In lilting jazzy riffs of moans and little pattering breaths; in low, agonized releases, in snarling, animal howls she was a singer. Awaiting a man to...sing to. Thinking of the man she awaited, often in the nights, her fingers would wind their way along her skin, over the slopes of her hips, to the center of her thighs; wet lips there that clasped at her hands, sucking them in slowly, a sharp twisting grind of her clitoris against the back of her palm. Thinking of the man she awaited, her mind. And this is the White House." Ha!" President Shirley laughed again. "You don't think my husband plays around?" Okay, but this is the Oval Office. That's how Bill Clinton got caught." Ha, ha! Bill Clinton was a moron! This is the most secured office on the planet! You shouldn't get caught doing anything here!" Yes, but still. We shouldn't." Look, boy," she said, now a bit mean and impatient. "You are a Secret Service agent. You serve at the pleasure of the President and I'm the President," she. More

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