Yes, Mr. President

I felt nervous as the town car approached the White House. It didn't have anything to do with the President. I was afraid of meeting his daughter, Samantha.

It had caused a major argument with Tessa. She had wanted to know how I'd met the President's daughter. I'd told her that I hadn't. I'd lied and said that the Senator had asked me to go to the charity event on his behalf, which had led to me being paired with Samantha as a sort of "youthful bipartisan representation" for the Capitol. I'd realized just how dumb it sounded immediately.

Tessa didn't come right out and say it, but I was convinced that she suspected that I was cheating on her with Samantha. Since I'd been lying and hiding things from her, virtually all of my behavior supported that theory. She barely acknowledged me before I left for the event.

When we pulled up to the White House, I noticed we'd arrived at a different gate. The car was quickly ushered inside; the driver didn't even have to stop to talk with the guard. Moments later, it pulled up to a more nondescript entrance. I realized that it had to lead to the residence - the personal living quarters of the President and his family.

Before we'd slowed to a stop, the car's rear door was being opened. I exited to see that it was Tommy who'd been sent to fetch me, yet again. He ushered me inside; it was less than a minute before I was being shown into a small, informal living room.

"Truett," the President said, standing up from an antique leather chair, "you clean up well."

"Thank you, Mr. President."

I scanned the room as he walked towards me. Samantha was perched on the edge of a sofa, trying her best not to wrinkle her elegant, Tiffany-blue dress. I'd only ever seen pictures of her before, but she was just as stunning in real life. She had fiery-red hair down to her shoulders and the same blue eyes as her father. She was waif-like; she looked like she could model, although I knew she wouldn't have gone to Columbia if she'd just wanted to parlay her dad's name into some time in the spotlight.

"Thank you so much for escorting my daughter to the event tonight," the President said, patting me on the back. "Sammy here was at her wit's end about it. 'Daddy, I can't go alone. All the tabloids will say I'm a shrew.'"

"Daddy!" Samantha squeaked out, raising an eyebrow. "Stop lying. Now he's going to think I'm some loser."

"I kid, I kid," the President replied.

Samantha lifted herself up off the sofa. I hurried towards her, giving her my hand for added support. She truly was beautiful. She didn't have the same sharpness to her features as the First Lady, which worked in her favor.

"Well, Sammy," the President said, "Truett is a Congressional intern this year - one of the best and brightest. He's also agreed to be on that Youth Advisory Council that we're trying to build up again."

"Impressive," Samantha said politely.

"Truett here has even had the opportunity to sit in on a few meetings with me and Senator Whitney."

"Ugh," Samantha sighed, "him."

"As you can tell, Truett, my daughter is not a big fan of your boss. Go on, honey. Tell him what you really think."

"I think... I think if you don't have something nice to say, it's better to say nothing at all. At least, that's what I think when I'm scheduled to attend a charity event - not a debate."

"He can handle it," the President teased. "In fact, I'm sure he can take it like a champ."

His daughter rolled her eyes. She wasn't in the mood for his shenanigans. "What do you study at Georgetown, Truett?" she asked me.

"Business and Global Affairs," I replied.

"So, you're planning to go into politics?"

"Maybe."

"Truett might just be the President one day," the President interjected, "even if he doesn't know it yet."

It was oddly touching to hear him say it. It felt like he had more faith in my dreams than my father did. My dad just wanted me to be "financially secure," but he didn't care about much more than that.

"What about me?" Samantha asked.

"You're too smart to be the President," he deftly replied. "You'd be bored senseless."

They both chuckled. "Daddy, taken the wrong way, it sounds like you're calling Truett stupid."

"Absolutely not. For a young man, Truett is adeep, deep guy. I've had the pleasure of experiencing it myself."

My cheeks went rosy at the innuendo. I suddenly felt warm; my expensive wool suit wasn't entirely helping the situation.

"What exactly does that mean?" Samantha asked.

"Well... he was the only one to recognize when I was quoting a poem by Langston Hughes. Surely, that shows some depth of knowledge and experience."

"Langston Hughes?" she echoed, staring at me like a puzzle. I figured that she didn't know any Republican men my age who'd admit to having read any poetry.

"You two should really skedaddle, now. I don't want to be the reason you're late for your charity event. Just remember, Truett... I have access to SEAL Team Six, so you better get my princess home by eleven o'clock on the dot or else you're in for a hard time."

"Daddy!"

The President came over and carefully pecked his daughter on the top of her head, making sure to not disturb her hairdo. After that, he grabbed my hand and gave it a firm shake. Then, we were off.

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

The charity event was fairly boring, even by DC standards. Everyone milled about for a while drinking flutes of champagne and chomping on bite-sized finger foods slathered in caviar. After about an hour, we all took our seats. We proceeded to listen to a woman talking about her experience as a recipient of the charity; she recounted her plight of escaping a war-torn country and arriving in America with nothing.

After she finished, a band started playing. Some of the guests took to dancing on a small area in front of the stage. I asked Samantha if she wanted to dance, but she said didn't want to give anyone the wrong impression since she knew it would lead to gossip.

We chatted about college. She told me about the senior thesis she was writing about Mary Oliver. I talked about my upbringing in Nebraska. She seemed to be interested in what it had been like growing up in the middle of nowhere.

The evening went well. Per the plan, we returned to the White House in the same town car that had dropped us off. Samantha said I didn't need to escort her inside, but I felt it was my duty. If nothing else, I thought it was what the President would want.

"How was the evening?" the President asked as we walked into the living room.

"Fine," Samantha said. "At least this one was for a good cause. I hate when you send me out to events aimed at appealing to the centrists. Mom always does better at those ones. When is she getting back?"

"Tomorrow morning. We'll all have dinner together before you head back to Manhattan."

"Well," Samantha said drowsily, "thank you for being such an attentive escort, Truett. Would it be terribly rude if I excused myself? I've been up since dawn, and I don't think I have much more gas in my tank."

"It's fine," I replied. "No problem at all. I had a nice time, too."

"Don't feel bad, Sammy. I'll take Truett to my study for a drink and a cigar. He deserves a reward after a dinner of bland salmon, or whatever atrocity they served."

"Bland mahi-mahi," Samantha corrected him as she started to make a beeline for the door. "Any excuse for a cigar, Dad, huh? Thanks again, Truett."

Once she'd left the room, the President raised himself from the leather chair. I felt myself getting excited as he slowly made his way towards me - a cheetah stalking an antelope.

He sidled up next to me. He slid his hand up under my suit jacket and rested it on my lower back. My abs tensed. I waited to see what he'd do next. The President shoved his hand down the back of my dress pants; the waistband struggled to stretch enough to accommodate him.

I was shocked by his lack of discretion.What if Samantha walks back in? I wondered.How will he explain this?His large mitt cupped my smooth right cheek. He massaged it with his fingertips.

"I see my good little cocksucker is still wearing his panties."

"Yes... yes, Mr. President."

"You want me to play with that jock pussy, boy, don't you?"

I didn't reply. I sensed the growing wave building in my core. It was the same as it had been all the other times that he'd started to use me in whatever way he'd desired.

His large middle finger slid into my canyon, spreading open my firm cheeks. He slowly began to rub the silky strip of fabric that was covering my asshole. I'd finally gotten used to it enough so that just walking in the thong didn't keep me constantly hard, but his finger did the trick.

"That's a hungry pussy, isn't it?"

He traced his digit around the outside edge of the fabric strip. Then I felt it lifting away, depriving my sensitive pucker of its final, flimsy line of defense. Seconds later, his warm flesh made contact with mine.

"Ahhh," I yelped.

He softly stroked my delicate skin. My cock was already harder than a diamond. The President leaned his head against my shoulder as he continued to tease me with his digit.

"How's it feel?"

"N... nice," I mumbled.

"You helped me out by taking Samantha out. Now, it's my turn to return to favor."

I didn't even necessarily want a reward. I wanted him to do whatever he desired. I hadn't even jerked off since we'd last seen one another; I'd wanted to be ready for him.

"Come with me," the President commanded, pulling his hand out from my pants. "Just be very, very quiet."

I was filled with a perverse excitement as we snuck down the hall. The President seemed to be as well. While he hadn't been confident enough to leave his hand inside my pants, he did keep pawing at my bottom through the fabric as we walked next to one another.

After a few moments, he whisked me inside of a room. Once the door was shut, any apprehension he'd been showing left his face.

"We can talk normally now," he said. "Sammy is staying in a guest room on the first floor. I just wanted to be discreet in case she stopped off to use the bathroom or grab something from the kitchen on her way."

"Okay." I didn't know how else to reply. I was too busy trying to take in my new surroundings.

The room was spacious and minimalist - a king-size bed placed against one wall, some antique wooden furniture, and a few paintings. There weren't any tchotchkes or family photos adorning the rich cherry bed side tables. It looked more like a furnished rental than a lived-in home.

"Take off your clothes," the President commanded.

I stripped down to my thong in record time. The President leered at me like I was an unexpectedly salacious Christmas gift that had just unwrapped itself.

"The panties, too."

It's shameful to admit, but I felt exposed taking them off. They had almost become a piece of armor. He hadn't seen me without them on since he'd first gone down on me in the Oval Office. Nonetheless, I removed them.

The President marched over towards the bed; he was still fully clothed in a pair of trousers, a button-up shirt, and house loafers. He patted the navy satin comforter.

I trotted over to him, and I immediately started to sit in the spot he'd pointed out. At the last moment, he snagged me by the shoulder so that I couldn't sit down. I popped back up to my feet.

"Look at that bitty clitty," he said, glancing down at my crotch. "It's already harder than a jawbreaker. Not quite as big, though. Maybe a Tootsie Roll?"

My four inches were sticking out straight in front of me. They'd started to turn a rosy color in anticipation of whatever might come next.

The President dragged one of his fingers across my trimmed blond pubes. "Shave this off before next time."

"Shave?" I noticed a lump in my throat. I thought about the guys I played intramural football with. Even in the summer, most of us met up on Sundays for a game. I imagined myself in the showers with them.How will I explain myself?It was both scary and exciting to think about.

"I like my bitches bald." The President smirked; he knew what he was doing. It was probably what made it so enjoyable to him. So, too, did ordering me around. "Get up on your knees, in the same spot you almost sat on."

I hopped onto my knees, balancing precariously on the edge of the bed. The President placed his palm on my upper back.

"Hands and knees, like an obedient bitch."

I lowered myself into the position. My hands started to sink into the soft center part of the mattress; my knees were faring better at the edge. The President stepped towards me. He gripped my right globe with his hand.

I wondered what he was going to do. Exhilaration built inside of me. I expected to hear his fly unzip at any moment.

Instead, the President wrenched open my juicy cheeks. He started dragging one of his digits back and forth across my delicate hole. It still felt tender all the time; the thong kept the flesh just irritated enough that it couldn't rebound to baseline.

He switched from back-and-forth to all-around. My arms vibrated; I had to lock them in place to keep from falling forward. His attentions were surprisingly gentle. When he'd hot-dogged himself between my buns, it had been rough. The softness of his touch added a layer of complexity to the horniness that had started mounting when he'd jammed his hand down my pants.

The President stopped. He began pulling at each of my cheeks - spreading them open wide.What's he doing?I wondered. Then, I felt his warm breath filling my canyon. It was incredibly erotic, like the teasing prelude to something that would surely be much bigger.

"Ahhhhh," I yelped as his soft tongue tickled at my hole.

The President lapped at my pucker a few more times. It was quickly slathered in his saliva. I knew that he must have been drooling up a storm in order to get me wet so fast.

"Don't get too excited, Tru. I may be a pussy hound, but that's not what's on the menu tonight."

In spite of what he'd just said, he dove right back between my cheeks. He flitted his tongue around like he was trying to rev me up in record time. I'd never had a girl go anywhere near my hole before, so the new sensation was blowing my mind.

The President bathed my pucker for at least five minutes, but he kept it interesting. He'd slowly drag his tongue up and down, then he'd flick it with the same speed as a hummingbird's wings. He'd make circles around the rim, then he'd press his tongue into the bullseye with enough force that it felt like he might bust through.

The whole time, I was failing to stifle my moans. In spite of his reassurance, I was worried about Samantha catching usin flagrante. My nervousness didn't change my body's reaction, though. The tender skin of my pucker got hotter than blue blazes. I could feel it puffing up as he worked it over.

"Seems about ready," the President said, finally pulling himself away from my delicious cake.

I heard him open a drawer. There was a plastic popping noise and a subsequent squirting sound. I knew that he was slicking up his fingers.

Will I still be remotely straight after this?I unexpectedly wondered out of nowhere.I think so. Girls do this to guys nowadays, right?It felt important. I was struggling to hold on to some remaining crumbs of my supposed heterosexuality while the President worked to consume all of me. Part of me wanted him to consume me, though. I just wanted to be straight too.

The President slipped his fingers into my canyon; they were warm and wet. One of them started tickling my pucker right away. I jolted like a spooked wild horse that knew he was about to be broken.

I guess I expected him to spend another five minutes carefully teasing me with his fingers. He didn't. The President centered his large digit right over my bullseye and started pressing. I clenched my jaw; I could feel him pushing against my ring.

"Don't stop breathing," he said. "For a tough, corn-fed farm boy, this should feel like nothing at all. It'll be a lot smoother if you push out as I'm pushing in."

"Push out?" I asked through gritted teeth.

"You know... use those tight muscles in your jock pussy and push out."

I didn't know what he meant. I'd never used my body that way before. The closest thing I could think of was the pushing I did when I went to the bathroom, but I knew that couldn't be what he meant.

The President wriggled his finger as he forced it deeper. I couldn't let go. My body was refusing to give up the battle. Every one of my muscles - shoulders to toes - was tensing up from the invasion.

"Suit yourself," the President said with a chuckle.

He pulled back for a second, and I felt a sense of relief wash over me. Then, he pressed forward again. He repeated the pattern over and over. I knew that he was gaining ground. My hole felt like it was stretching wider.

Suddenly, my body gave up the fight. The tip of his finger slipped all the way inside. My hole vibrated with a mixture of excitement and pain. It spasmed around his digit as he held it in place.

I rode the wave. A surge of discomfort would make me shake, but then a competing flood of pleasure would dash it away. The President was patient. He just waited until my pucker stopped going haywire.

"How's it feel?" he asked.

"Good," I said, focusing on the sparking nerve endings in my hole that had never been touched.

The President started sliding his finger in and out, but just the smallest amount. My hole was pulsing from the sensation. Each time he'd pull away, it would try to grip onto his digit.

It wasn't long before the President was knuckle deep. Things started to change. The discomfort kept dialing down with each passing second while the feeling of pleasure stepped in to take its place.

"Ohh," I heard myself moan as he pushed all the way in again.

"Straight boy likes that, huh? He likes getting his pussy played with. Well, you're going to love this."

I nodded. My breathing was beginning to get shallower. His finger was torturing me in the best way imaginable.

"Fuck!" I cried out. "Oh, god!"

The President burst out laughing, but he kept his finger pressed on the spot inside of me that was breaking my mind. It felt like he'd activated a call button to my brain's sexual pleasure center. I exhaled deeply when he finally pulled his finger away from it.

"Thought you'd enjoy that. That's your 'fag spot.' It's called that because only fags get theirs played with."

I felt a tinge of embarrassment, but it wasn't nearly enough to compete with all the delight that was filling me to the brim. I tried to focus on the new experience - to just enjoy the fact that it was the President who was teaching me things I'd never known about my body.

He kept sliding in to the point where his finger would collide with the button. After the third time, I realized that my cock was leaking pre-cum. I don't think I'd ever been harder in my entire life.

Each jabbing motion tossed more kindling on the bonfire he was stoking in my core. My hole was practically throbbing from what he was doing to it. I was chewing on my lower lip to keep from moaning.

Suddenly, everything changed. It still felt nice, but the explosions stopped going off. It took me a moment to realize the President wasn't going deep enough to press against my spot.

I shimmied back, trying to thrust my hole onto his finger. It didn't work, though. He just pulled away.

"Can... can you..." I stopped myself. Even I had my limits on what I could say aloud.

"What? Do you want me to do something different?"

I couldn't believe what I wanted to ask. I knew that it had to be a moment of temporary sexual insanity. "Can you... touch me again... there?"

The President just kept plunging his finger in and out while making no effort to do what he knew would set off an explosion in my belly. "I'm pretty sure I am," he said with a titter. "I can feel my finger in your jock pussy right now."