Yes, Mr. President

I spent the next few days completely dumbstruck. Tessa harped on me for being "distant." I wasn't able to tell her what had thrown me for such a loop, obviously. I just lied and said that things were really hectic at the Senator's office.

I kept thinking about what had happened. As much as I tried to keep myself busy with other things, it kept pushing its way back into the forefront of my mind. I was surprised to discover, to say the least, that I didn't feel upset when thinking about the President pawing at my ass and unloading on my muscular back. If anything, I felt oddly emotionless about the whole thing, like I was in some kind of prolonged state of shell shock.

On Saturday, Tessa tried to let me know she wanted to have sex. She put on her skimpiest lingerie and kept massaging at my thigh while I attempted to read in bed. Looking at her petite body and perfect tits, I logically understood that I should be going from zero to sixty in no time at all. I didn't, though. It was like Iknewshe looked hot as fuck in that moment, but I couldn'tfeelit. In a move I'd only seen housewives do on sitcoms, I told her that I had a headache. We both went to sleep more aware of the developing rift between us.

On Tuesday, I was in the office doing normal intern grunt work. I kept wondering if the President might reach out to me. I told myself that I didn'twanthim to, but I was just nervous that it could happen. I held my breath with each incoming phone call, thinking that the person on the other end might be someone reaching out on his behalf.

Everything reminded me of him. I turned beet red when Senator Whitney asked me to bring a file back to his office. I couldn't help but picture myself bent over the very desk he was sitting at. I practically felt the President's large hands groping at me just thinking about it. Likewise, when I went to grab a tissue to wipe some pen ink off of my fingertips, I was transported back in time to what it had felt like wiping the President's spunk off of my back.

The more I thought about it, the more it consumed me.

I finally realized that something was deeply wrong with me later that day. I was doing research at the request of a senior staff member when I overheard someone mention that the President was in the Senate Office Building. My breathing instantly sped up and became shallower; the fine hairs on my nape stood on end.

When a different colleague later mentioned that the President had just left, I felt myself crash down to reality.Is he upset with me?I wondered.Did I do something wrong?I didn't even judge myself for caring, even though it clearly wasnota normal straight-guy response to being forgotten about by another man.

I pulled up the White House website. I hadn't even intended to, but I still ended up on the President's bio page. I just stared into his headshot's deep blue eyes for a few minutes. I eventually noticed that a rock-hard bulge had formed in my pants, which led to me feeling simultaneously horny and a little ashamed.

I slammed the laptop shut and rushed to the men's bathroom. I took matters into my own hands - literally. I jerked off while trying to just focus on relieving myself, so that my boner wouldn't be a constant distraction. I tried to think about Tessa, but images of the President flooded into my mind. In the end, I shot my load remembering the President's hand grabbing my ass. It inexplicably felt like both a defeat and a victory.

The next day, I arrived at the Senator's office at my usual time. I took my position in the reception area and got to work. I didn't have a companion to chat with, since Tina was scheduled to come in late that day due to a doctor's appointment.

I checked my email to see if there was anything important. There was a message from Peggy Haynes; the name rang a bell, but I couldn't quite place it. When it opened it, I immediately saw the words, "Sent on behalf of President Theodore M. Kelley."

My eyes couldn't read quickly enough; my heart was practically exploding. The President's assistant had written me that I'd been scheduled to attend a meeting at the White House at noon. She said that I needed to check in with the head security officer at the entrance and he'd escort me to the meeting room.

I felt, for lack of a better word, giddy. I knew that it wasn't that Ilike-liked the President, or that I wanted a repeat of what had happened in the Senator's private office, but I still wanted to beregular-liked by him. Basically, I'd gone from worrying that I'd fumbled a huge opportunity that could make my entire future to thinking that everything was possible again.

Tina tried to hide her jealousy when she arrived at ten and I told her that I needed to leave for a meeting at the White House in a little while. She'd sent in her application to be on the Youth Advisory Council, but had only received a polite reply that it had been received. When she asked me about what the lunchtime meeting would entail, I told her it was just a brainstorming session with some of the other members who were in town over the summer.

I followed the same protocol as I had on my prior visit. The taxi stopped at the check-in point and was waved through after the guard verified who I was. Yet again, my jaw fell to the ground as I stepped out of the sedan. There was something about the White House that was just unfathomably majestic.

I expected to have an aide escort me to the designated room when I told the head of security that I was there for a meeting. To my utter surprise, Tommy, the Secret Service agent who'd been working with the President for years, appeared out of nowhere. I realized that I'd never really looked at him before, but maybe it was because he was supposed to blend into the background.

Tommy was a standard-looking white guy in his mid-forties. Even with a suit on, it was clear he was in good shape. He had a shaved head. Unlike on some guys, it didn't look bad on him, but I saw the signs that he was getting out in front of male pattern baldness.

"Come with me, Mr. Randall," Tommy instructed me.

He hadn't even greeted me. I hopped into action, since it seemed like he would have left without me if I'd hesitated. I thought about saying something to break the ice:How long have you been working with the President? Do you have a family? How about this sunny weather?I didn't, though. We walked together in silence.

It was only when we marched through the entrance to the reception area with Peggy sitting at her desk that I realized where we were going. I didn't have enough time for it to hit me; it was happening too fast.

Tommy nodded at Peggy without breaking his stride. I waved at her awkwardly. She shook her head, and I immediately wondered if I'd accidentally slighted her.

Tommy opened the door in front of us and ushered me through. The President was sitting at the office's single, large, stately-looking desk. He was staring intently at a stack of papers; there were gold-framed reading glasses perched on his nose. I'd never seen him wear them before, even in pictures.

"Mr. President," Tommy said, shutting the door behind us. "Per your request, I've escorted Mr. Randall from the South Portico security checkpoint."

The President finally glanced up from his papers. A huge half-cocked grin appeared on his face as he looked right at me. I smiled back at him - dimples in my cheeks on full display. Having his light shine on me felt wonderfully overwhelming. It was like I could combust at any moment.

"Thank you, Tommy," the President said, hopping to his feet. "Did you get a chance to talk with Truett on your walk? Or did you do that 'scary silent thing' you do so well?"

Tommy's flat expression finally changed. A slight smirk appeared on his thin lips.

"I see," the President said. "Well, thank you again for bringing him. Truett has been... helping me out."

Tommy didn't react. My heart was racing faster than a greyhound. It felt like the President was teasing me -- like he was on the verge of saying,"Helping me out by letting me jizz all over his back a few days ago."I kind of expected him to keeping pushing, but he didn't.

"You can go now, Tommy. I don't expect that Truett is going to attempt to assassinate me. Are you, Truett? If so, tell me now and I'll keep Tommy close by."

"I... I..." I mumbled, feeling some need to appease the stern-looking bodyguard.

He just smiled and walked out of the Oval Office. He was obviously far more familiar with the President's idiosyncrasies than I was.

"How are you doing, Mr. Randall?" the President asked, slapping me on the back.

"I'm doing well, Mr. President."

"I'm glad to hear it. I wanted to meet you today to have a serious conversation."

Serious? Serious how?I immediately felt some pressure to apologize for what had happened in the Senator's office. It took me a moment to realize that I wasn't sure how I'd say sorry since I couldn't think of anything I'd done wrong. He'd been the one who led us across the threshold from locker room talk to first-time experimentation, not me.

"I realized that I've been taking you for granted. Top of your high school class. Star quarterback on the football team. Prom king. You're a man of many talents. You even have an 'A-minus' average at Georgetown. And what's your major again? Finance?"

I was shocked that the President knew all of that about me. Then I remembered that he had the FBI and CIA at his disposal. I knew he still had to go through some effort to find it out, though, and that made me feel a little warm deep in my belly.

"Business and Global Affairs," I said.

"That's right! Business and Global Affairs. That just proves my point. You're clearly a very smart, hard-working, industrious young man. I fear that I've been treating you in a way that fails to recognize that. You didn't sign up as a congressional intern to become a model. You did it to get more involved in the world of politics."

It was a huge turnabout. The President had flipped the script. He'd gone from being a chummy, horny frat bro wanting to talk about sex - well, not just talk - to acting like a potential mentor wanting to help me find my place in the world. I didn't know how to make sense of it.

"Do you want to go into politics?" the President asked.

I'd thought about it. It was never something I imagined myself doing in the near future. It was always something that seemed like a backup plan if other things didn't work out, but I couldn't say that to a man who'd made politics his entire life. "I don't know."

"You don't know? Well... where do you see yourself in the future? What do you want to be doing in... let's say, ten years?"

I'd pictured myself going to law school and then going to work for a firm in New York City. I'd also imagined getting an MBA and working with my uncle, in hopes that I could end up in a high-level position at his company. I'd even pictured myself getting involved in some type of global affairs, like working at NATO.

"I don't know."

The President smirked. He seemed a little amused by the fact that I apparently didn't have any type of concrete plan for my future. I realized that he'd probably developed a long-term plan when he was younger than me.People don't just fall into being leaders of the world, I thought to myself.They fight tooth and nail to get there.

"Well... let me ask you something you can't respond 'I don't know' to. Have you ever thought about being the President?"

No!I wanted to shout. I didn't want him to think I was the type of person who was gunning for what he had, even though I was many years away from being eligible to even hold the position.

"Maybe..." I replied. "A long time ago. I remember saying I wanted to be President for a class project when I was six or seven years old."

"Have you thought about it since then?"

"No."

The President marched across the room. He planted himself firmly in front of his desk, and then he beckoned me over. I carefully made my way across the room; it still felt indescribable to be in the Oval Office. "You're going to be the President," he said playfully.

"What?"

"This is the Resolute desk. As the name suggests, it was built out of the remnants of the HMS Resolute - a British Arctic exploration ship. Queen Victoria gifted it to Rutherford Hayes over a century ago. Eisenhower and Kennedy sat behind this desk. It's been the desk used in the Oval Office by the last five presidents -- and now, you're going to sit behind it, too. You're going to see what it feels like to be the President of the United States of America."

I was grinning like a fool. The President had gotten incredibly animated telling me about the history of the desk. I couldn't sit behind it, though. It didn't seem right.

"No, it's fine. You don't have..."

"Just get that tight ass of yours behind the desk," he ordered, giving me a pat on the back.

Tight ass?I was blushing before I knew it. I made my way behind the desk. I took one final look at him to confirm that he hadn't changed his mind, then I lowered myself into the seat behind the beautiful oak-carved antique.

I placed my hands top on top on the smooth wood. I gazed up at the President; he gave me a nod of approval.

"Now let's have some fun," he said with a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. "I'm going to give you access to the full power of the Presidency - within reason - for one request. No, overthrowing the government is not allowed. Think more... getting Buzz Armstrong on the phone to answer a question about the moon landing, or asking the White House kitchen to whip up the dessert served on theTitanicthe night it sank."

It was ridiculous enough that I almost laughed, but it was also one of the coolest things someone had ever done for me. Ideas began to flood into my mind; sadly, they were all either too grandiose or too banal. I wasn't going to be able to request my own version of Air Force One, and I wanted more than the promise of a future law school recommendation - if I decided to go - from the Attorney General.

"So, what do you want... President Randall? Just name it."

I thought and thought. It felt like I was wasting hours, even though the clock told me that less than a minute had passed. Out of nowhere, my mind cleared of all the ludicrous ideas ricocheting off of one another. I had my answer.

"I want your phone number," I told him. "Not the one that goes to some assistant - the one that the First Lady and your kids have programmed in their phones."

The President seemed pleasantly surprised. It was like my answer had touched him in some way I could have never anticipated. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. He held it up and aimed it at me.

"Smile," he instructed as he pointed its camera at me. "Now, what's your number?"

I rattled off the digits. Moments later, I fished out my vibrating phone from my pocket. The text he'd sent was a picture of me smiling behind the desk with the caption,"This could be your future."

Seeing the image made it feel real. For a fleeting second, I actually did think I could be President someday. I still didn't know if I wanted to, but I felt more possible than it ever had.

"Have you ever tried visualization?" the President asked.

"What?"

"Visualization. When I was about your age, I went through a period where I suddenly felt unmoored from everything I'd planned for my future. I saw a therapist, and he had me do an exercise. I know it sounds a bitwoo-woo, but he asked me to imagine - I meanreallyimagine - different versions of what my life could look like. It didn't solve all of my problems, but it helped me find my path."

I liked learning more about the President's past. It was endearing listening to him be vulnerable about the struggles he'd gone through. I'd never talked with my own father like that; he wasn't big on emotions.

"You just have to close your eyes and feel yourself in this space. Picture yourself sitting behind this desk, talking to your own advisors at the age of forty. Imagine yourself working with Congress to draft laws that support the causes you most care about."

I let my eyes close for a moment. I tried to picture myself a little older - a little less muscular, with a few more wrinkles. I tried to feel the emotions I'd expect from achieving such an accomplishment. Just thinking about it made me proud.

"Can you do something for me?" the President asked, causing my eyes to flutter open.

"Yes, Mr. President."

"I'm going to set a timer for five minutes. I want you to go back into the world you were just creating and force yourself into it. Commit to taking five minutes to try on your future."

"Okay."

"Promise you'll commit to the whole time? No cheating?"

The way he'd said"no cheating"made me smile. It reminded me of a little kid preparing to play a board game. It was unexpectedly sweet.

"No cheating," I echoed back.

He picked his phone back up from the desk and fiddled with it. He held it up to show me that he'd set the timer for five minutes; then he pressed the button. "The adventure begins now," he said.

I closed my eyes. I still felt very much in the present moment. The first thing I wondered was if the President was going to just stare at me for the entire time. It was a flattering notion.

I tried to push myself into the future, but it wasn't coming easy. I felt the muscles in my neck tensing as I worried more about failing the task I'd been assigned. I straightened my spine so that my posture was as stiff as a board.

"Presidents aren't usually so wound up," the President whispered. I knew that he was leaning so that his face was right next to mine. His warm breath collided with my ear.

I forced myself to sink down into the chair. I rolled my head around on my shoulders, trying to let go of whatever was making my muscles want to spasm.

"Kick your feet up on the desk. I promise it won't hurt it."

Even the suggestion was shocking. My eyes started to crack open; I needed to see him to figure out if he was teasing me or not.

"No cheating!" the President proclaimed, causing my eyes to seal tight. "Here, let me help you."

The President's large mitts grabbed at my ankles. He guided them to the left so that they were no longer under the desk, which caused the chair to pivot. He none-too-carefully pulled at my legs so I sunk deeper into the seat cushion, and then he placed my feet so that my heels were balanced on top of the desk.

I wanted to chuckle. It was funny imagining him maneuvering my body in that way. I knew I had to look silly reclining awkwardly in his chair, pretending like I was in charge of the world.

"Remember," the President said, "let yourself feeleverything."

"Yes, Mr. President."

Holy fuck!I nearly shouted as I felt the President's palm press down on my crotch. He curved his fingers so that my cock and balls were sitting inside of his cupped hand. He started gently massaging my genitals. I just tried to not think about anything other than the sensations in my body.

I felt my cock getting hard right away. He shifted to rubbing the underside of my shaft through the fabric. My not-so-lengthy rod was being teased as it slid around against his fingers. Even though it wasn't a girl doing it, it still felt phenomenal.

His fingers let go of my keyed-up cock. They began fumbling with my belt buckle; I could feel it popping open moments later.He can't be. He isn't.I heard the clicking of my zipper as he unfastened it. My dick was already sparking with energy; the very thought of what might happen was sending it into overdrive.