#scandal

Fucking the President, Mr Fitzgerald Grant comes with a lot of rules. One of which being: you cannot fuck the president, the leader of the free world in the Oval Office. It is forbidden. Not allowed, the one rule you respect enough to follow.

But Fitz doesn’t care about that rule. He doesn’t follow that rule, hell, he doesn’t even acknowledge it as a rule. He’s shoving his hand down your pants up against his desk, circling your clit with his fingers whispering in your ear about how it’s okay, “it’s okay baby, just tell me how bad you want it, no one will see—I promise no one will see us just tell me what you want”

And he’s a liar of course. He doesn’t care who sees you, he wants you to be seen, he wants to be seen with the women making him betray the White House, the leader of the free world, taken over by some good pussy. That’s all it takes, really. And you want to be seen. You want to know you matter, you’re more than a good pussy, he loves you, and you love him, and it shows.

He fucks you good and hard, his legislations under your outstretched palms, crying out over his cock as he drives into you. He’d leak the footage to the press if Cyrus would let him. He loves how pretty you look stupid all over his cock. It’s a crime no one else knows how good you look split open. The American people have never known such a sight—and they never would. He could be greedy like that, the president. The American people could never see you like this, split apart on his cock, drooling from the corners of your mouth, crying out for the president to relieve the ache that settles in your lower belly.

He loves it. Being the only one to make you come undone, the only woman to come apart under him the way that you do. He dreams of the face you make when you come, strokes his cock to the expression etched across your face, every chance he gets, even next to his sleeping wife who is none the wiser—the First Lady, catching the end moaning of the president's late night fantasy of you.

If he’s lucky enough you’ll leave one of your panties, in the light after you’ve scurried away, or before one of the presidents briefing meetings—you’re such a good helper, always looking to help the President prepare for the big speeches.

Doesn’t matter that he had you spread open on his desk in the Oval Office, legs spread apart as he pushes his cock into your warm velvety walls, hips driving into your own, your heels arched as you take whatever the president has to offer. You don’t mean to forget your panties. It’s an accident, honest, but he sees them, and he has to put them in his pocket of course—can’t risk anyone seeing them

He runs his thumb over the wet slit his entire meeting. Sighing as he feels the wet patching you left prior, cock stirring in his slacks as he drives his hips up into the sensation of your panties balled into his pocket.