Chapter One, Part One

Election night – 2016

It is the worst night of her life. The unofficial returns are in, and though more than half of America enthusiastically identifies with her, all appears lost. How can it be?

Through a heated season, the pending election acted as a tonic, a furious wind at her back. The thought of victory kept her spirits buoyant, her senses alert. Now, the relentless war of words has ceased; the race is over.

Early this evening, the unforeseen happened; the gale-force wind of her candidacy mysteriously stalled. Consequently, a feeling of foredoom bled through Manhattan’s Javits Center, Hillary Clinton’s election-night headquarters, the place where she intended to symbolically shatter the glass ceiling of the male-dominated presidency.

To John Podesta, her ever-efficient campaign chair, early that evening, and happening quite suddenly, the winds died down. A stillness set in, and it was as if the country hiccupped.

Only hours before, and according to the supposedly trustworthy NY Times ‘Real-Time Meter,’ ne’er-do-well Donald Trump had an eighty-four percent chance—of losing. By mid-evening, that changed, and swift as can be, the hated man from Queens shot to a ninety-five percent chance—of winning!

Hours of network silence followed, with no word of concession from the democrat establishment or the media. Stunned by what was happening, they refused to broadcast the obvious—Hillary lost.

Now, it is 1:00 a.m., and despite the time, crowds of distraught followers are milling about the ill-fated headquarters. To a person, each anticipates victory. Each watches the overhead screens to see which state will push their champion over the top—some pray.

As they wait, and as they scrutinize the perplexing numbers showing Hillary’s electoral vote tally frozen in place below the plateau of victory, the candidate lapses into despair. Refusing to go downstairs to be with her supporters, she instead paces the inner sanctum of the private hotel suite she shares with her husband.

It is the beginning of years of depression; depression starting when the woman even the despised Republicans assumed would be the first female president, received a visit from her sullen and fatalistic campaign chairman, then slow-walking into her presence with the news.

“It’s over, Madam Secretary,” he somberly declares. “We’ve lost. It looks like Trump will have over three-hundred electoral votes. Our friends in the press won’t admit it’s a landslide, but it is. It’s the worst thing that could ever happen, but it’s happened. America voted Trump. It’s over.”

“Over?” she asked. Her eyes, distant, drifted to the window and up to the twinkling stars embedded in the blackness of Manhattan’s chilly November sky. “How can you say that, John? What do you mean, it’s over? I’m the winner, aren’t I? I’m the president-elect, aren’t I? What are you talking about?” Her eyes, teary, reflected her sinking spirit.

The matter-of-fact Podesta, shaking his head, reiterated the point. “We’re done, Hillary. America wants Trump.”

Gazing up at him, Hillary blanched. “I can’t talk about it now, John,” she sternly announced. “I ... I have to be with Bill. Leave me. I need you to leave me!”

“But what about your supporters,” the vexed Podesta asked. “You should go out there. They can’t be left hanging. They’re dazed. Some, rather than live under the Donald, are threatening suicide.”

Mrs. Clinton, seizing her glass of Chardonnay, gulped, and speaking as she turned away, grew accusatory. “You failed, John. It was your job to make it happen. Now, look! THAT MAN has beaten you!”

Hillary stepped in the direction of the door leading to her husband’s private apartment. “I need Bill. Bill will know what to do. I need to know what Bill thinks.”

The businesslike Podesta, waving some papers at her and having none of it, persisted, adding, “But your supporters? Your concession speech is right here. It’s all written up. And what about calling Trump? Traditionally the loser calls...”

“ ... fuck tradition, John!” she angrily shrieked. “And fuck Trump! This election was all about erasing tradition! Your job was to get that message out! Now what? Now fucking what! The deplorables in gun and God country have gone and elected a MAN!”

Podesta, dazed by her rebuke, backed away.

“I’m too ... it’s very late. I’m too tired. I need Bill. You give the speech. You go downstairs. Tell people I have a headache.”

“All right, Hillary,” Podesta half-heartedly agreed. “I’ll tell them to go away, that you will address the nation tomorrow. I won’t explain why.”

Chapter one, Part two

Without saying more, Hillary disappeared into the next room, Bill’s room. There, the former president watched CNN’s flustered commentators just then scrutinizing the wave of explosive energy flooding Trump’s headquarters on the other side of town. Seeing his distraught wife, Bill stood, but quickly hit the remote, shutting out the maddening drama.

“Looks bad, Sugar,” he said, his southern drawl more pronounced than usual. Approaching her, he took her into his arms. “Trump won’t last. You’ll see. We have Plan-B ready to go. It’s been in place for months—you know, just in case something like this happened.” His wife looked up questioningly.

“Listen, Hun,” he went on, “You won the popular vote. Starting tomorrow, we’ll use that to attack the Electoral College. Don’t be sad, Sugar. We’ll do everything in our power to...”

“ ... STOP IT,” she snarled. “Just stop it, Bill! It’s finished. Despite our scheming, it’s over. Podesta fucked it up. His emails, those WikiLeaks, Comey’s stupid investigation, and, that’s not to mention, Obama idiotically insisting men are women and women, men ... all of it ... it’s just a fuck up! There’s no getting around it. Trump ruined everything!”

Coldly turning her back on him, she crossed her arms and stood straight. “You fucked up, Bill; it was you and your bimbos. Why can’t you keep it in your pants? It’s all the Republicans talked about for a freaking year!

“Bimbos! Bimbos! Bimbos! I could kill those women. It’s their fault! They sat in the front row like Cheshire Cats during the debate! I hate them!” She raised her hand, balled it into a fist, and waving it at him, added, “I should murder you, you bastard!”

“But Sugar,” he protested, “I ... I ... I ... I’m sorry about all that. It’s just that the real reasons why you lost aren’t important. The only important thing is the storyline—what people will think tomorrow. And we’ll make them think there’s another reason ... that’ it was ... it was the Russians!”

Rarely did the former president find himself reaching for words but ensnared by her biting attack, he went on to say, “It’s those fucking gun owners. They felt threatened when Barack attacked them. He went after them every day for eight years!

And there were those darned trannies. If Obama had only waited until we were in the White House, we could have appointed a trans-person to the Supreme Court—issue solved. Obama never listens!”

By then, Hillary, only half paying attention, had turned her back to her husband, and hastily slid the bottoms of her pantsuit to her ankles. Lifting her foot, she tried kicking the clingy garment off to the side, but it gripped her toes just as she grabbed a convenient bar stool for support.

Impatient, she just as quickly slipped her thumbs into the waistband of her tight pantyhose, slid them down her legs, vainly tried kicking them away and leaning over, she rested her upper-body weight on the stool. “Bill,” she continued, “just shut up. I need you to fuck me. I need it in the ass. I want it. Only ... only keep your mouth shut when you do it!”

Dutifully, Bill, shaking his head and knowing when she got this way, there was no reasoning with her, half-heartedly unbuckled his belt and proceeded to remove his pants and briefs. “Can you maybe suck it a little, darling?” he asked, sheepishly.

Hillary, her mind in a hundred other places, snapped at him. “You see to Slick Willy,” she demanded. “It’s not my job to get him hard; not tonight, not like this. Just ... you take care of it. I’m waiting.” With her eyes shut tight, she thrust her bottom at him even as she continued to lean over the high-backed stool.

With his thumb, Bill worked his glans and wafting a welcome if unexpected drop of precum over the tip, he closed his eyes, hoping things would straighten out. Listening, but still not looking around at him, Hillary shifted her hands away from the stool’s high back and reaching, pulled her cheeks apart, baring her tight, long-uncultivated opening.

A brief moment later, however, she jerked her hands away because suddenly, the nearly seventy-year-old former Secretary of State felt self-conscious.

With age, Hillary had grown stout. The physical rigors of the campaign had cut into her time at the gym, meaning calories accumulated from endless chicken dinners at endless political events, leaving added weight protruding from her tummy, thighs, and most horrifyingly, her butt.

However, she decided maybe this was not the time for thoughts of being an overweight grandmother! No, she thought—not now! “Fuck me, Bill,” she repeated, spreading her cheeks again.

Bill, reluctant, and despite having had dozens of sexual partners in the years since leaving the White House, vividly remembered the last time he penetrated his wife. It was at the height of the Monica Lewinsky scandal, eighteen years ago. Then, he was in fear of becoming the only president removed from office. Then, and happening in the Lincoln Bedroom, the unlikely pair had had their most thrilling sex since before the birth of Chelsea.

Strangely, they were happy then, content over their stunning achievements as a couple. Later, it all changed, as word of ever more sinister dalliances circulated in the media where ever more nasty words attached themselves to Bill—and by extension, to her, even as her dreams of a White House run were beginning to crystallize.

That notwithstanding, it had been too long, and Bill was not sure it could still work between them.

Younger and more than a little naïve, back then, they were at the panicle of their physical prowess. That night in the White House, intimacy served its purpose, revitalizing their determination to win—and to win more after that. Sex had solidified everything they stood for—power, magnetism, and the thought of an even loftier goal for her, for Hillary, that one day, she might eclipse her husband’s preeminence.

Now, with her dramatic loss to Donald Trump, the dream is shattered, and eighteen years since their last passion, the Clintons are about to do what they always do when challenged; seek solace inside the only place they completely trust—the relationship.

Chapter one, Part three

Their relationship was special. Within it, they felt safe and had Bill not compromised its value through his never-ending attentions to women who did not matter; their association would have continued as before. Eventually, however, his dalliances merged, his victims evolving to become a regiment of amazons, a bunch of biting bitches, bent on humiliating her for the sin of standing by her husband.

Bill’s perfectly pressed slacks bunched around his ankles, and Hillary had still not managed to kick her pants and panties away. He noticed, in anticipation of victory, she had worn pink, the way he liked. He appreciated, too, that she, candidate Clinton, as a dutiful wife, intended to celebrate her victory by opening herself.

Crouching, she took the position she had taken back in Arkansas, starting when Bill became governor. On that long-ago election night, she leaned against another barstool in another hotel room.

Then, just after the returns proclaimed Bill’s victory, she propped herself, just as she propped herself now. Then, she offered her rectum to the power he suddenly had, not only over the middle-of-nowhere state but also over her, because it was then, before anybody of consequence knew the name Clinton, that she settled on the idea of running for high office—to challenge all males, everywhere.

That night, her sexual offering was part gift, part statement. The gift was clear. Bill had pulled off statewide election. Lying, he convinced Arkansas that his opponent lied. Later on, Bill, to his wife’s eternal admiration, brilliantly hammered Bush the elder, for his broken promise not to raise taxes, in the end, beating the seemingly unbeatable Washington insider and taking the White House by storm.

Her mind raced. Hillary, jumping from one excuse to another, was torn by a single reality: that as a couple, they had botched completing the hat-trick this time around.

She was infuriated and looking down at the floor, she suddenly blurted, “Screw that son of a bitch, Trump! Do it; make something up! We’ll go to court ... accuse him of taking money from somebody, the Chinese ... or, maybe you’re right, the Russians! Everybody hates the Russians! People will fall for it!”

“Don’t think about that now, Sugar,” Bill, still working the tip of his semi-flaccid penis nervously responded. “We’ll get that Trump guy. But that’s for tomorrow ... or pretty soon, anyway. For now, tell daddy what you need daddy to do.”

Hillary, hitting her emotional re-set, exhaled, drew a deep breath, and repeated sharply, “I told you, Bill, I need it in the ass! Don’t you listen?” Pressuring her buttocks to his pelvis, to determine whether he was ready to take her, she ground herself against him.

Hillary accepted that his failure to get hard would amount to the mother of all disappointments and on a day that had started with the lofty New York Times pre-election prediction that she would smash Trump to smithereens.

With his cock, Bill felt his way between her plump butt cheeks and reaching back around herself again, she grabbed them, opening for him, showing him the way.

Initially, she felt what she did not want to feel, that he was too soft to force her inviting anus, and it annoyed her that, despite her bottomless presentation, he had barely stirred.

Determined to have her way, Hillary, with her right hand, reached further back, searching for his beefy testicles. Loose in their sack, she grabbed hold and firmly, she worked them, listening for a familiar if subtle and almost imperceptible moan. Frustratingly, he stayed quiet.

Her thoughts drifted to their hectic early years together. Due to the many women he had allowed to interfere, she was insecure in her husband’s presence and did not want him looking directly at her, even when she was only partially naked. For this reason, she had kept her top on.

She thrust at him again, her backside searching. Finding him still soft, she continued rubbing herself against him, prompting him to lean into her.

Her efforts proved fruitless. Bill stayed limp, and her eyes shot open as she pondered tomorrow and having to face a hostile world—a loser’s world. Could she bear this additional humiliation? Could she face the press with conviction after failing with Bill, the one person who had complete faith in her considerable powers? She was sure her place in his eyes would be compromised by failure to make him hard, here—now.

Hillary was determined to fix this; otherwise, her husband would turn away from her the way the country had, dismissing her as a silly, overweight, frustrated, old woman whose reach exceeded her grasp.

It had been too long between opportunities. She needed to do something—anything to make him hard. But could she still arouse him? Would her husband of forty-one years respond to her? Suppose he does not? What then?

Chapter Two, Part One

Deciding to chance it, she turned to him, and looking up, she grasped his testicles again, drawing them apart, holding one with one hand, one with the other. Still, there was nothing—no hardness. “Think you’re gonna need to suck him a little bit, Sugar,” Bill crooned, his eyes twinkling with measured eagerness.

Blowing him was the last thing Hillary wanted to do. Moreover, his plea was not wholly unexpected. She was not naïve. In a marriage such as theirs, it is understood each plays around as they like. A husband who has been with dozens of others, and now fails to achieve an erection, is mere reality. No, the most evocative question—the one haunting her—is whether she, a former senator, a former Secretary of State, can stoop to Monica’s level.

She had first blown Bill forever ago and had not found it unpleasant. Like all men, he loved it; but Monica had, going back to their White House years, put Hillary in the position of refusing it.

It is what bimbos do, the exasperated wife reasoned. Her feelings were just as frayed today as they had been twenty years before when the pudgy, youthful intern ruined intimacy for the couple. “Bill, if only slutty women kept their hands off married men, all would be right with the world, wouldn’t it?” she whispered, her voice cracking with lamentation.

He blushed. He knew she was right, but not wanting to complicate things further, he stayed quiet. Bill recognized; however, there was more to it than a passing intern’s blowjobs. Hillary was his equal now, or at least she was on the verge of equality until an hour ago when her Electoral College tally stalled.

He also knew what all men know, that sucking amounts to subservience; that taking a cock into her mouth is a woman’s statement to a man; it acknowledges her determination to become part of him, to drink him in—to proclaim her constitutional right to his sperm!

Vexingly, when she learned the election was over, Hillary sensed a shift in power, detecting their respective places in the relationship had reverted to what they had been. He was a president—and she, well, she was a failed social climber in a misbegotten quest for parity.

She seized his cock, and firmly tugging and alternately lifting and caressing his fully charged testicles, Hillary accepted that it was what it was; that his need was the same as it had been back at Yale—when she first sucked him to full erection.

To complicate matters, Hillary knew Bill, a powerful man, expected his women to perform their blowjobs in a certain way, on their knees.

To make a touchy situation, touchier, Monica, sweet, innocent Monica, had discovered Bill’s secret desire. The intern knelt, and through genuflection, followed by ravenous sucking, she drew Bill into her web of fantasy and lust, paving the way for whistleblower Linda Tripp’s avalanche of troubles.

The president, the twenty-one-year-old quickly detected, only responded to fellation if a woman fell to her knees, and the First Lady never forgave her, especially after learning the supposedly blameless girl not only knelt but most horrifically, swallowed. It was an erotic faux pas, which, ever after, situated the fawning intern squarely in the middle of the couple’s marriage bed—craftily separating husband and wife from full spousal intimacy.

Afterward, their lovemaking had been little more than a litany of him on her oral sex, Hillary on her back, legs hoisted high and spread wide apart, he with his tongue, obediently bringing her to empty climax after empty climax. In the end, the Monica catastrophe left the aging woman with nothingness, that sensation of vacancy wives feel in compromised relationships.

Bill glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late, Sugar. That crowd downstairs will be chanting your name unless Podesta comes up with enough bullshit to send them home. Honey, if you need a good ass fucking, it’s time to get Willy charged up and moving with a head of steam.”

Hating the southerner’s backwoods expression, she frowned. However, imagining the inevitable, she summoned an image of herself in the same position the bimbos had taken, on her knees, impatiently nursing precum down her reluctant throat.

She detested the thought of looking up, of seeking her man’s approval, as wives had done for eons. All that was supposed to change with her election. The days of women on their knees were to end with her, Hillary Diane Rodham Clinton! It isn’t fair; she lectured herself.

Chapter Two, Part Two

Hillary’s face went blank. Words escaped her. But needing what she needed, she grudgingly accepted his hint and clutching his arms; she lowered herself on painful knees to the cold floor.

There, she starred at it. It was as she remembered. Bill had an exquisite cock; its corona tipped with a drop of the precious liquid. Knowing there was no other way; she opened her mouth, drew him in and let out a long, low grown, as his sperm, flooding her senses, dissolved into her reluctantly accepting body.

“That’s the good girl ... that’s the way, Sugar,” he mumbled from on high. “Take daddy’s cock. Wash the taste of those bad girls away with your spirited tongue.”

She responded. Surprising herself, she felt wetness between her legs; wetness, she had not felt for far too long as Bill had made the rounds, fucking a slut here, another there.

The stories of his escapades got back to her as Huma’s spies, concealed inside her husband’s entourage of grasping parasites, followed him hither and yon, to Moscow, the Virgin Islands, to Hollywood, even to Chappaqua, their private home in New York—all while she was off seeing to some fool’s errand.

She drew his cock deeper, his taste, reassuring, comforting. She missed his sperm, and she thought about a time when it was utterly hers, its slippery feel making her happy, content. She sucked more—deeply, his hard cock easing comfortably into the recesses of her throat.