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Message-ID: <56990asstr$1197346201@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: gruffkindly <gruffkindly@gmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} The Presidential Pussy
Lines: 575
Date: Mon, 10 Dec 2007 23:10:01 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d




I've tried reading the various instructions on how to do all this but  
confess I end up more confused than enlightened. Even so, I've tried  
to follow those instructions I thought I understood.

This is one chapter from my unpublished 109-chapter book titled "My  
Life in Bed and Other Places."


.

<1st attachment, "Presidential Pussy.doc" begin>

The Presidential Pussy - by GruffKindly - You may even recognize
me from the nightly TV news! I adore sex, particularly with
powerful men (and sometimes powerful women) and when I want
something I almost always get it. Even if that something is the
most powerful man in the world, the president of the United
States (MF).

After six months of entirely forgettable affairs with forgettable
men and the occasional forgettable woman, too many too-quick
young guys picked up in beery sports bars and too many news
conferences starring self-important power brokers sucking
cynically 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 - the White House is
arguably the best assignment any journalist from anywhere ever
gets.
So I go 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 roughly where Canada is. 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 good
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 44) is so small and transparent that it's really only
decoration. 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 heavy breasts inside their wispy,
black, demi-cut flower-lace bra billowing back at me just like
they're supposed to. I can even see one perky dark pink nipple
through the bra. Three hours for a facial, manicure, pedicure 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 look blas and sophisticated in the warm summer
sun when I show my pass at the White House gate and saunter past
the guards and up the drive. But blas isn'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.
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 to take centre stage. Colleagues let her
through the pack 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 looking pissed-off as
always, scribbling notes into a blue stenographer's pad. 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 get him in the sack within my first
week. From 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
some 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 newsrooms much more than saving the world
from war and disease and famine and poverty. As he talks I make a
note: "he has an attractive and contagious ability to project
optimism. Everything's going to work out great. But there's
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 and try to think of
a reasonable question. Something that won't make me look too
stupid.
He 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 try 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. 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 and
lingering 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 trying to look professionally
nonchalant and at home with the White House as my backdrop. 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 the door for the White House canteen.  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. "Please come with me, miss" he
says firmly. He takes my elbow in a very strong hand.
"Where ... where to?"
"Please miss ... just come with me ..."
I decide 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 up on me and
found out that 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! In handcuffs and leg irons!
I break out in a cold sweat as I follow Sunglasses along endless
White House corridors - past flunky after flunky, all wearing the
same unremarkable dark blue suits and that servile-important look
flunkies put on 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 m'am. No problem." He leaves without looking back. 
The woman examines me as if she's measuring me 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 read. I glance around the office. Only
portraits of silly old men glowering from the walls and the grey
woman 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 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 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.
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 Theodore 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 which kills hundreds of
thousands of Japanese civilians.  Where John Kennedy stares down
the Russians, starts the Viet Nam war and screws the lovely
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 he doesn't know who or
where he is. 
Holy thunderin' 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 all 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 quite necessary to read the words on the pass. I
feel considerably better. He's a man who likes breasts. I
understand men who like 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 I 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, Lydon Johnson, who said that
pantyhose ruined finger-fucking). Still standing, the present
American president studies my legs. Thank god I shaved this
morning. I shift on the couch to give him a better view. "Do you
meet all the White House correspondents on their first day,
sir?"
"I try to." He realizes that's not believable and grins like a
small boy caught stealing candy. "To tell the truth, only the
really good-looking ones. Particularly 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 little 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 lonely sometimes."
I realize 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 thigh, 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. 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
thigh. "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
or two. "Like maybe kiss the President of the United States ..."

"Why 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, leaves the breast, runs down my belly to my knee. He
works fast. I guess he has a busy schedule.
Still kissing me, his hand slides up my skirt, past my stocking
top. I lift my buttocks so he can pull my thong down. The hand
goes to my pussy. A finger slips easily inside me. I shudder,
sigh encouragement. He groans. I groan back.
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 ... 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 hold onto his zip. 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. "Whoever it is can wait. I can't."
"Call me Bill ... I have to answer it ... it's the yellow phone.
Please let go er ... er ..."
"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. 
"Bill ..." 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. 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. Nobody
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 still 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 the gesture, take the cock in one
hand, put out my tongue, slowly lick the cock all the way from
its 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 unhook my bra, 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 be of use 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.
"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,
very slowly I 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 the 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 and 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 ... if 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. I ignore
them, but I really don't mind. Always better to be notorious than
ignored.
I sit in the Oval Office reception room 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 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 panties, push me onto hands and knees in the middle
of the Oval Office and mount me doggy-style. 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. 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 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 don't always remember 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 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 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.

******************************

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 ... do
I have to?" 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, snowy day in the Washington winter the
network's real White House correspondent comes back to work,
proudly carrying her new baby in a white, woolen shawl. 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 who's a lot younger than me. Apparently
she, too, has big breasts, does great blowjobs and likes blue
denim dresses. 
I never taste The Power again.

_____________________________

5.204 words

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My favourite sex web site is Kristen's Archives.

Gruff But Kindly
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