He struggles to get away without any serious 
damage. "Please honey... I don't mean to be rude..."

"Ok... you can answer it but..." I pretend to be the 
kidnapper negotiating ransom in a thousand movies. "No 
tricks, Mr. President. We know where you live..." I let 
go of his cock.

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 erect cock swaying 
in front of him. I step out of the thong, toss it on 
the couch and follow. He sits down behind the desk, 
picks up the phone. "Yes?" he asks and "oh jesus..." 
and "put him on... I'll wait."

He waves me away imperiously, gestures towards the 
door. No man dismisses me. Not even the most powerful 
man in the world. I try to sit on his lap. He pushes me 
off. I go around the desk to the front, get down on 
hands and knees and crawl under. I kneel between the 
presidential legs right in front of the presidential 
cock thrusting out of the presidential trousers.

The rumours are true. Now that it's fully erect, the 
presidential cock is bent half-way along. To the left, 
if you must know. Other than that, it's a fine example 
of a rampant, rigid medium-to-large, mid-West, middle-
aged male sexual organ. It would look really great with 
a yo-yo hanging from it.

"Hello Mr. President... how are you, Saddam?"

***

"Yes Saddam... of course, Saddam... and may your tribe 
live forever too..." A presidential hand tries to push 
me away from the presidential cock. I ignore it, take 
the cock in one hand, slowly lick the cock all the way 
from its hanging scrotum, up its bent length to its 
throbbing head. It tastes like power.

"And I wish the same for your camels..." I lick the 
presidential cock from its head, down all its bent 
length back to its scrotum.

"God is indeed great, Saddam..." I undo the rest of the 
buttons on my dress, pull it down to my waist. I unhook 
my bra strap, take the presidential cock in one hand 
and slide its head between the valley of my breasts. It 
leaves a thin, shiny, slippery trail.

"And my salutations to your distinguished family..." I 
take one presidential ball in my mouth and flick it 
with my tongue. Then the other presidential ball. I 
bite very gently.

"It is my privilege to speak to you, Saddam..." I rub 
the presidential cockhead around my nipples.

"Well, we think you do have nuclear missiles, Saddam... 
and we're very worried about it..." I take the 
presidential cock and slide it between my tongue and 
the roof of my mouth. I suck gently.

"But Saddam... it's ok for us to have the missiles 
because... well, because we've proved to be responsible 
and not use them. Except, of course, on the Japs. But 
that was a long time ago and we had to save the lives 
of fine American boys..."

Very slowly I lower my head and slide the presidential 
cock into my throat.

"What do you mean Mr. President... 'what's the use of 
having them if you don't use them?'" I dive deeper, 
contract and expand my throat muscles around the 
presidential cockhead.

"But Saddam... not everyone can have nuclear 
capability... it's just too dangerous... you could blow 
up the entire goddam world..." The President of the 
United States grabs the back of my hair. He pleads 
desperately "Saddam... please hold on... an 
emergency... I'll be right back..."

At this exact moment the presidential cum explodes like 
Vesuvius deep down in my throat.

***

I walk back to the Press Room with the salty taste of 
the presidential cum strong in my mouth. I call the 
newsroom in Toronto to try to sell the Rose Garden 
story. The editor isn't interested. "So what's new?" he 
asks. "That's what all presidents say" he complains. 
"Check out that rumour about the nympho intern" he 
suggests and laughs. "Apparently she's pretty kinky."

I never do send the network the story about the 
President of the United States and his new American 
initiative that will save the world from war and 
disease and famine and poverty. And last time I look, 
war, disease, famine and poverty continue on their 
unmerry way just as if a President of the United States 
has never promised to eliminate them.

***

The White House is obsessed with power and sex and just 
about everyone working here screws somebody they're not 
supposed to. Even so, it's not easy being the newest 
presidential pussy. For one thing, there are no secrets 
in the White House. For another, I never know when the 
President will want to play with his new pussy.

I'll be sitting in the press room researching or 
writing a script when the phone rings and the grey 
woman's voice says "the President would like to see 
you... when you're free..."

The more cynical of my colleagues smile knowingly when 
I run out the Press Room in the direction of the Oval 
Office as soon as I can get away. I ignore the smiles, 
but I really don't mind. Always better to be notorious 
than ignored.

I sit in the Oval Office reception room with my 
reporter's notebook open on my lap trying to look as 
journalistically professional as possible under the 
circumstances until the grey woman tells me sadly "the 
President is ready for you now." I thank her, open the 
door and there's the President of the United States 
waiting impatiently for me to get his presidential 
rocks off.

***

Sometimes the most powerful man in the world is a 
little kinky. 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. 
His answer is to reach up my skirt, pull down my thong, 
push me onto hands and knees in the middle of the Oval 
Office and mount me doggy-style.

While he's fucking he explains that underneath me — 
only inches below my swaying breasts in fact — is an 
eagle clutching arrows in one claw, olive branches in 
the other. 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. "It means make peace, not 
war" he says. The thought so excites him that he cums 
right then.

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.

Like the time he hands out awards to a gaggle of Boy 
Scouts covered in badges, knotted scarves and cute 
little khaki shorts. 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 sometimes forget to keep 
my legs crossed. The Scouts can't take their eyes off 
my shaved pussy. I smile sweetly throughout the 
ceremony and wonder what the hell the kids tell their 
parents.

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 and highly illegal Cuban cigar in and out of my 
pussy.

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.

So the President of the United States can be a bit 
kinky. But what if I'm not just getting the world's 
most powerful rocks off? What if I'm making him feel so 
good that he decides not to raise taxes or get really, 
really mad and drop bombs on people he doesn't like? 
What if, by my selfless Canadian actions, I'm actually 
helping poor people and saving millions of innocent 
lives around the world? All at the same time? What if 
I'm performing a vital and noble public service by 
sacrificing my extremely dubious virtue for the greater 
good of the world's peoples? 

I decide I deserve the Nobel Peace Prize and wonder 
what I'll wear at the ceremony.

***

The President of the United States is a busy man. He 
doesn't have time for foreplay.

"Hi Sam... how are you?"

"Fine... thanks Mr. President. And you?"

"Bill... "

Even after everything we've shared together, I still 
can't call the President of the United States "Bill". 
After all, I'm Canadian. I'm respectful. "Yes, Mr. 
President."

He shrugs, reaches for the presidential zipper. "We 
don't have much time. The Prime Minister of Canada... 
your prime minister... is here soon."

I can take a cue. "Give him my love, Mr. President." It 
doesn't take long to get out of my dress, bra and 
panties, kneel between the presidential legs behind the 
presidential desk and suck the presidential cock until 
it cums. I let some of the presidential cum dribble 
down my chin for just a moment before I lick it off and 
swallow. Its former owner smiles proudly down at me.

"Thank you Sam. That was real nice."

"Thank you, Mr. President."

"Bill..."

"Yes, Mr. President..."

I stand up, start dressing. The President of the United 
States puts the presidential cock back inside the 
presidential pants, pulls up the presidential zipper 
and picks up the presidential phone. "Bring the Prime 
Minister in. What's his name again... and is he the 
same one who hardly speaks English? Oh jesus!" The 
President of the United States waves goodbye to me.

I take just enough time pulling on my panties for the 
Prime Minister of Canada to get a quick glimpse of 
genuine Canadian pussy before I drop my skirt and close 
the Oval Office door behind me.



***

And then one dreary, rainy Washington fall day the 
network's real White House correspondent comes back to 
work, proudly carrying her new baby in a pink, woolen 
shawl, burbling that it has to be the most beautiful 
baby any woman ever produced.

So I make one last brief visit to the Oval Office, get 
the presidential rocks off for one last, lingering 
time, pack my bags and fly back to the network in 
Toronto. 

A week after I leave, the President of all the United 
States takes up with an intern a lot younger than me. 
She, too, has huge breasts, gives great blowjobs and 
likes blue denim dresses.

I never taste The Power again.

END

(Presidential Pussy is one chapter in a 109-chapter 
autobiography "Life, Lusts and Loves of Samantha" about 
my fascinating times between the sheets and other 
places. The story is true, except that some of the 
facts have been changed to make it more interesting. 
You can find me at samanthachaborn@gmail.com)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. 4-million people around the world 
contract HIV every year. You only have one body per 
lifetime, so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 55