Urotsukidoji - Presidential Duties

[Nickamano]

Teaser: Picture a hot young political intern inside the White House, when something "Earth shattering" is taking place. All kinds of chaos ensues...
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The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.

The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. It depicts nonconsensual sexual acts between adults. It is in no way meant to be understood as an endorsement of nonconsensual sex in real life. Any similarities of the characters in the story to real people are purely coincidental.
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Index:

• Prologue
• Chapter 1
• Chapter 2

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Title: Urotsukidoji - Presidential Duties.
Author: Nickamano
Content Warnings: This one is a bit of a slow build, with minor injections of porn dotted in throughout.
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Urotsukidoji is an old horror hentai anime from the late eighties that a lot of people no longer are aware of but it was one of the biggest selling and most controversial anime of its time and is still beloved by its fans.

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Urotsukidoji - Presidential Duties.

Prologue

The East Wing’s north-corner rear stairs was the best location for private and unobserved meetings. Everyone in history knew it, pretty much from 1902 when the stairs were added, along with the construction of the West Wing.
He had been watching Dana Holden, the President’s Personal Assistant, ever since her scent had caught in his nostrils. A familiar smell of deception and sweeter still, fear. The smell had caught his attention when he had passed one of the many meeting rooms. He had circled back and entered the adjoining room and took a look through the keyhole. There stood the First Lady herself, unquestionably the most beautiful woman in the White House’s history. She was talking animatedly with Dana Holden, not exactly a fish wife by any means. They were over by the record player, standing close to the speakers while it played some loud female-sung pop record. They were leaning in close together, talking quickly and with low and strained voices. Of course, he could hear them despite their whispers and ‘Causing a Commotion’ filling the room.
They knew. Somehow, they had discovered his secret. Or at least Dana Holden had. Obviously, the First Lady had suspected for a while but had been too afraid for her child to do or say anything. And yet, here and now, though he could hear the First Lady desperately begging, Dana Holden had decided to confront him herself, and obtain a recording of evidence that she could bring to Congress and even to the Pope, if need be.

So, he decided to play right into her hands. When he had the chance, later that day, he whispered to her that, as she knew, he had always wanted to fuck her, that she always made him hard and though they had chosen to keep their relationship purely professional, he no longer felt capable of holding back, that he had to have her.
He’d been able to smell it on her from the first of course, but she had always maintained that professional separation even though it killed her to do it. Many’s the night she had masturbated herself to sleep of a night with thoughts of him. At the time of his confession, she had flushed crimson and had made a stammered excuse before hurrying away. Though later, after supper, she had slipped him a note - to meet her at midnight at the East Wing’s north corner rear stairs.

He had caught her by surprise, careful to ensure that the both of them were safely outside of the range of the security cameras, whose substandard cones of vision struggled with the staircase’s steep positioning and the thick and tall design of its carved marble balustrades.
He had not spoken at all, instead giving her a few seconds to voice her accusations. She barely got further than a dumb accusation along the lines of - “I’ve heard things about you. I don’t know how you managed to replace him but I believe you to be a demon. A devil from hell itself.” Rather than listening or offering a response, he had simply stood there smiling, silently taking in her face and figure with a rapidly rising hunger.
Having free access to his wife was a lot of fun, and he had occasional had fun with others too whenever he could get away with it. But he always had to hold back, to maintain the pretence. He was sure his wife was more than a little suspicious of him, after all. But she obeyed his carnal demands and did her best to satiate him. Not that any of them ever could.
Maybe Dana Holden would be able to take the edge off for a day or two? He was more than happy to put her to the test.

She was short, barely topping five-feet, though her heels added another three inches. However, she had a full figure with the right kind of curviness. The kind of hourglass figure that was impossible to conceal even in sharp all-business type suits. Her straight brown bob was occasionally tossed up into a French plait, framing a baby face that defied her being closer her to her fourth decade than her third. He wasn’t sure if the Sexy Librarian look she had perfected, with the pair of thick-rimmed black eye glasses, was deliberate or incidental. But as far as he was concerned, it worked like a charm.
He had trapped her and silenced her before she could scream for help or throw him any further accusations.

And then he had stripped her, and had her - rough, fast and brutal; making full use of her body and taking all of her, searing every inch in erotically-manipulating experiences, until her mind was utterly blown.
The way she writhed and wriggled while he held her tight and yanked off her clothing a piece at a time, it was every bit the Christmas Morning fantasy. The joy of the attractive wrapping concealing what was beneath, the joy of ripping it away with barely restrained excitement to reveal the wished-for goodies within. The actual present, ready to be played with. Alive, and writhing and jiggling and already getting wet for him. The look on her face, her desperate reactions, horrified and desperate, and then shocked and disbelieving. And then came the pain of penetration, the anguish of her new reality and then - best of all - the flat-out attempt to deny as her body began to react, her juices flowing, nipples stiffening until they ached. And then moans escaping her pursed lips in spite of her self-loathing and the humiliation and shame that went with that rising horrible pleasure.
Of course, as much as it was sexually mind-bending, her experience was no doubt even more terrorising and her muted shrieks and continual full-body quivering was as much due to pain and horror as it was sexual ecstasy. He loved the sweet and sour nature of that kind of interaction.

At the same time, the breaking of her was as much fun for him as the physicality of the assault. Force-feeding a woman unwanted sexual pleasure, driving it into her quivering, gyrating, disbelieving body until she was forced to peak. Her body would lock up, limbs stretched akimbo, head thrown back, spine arched as an electric shock of pure pleasure ripped through her. And then another and another. The pleasure-pain torture ongoing, until she was launched into multiple-climax after multiple-climax. Cresting waves billowing and slamming her until all she felt, all she was aware of, all she craved was more and more and more of that erotic, physical joy. That was when, for him, the sense of power, of control, of strength joined in with the physical ecstasy her lusty body was providing.

As her body finally relaxed into a mid-bliss stupor, he had taken her into him, softening his own flesh and allowing it to run over and around her like molten wax.
Once she was fully consumed, he reformed his human disguise, picked up his discarded clothing and re-dressed. It would take a couple of days, wherein she would continue to give him all the pleasure her body could offer until he had fully absorbed her, molecules drawn into his own Makai body as saccharine-delicious sustenance.
Gathering up her clothing and her concealed tape recorder, he shredded the lot down to miniscule scraps. He pocketed those scraps, to be put into the trash when convenient, and then headed back to his bedroom where his lovely young wife awaited him.

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[Nickamano]

Chapter 1

Alina ‘Ali’ Whitmer - nineteen-year-old political science intern - could believe she was here, doing a summer internship as part of her first year at college. In the real-life fucking White House! And in the first twelve months with a brand new first-term Presidency. And what a President! The things she would learn and experience in these six weeks, the things she could tell her grandchildren!

Her political science tutor, Professor Donovan Jones, had managed to arrange it for her. He had a close contact on the inside track and in exchange for a one-night-stand he had arranged for her once in a lifetime internship.
On her first day and probably the couple of days after that, she had been walking around in a dreamlike marvel of disbelief - not only was she walking around the actual White House, the real life goddamned White House, but she was working on the staff of President Jacob-Fucking-Kennedy!
For the first ten days she had been kept to the back rooms. Observing, taking notes, asking questions as and when she was able. Learning as much as she could. She didn't see any recognisable people, no politicians or those faces you saw in the TV, not one. But still, it felt pretty good to feel like she was getting the inside track.
Still, it would have been great to have seen the new President or his stunning wife. The First Lady, Mrs Kennedy, had been better known as Heather Bach - a beloved TV actress and household name - as well as one of the most gorgeous women alive. It was practically preordained that she should marry the only son of JFK and Marilyn Monroe.

Ali had hero-worshipped Jacob Baker Kennedy since she was nine. She’d had posters of him up on her bedroom wall from when he was a normal everyday celebrity. Him going into politics had been a big part of the reason for her developing her own interest in politics in high school, and her decision to take a Major in political science at college. Even the college she got into - having been rejected by Harvard, Johns Hopkins, Baltimore, was physically as close to the centre of American politics as she could get.

Strolling into her very first Political Science class, she had caught Donovan's eye early, spotted the obvious lust in his stare and immediately plotted to use it to her advantage - flirtation, all the cleavage and as much leg on display, as often as possible. Everything to get him on her hook. Without ever giving up the goods, of course. That final step would always be there in her back pocket, in case she ran into trouble one semester.
He had been pushy too. A borderline bastard about trying to get into her panties. She had to be careful not to offer him any easy blackmail or coercion material.
Rumour had it he had already managed with one or two of the lower end girls, those who scraped in on scholarships and were constantly struggling to understand the classes and keep up with the workload. She had even caught him at it with Bethany Fellows, a hot little punk chick who had gotten in despite, or maybe due to poor parents and petty crime, the latter threatening to spiral. Donovan had casually filled Ali in on the girl, some kindly Sheriff's deputy trying to keep her out of jail had supposedly found her the scholarship with the hope of getting her back on the straight and narrow; though she’d had to give him one or two things the fella’s wife wouldn't do for him. In fact, she had been doing just that with Donovon when Ali had walked in on them one time, Bethany bent over Donovan's desk.

She had come innocently into the outer office, being one of those naturally quiet people, she found she could slip in and out of rooms without being noticed. So, she had slipped into the outer office intending to drop off an assignment, but something distracted her. There was a bit of a whimpering and groaning sound from the inner office; Donovan’s private pace that his students didn’t usually get to see. The partitioning door had a large panel of pebbled glass filling its upper half. It didn’t give much of a clue, a little pale pink amongst the brown and blue, and some movement. But the sounds were far more telling. Using her quiet movement skills, Ali had slid up to the edge of the door listening in. It was there she noticed a little missing piece at the edge of the glass, one of the little fingernail sized indentations had fallen out, giving her essentially a chest high ‘key hole’ to peer through. So, she did.

Tall and lean forty-something, Professor Donovan was banging Bethany Follows from behind over his desk. He was slamming away with rapid desk-quaking strokes, standing there fully dressed in his suede suit and sandy yellow shirt, necktie tucked into the handkerchief pocket of his sports coat. His hands tight around slender girlish hips.
Bethany was wearing her usual mostly black punk garb. Loose fitting tank top with ripped neck and oversized armholes, from Ali’s position hanging down to show her small and braless boobs. She always wore suede, denim or leather miniskirts with a bullet-belt accessory and often combined with fishnets and biker boots. Her studded leather jacket was comically hooked over the old hatstand by the venetian-blind covered office window. She wasn’t wearing too much make up, thick black Egyptian style eye shadow the outer lines stretching almost to the tips of her ears, while her dark lipstick was smeared. Her hair was in a soft mohawk, shaved at the side and back the jet-black length left long and raw but not gelled up, just left wild and limp. She was actually a pretty girl underneath it all. Her prettiness shining through, but the attire and the attitude kept her at a safe distance from making friends or, Ali supposed, getting hurt by them. She didn’t know why Bethany was taking political science while dressing like a punk rocker. The two didn’t gel at all.
She was bent over the desk, her arms stretched out, fingers curled over the opposite rim of the desk, full on white-knuckling it. And her anguish etched face was plainly revealing a profound discomfort. She half-turned her head to speak back over her shoulder at the Professor, whose face was a mask of squeezed shut eyes, drawn-back lips and gritted teeth.

“It hurts…! It hurts!”
“Shush!”
“Please… Please Professor! Hurry up and cum!”
“If you want me to hurry up, clamp down with your ass and squeeze my Johnson!”
“I can’t I… Ohhh! Ahhh! It hurts so bad, Professor!”
“Call me sir!”
“Sir…! Please!”
“Damn it, girl! I thought you had experience?! You told me you were a good fuck! You said you’d blow my mind! Put some fucking effort it to it, for Christ’s sake!”

She had sobbed through those last couple of minutes. Leaking eyes squeezed shut, obviously clenching tight with her rectum while he ploughed her. But then he was staring at the door noting their surreptitious voyeur. Somehow, he must have recognised Ali through the concealing glass, as he grinned at her and then brought a hand down on the punk chick’s pale little ass and then used the same hand to wave her into the room.
Amused by his dirty ploy, Ali quietly turned the handle and eased the door open. Standing in the doorway watching quietly as the professor noisily dumped his load up Bethany’s anal tract. The Goth girl finally spotted Ali standing there with her ‘caught you’ grin. And as soon as Donovan had let her up, she had grabbed her jacket and bolted.
It was quite the sight too, tits shuddering all over the place, shaved pussy on open display as her tight leather skirt remained hitched around her waist. Even flashing her red, palmprint laden buttocks as she shoved her way past Ali, weeping, and trying unsuccessfully to pull her skirt down over those obviously well-pummelled ass.

Ali and her tutor had sat there on opposite sides of his desk, he basking in the smells of sweat and sex, she carefully flirting, laying more hooks into him while he immersed himself in the sweet afterglow of having roughly sodomised one of his eighteen-year-old students.
He had made coffee while they had chatted - about Bethany and her background, about Ali and some of her own sexual past, and finally about her college work.
She had laid a couple of hints about internships and work experience and the like. All the while making sure he got plenty of good looks down her deep cleavage. Keeping him thinking about sex, keeping that candle lit, and filling his thoughts with ideas of him giving it to her.

And he had eventually got his way with Ali too, of course. Her techniques had worked brilliantly. He had made some phone calls and had spoken to Michaela Hadovich, a onetime contemporary of his. He had gone into education; while she had found her way into the political world proper and was currently the PA to the Secretary of Defence.
Of course, no one was under any illusions as to why she was the DoD’s PA, she was gorgeous. All the top guys had really beautiful woman as their PA’s, it was just done. The political hiring pool being practically a modelling agency, with additional skills.
Well, knew she was also beautiful, she had been told as much from the age of eleven or twelve and it had been reinforced by just about every boy and man she had met since then. She was an eighties Marilyn Monroe, and could go toe to toe with the likes of Racquel Welsh, or any number of B-movie ‘Scream Queens’ and she knew it.

She was proud that her manipulations of her tutor’s lust had gotten her something that she wanted for once. She wasn’t one of those girls, with no choice, begging him to have her in order to bail her out of a low grade or a poor exam result or getting caught cheating. A real life six-week internship in the heart of the fucking White House. How could she refuse to spread her legs for him for that particular diamond tiara.
They had done it in his car. A two-year-old silver Ford Taurus, its sizeable backseat gave them plenty of room. He made her strip off her clothes while he just unzipped his pants and levered out his already erect cock. It was only average in length but it was almost as thick around as Ali’s wrist.
She was certain she could take it inside her pussy, her last boyfriend had been well hung, but she did find herself sparing a sympathetic thought for Bethany Fellows, who had been made to take this fat meat up her ass.
She had ridden him cowgirl. His hands had been clamped to her buttocks, slapping and squeezing throughout, to make her fuck faster, like he was urging a horse to gallop. When he wasn’t growling and snapping out orders, his face was crushed against her big soft boobs. But again, he didn’t seem to have an ounce of gentleness about him. He sucked and chewed on her nipples, leaving irritating hickies and smears of saliva all over her areolae while her hardened nipples, throbbing and aching, remained sore from his nipping and biting for almost a day afterwards. Still, she kept her arms straight, elbows locked to push her boobs together around his buried face, her hands gripping his ribs while she bounced up and down on his lap.
He had cum noisily, and aggressively. And she had been able to feel the spurts like a water pistol being fired inside her clutching tunnel, as she had ground her hips. While his hands had clutched at her tensed buttocks, fingers clamping hard into the soft flesh there. His almost comical orgasmic bellowing had been muffled inside the drool slick flesh of her boobs, his face still pressed up against them.
She hadn’t cum, hadn’t even got close. He’d made her wet enough so that taking his cock inside her hadn’t been uncomfortable, but his harsh slapping of her buttocks and his rough sucking and biting of her sensitive nipples had replaced the lack of discomfort.
Of course, an anticipated ride to full on sexual ecstasy hadn’t been the expected reward anyway, a potential bonus perhaps. But no, her actual reward had appeared a week later, on desk under the window of her student digs - the official invitation letter from Michaela Hadovich with its official White House letterheaded paper and the envelope with the Presidential crest embossment.

And then, before she had known it, the weekend had been upon her and it was all packing her bags, train tickets and a journey south, finishing with a taxi from the station to her cheap hotel room in DC.

The Monday morning had been terrifying. Another taxi up to the White House, and then standing at the White House main gate, shivering in childish terror while speaking to a rifle-toting soldier. And then it had been - armed escort, security badge ID’s, introductions and sitting down to a formal induction before, at long last, meeting Michaela Hadovich in person for the first time.
That had been ten days ago. And it had taken exactly that long for her to catch sight of President Kennedy for the first time. Ten days of hoping and praying before her dream suddenly came true, at least, on the most rudimentary level. It was an experience lasting barely two seconds. Still, it was the illustrious Jacob “Call me John” Kennedy standing right there, practically within touching distance, live and unedited for the first time.

An open door, an ongoing conversation between Kennedy and his National Security Chief, Jacquie Stanley. Ali had been following Michaela along a corridor, which still all looked the same to her, when that all too familiar Californian accent, a voice she had heard almost daily from the age of nine, caught her attention. She peered to her left through the wide-open door of a room. Then she stopped and stared. And not only was the room the Oval office, but there was President Kennedy himself.
Still talking away, he turned his head and noticed her looking. And then paused to take her in, eyes roaming. Perhaps she should have felt afraid or offended, but she felt elated. The rumour of his womanising was that it was equal to that of his late father. And in that moment, she had the distinct sense that he was appraising her as a woman, the attractiveness of her features, the slender yet curvaceous beauty of her body beneath the fitted business suit. He even took the time to give her a little smile, even though his conversation hadn’t paused. However, the spell was broken when he slowly turned his attention back to Chief Stanley, even though his eyes were the last to turn away from her.
It took another shocked second before Ali realised that Michaela had just disappeared around a corner and she would have to hurry to catch up or get utterly lost and make a fool of herself. Still, she could not get the President's eyes and his ever-alluring smile out of her thoughts. He really had been undressing her with his eyes.
That night she had fingered herself to one big leg-shaker of an orgasm in her hotel room, fantasising about receiving an urgent phone call to come to the oval office, a car sent for her. And then finding Kennedy there, alone, waiting for her and all the things that he would do to her.

Of course there were huge pressures in the White House, “Leader if the Free World”, it couldn’t be any other way. However, something was going on and the mood in the White House, even to Ali - who knew less than nothing - felt as though whatever was happening wasn’t normal. Whatever was happening didn’t feel like every-day national and international political pressures.
She picked up numerous clues or impressions that she couldn’t quite pin down, the pressures felt both from inside the White House and from outside. It was about the President himself and at the same time it wasn’t. People were feeling increasingly uncomfortable but weren’t able to put their finger on why. There were even whispers that something was off with Kennedy himself, but Ali hadn't been able to narrow down what people were alleging.

She was worried about the guy. She wanted to help. Not that she would ever be allowed to get close enough to offer. Besides, what could little Ali offer him that he wasn't already getting from his advisors, his lawyers, his Secretary of State and all those guys… From his Personal PA.
Still, she allowed herself to fantasise about offering to help him de-stress, even though she didn’t know how best to go about it… “Do you have any ideas, Mr President…?”

And then one morning Kenndy’s PA, Dana Holden, was reported missing. Ali experiences a sudden blaze of White House excitement, the corridors and offices alive with nervous energy, vocal concern and whispered gossip.
No one knew where she had gotten to. No one knew even where to look. There was nothing on the camera feeds, no records of cars leaving or arriving overnight. Secret Service guys were running around, talking into their wrists. And every assistant under the sun was busy making calls, Ali included. She had been given a list of numbers along with a short script to “speak to Ms Dana Holden”. But there remained no sign of the thirty-something beauty.
Ali desperately wanted to put herself forward, to offer her own services to the President, just to help. But she knew it was silly and ridiculous. She was informed that the First Lady’s PA, Christina Kirshner, was temporarily taking on Dana Holden’s role, along with her usual duties.

Just like she had with Kennedy, Ali caught initial sight of the First Lady, along with Christina Kirshner, in the moment prior to a Secret Service agent shutting the door in her face. However, in that moment, she snagged her initial first-person hint of gossip and she found it more than a little concerning - and blatantly unbelievable. Mrs Kennedy seemed to be afraid of her husband. In the half sentence that Ali was able to catch, the First Lady let slip to her close friend and confidant that she was terrified that “John” was somehow responsible for the disappearance of Dana.
That was downright ridiculous. Surely down to stress or something - First Lady, living in the white House, never left alone, gossip about her all over the papers, paparazzi all over the place, trying to snatch photos of her son, trying to keep five-year-old Norman safe and give him a normal life – that would stress anyone out. So, stress must be the cause, not thinking straight. Maybe they'd had an argument the previous night and it had put the First Lady into a certain distrusting frame of mind.
Maybe Kennedy had been caught banging Holden. Screwing a hot PA wasn’t exactly unheard of in political circles. That close working relationship, many long nights spent together preparing for the following day, a drink or two to take the edge off and recharge the batteries, a little stress relieving quickie over a desk was the next logical step.

The following day, the missing PA was suddenly on the back burner because of some previously hinted at yet barely mentioned ‘overseas trouble’.
Again, it took a while for news of any kind to filter down far enough that Ali got to hear it. And details were none existent. But something was definitely up, something over in Japan. There was so much panicked activity that she couldn't get a handle on what it was, sometimes it sounded like a natural catastrophe, a tsunami or something though, inexplicably, it seemed like it had happened a couple of weeks earlier. Other times people were running around and shouting like it was a potentially imminent attack on actual American soil. But by the Japanese? Ali simply didn’t believe it.

The following morning, three days after having first spotted President “call me John” Kennedy, she met him again. And in that moment, everything changed for her. Forever.

Again, actually even more than yesterday, the morning in the offices were a rabid flurry of activity. Ali could almost believe that everyone around her was high was on speed, running around as if the water had been spiked. Though it felt closer to high energy than panic.

“Something’s going on. Something big.” Carol Templeton announced by way of greeting as Ali set down her purse.

She was familiar by now with this particular assistants’ office. Though everyone had been so busy that most of the introductions to the other staffers had not been retained. Faces and voices she recognised, a lot of smiles and nods but, names … only a couple had stuck. It was something she was going to have to work on - short term information retention.
The room itself almost felt like a newspaper office, and the gang of assistants had the feel of journalists, fast talking, fast typing, cigarette smoking, coffee by the gallon. The room was made up of long lines of desks rather than individual cubicles, lots of computers and typewriters and telephones, piled up ashtrays, coffee machines and platters of stale Danishes along one wall.
Carol Templeton, in these weeks in the ‘centre of the civilised world’, had been as much of an advisor and teacher to Ali as Michaela or anyone else. But she was quick and cool, not particularly funny or sociable. An ‘all business all the time’ type.

“Big? Like what?” Ali asked her.
“Don’t know exactly, South Asia, Sea of Japan. We’ve already lost contact with Okinawa base.”
“Definitely something weird is going on.” One of the men called out to no one in particular.
“Like a tidal wave or something?”

Carol offered a shake of the head, she was on hold on her phone, lighting a cigarette with her free hand.

“We’re not at war!” Ali gasped.
“Not yet….” Someone muttered as he passed behind her.
“I don’t really understand it myself. Conflicting information from different sources. But no, we’re not at war.”
“You sure about that, Templeton…?” Another of the men commented as he hurried past.

He was in such a hurry that he was spilling coffee all over the carpet as he accidentally butted his thigh into the corner of a desk. He cursed, interrupting himself.

“…An aircraft carrier and escort has already been ordered to the edge of Japanese waters.”

Ali turned to get Carol’s response but she was no longer on hold and was already throwing rapid-fire sentences into the mouthpiece.

“When did that happen?” Ali asked the man with the coffee.

He had put down his cup down and was muttering curses under his breath, rubbing at his bruised thigh.

“Few days ago... Fuck, that smarts.”
“Do you know what’s going on?”
“No. They’re keeping it hush-hush. But from what I’ve picked up its something big… Like, catastrophic.”
Ali felt her heart hammering in her chest and she felt the colour draining from her cheeks. She turned back to Carol just as she put the handset back on its cradle.

“What can I do?” Ali asked.
“Nothing for now. Just have your notepad ready, and be ready for anything. It’ll be all-go for the foreseeable, quick change-on-a-dime situations. We gotta keep on top of a fluid situation. Just stick on my heels, and keep eyes and ears wide open.”

Ali nodded, determined. But Carol was back on the phone again, answering this time. Michaela Hadovich popped her head around the door. Calling out a request for a couple of guys to type up meeting minutes from last night. Ali knew better than to volunteer, that required a certain level of authorisation that her junior intern position didn’t allow.
The guy with the bashed leg and one of the female assistants Ali had exchanged nods and smiles with, grabbed their things and headed for the door. Moving aside to let them pass, Michaela spotted Ali and frowned for a second.

“Ali, I should warn you,” Michaela said, “there’s a chance you might be sent home. If they decide you’re too junior to be here at this time.”
“Oh, okay.” Ali said, unable to hide her disappointment.
“Or they might all be too busy to give it a thought. I know that ain’t what you want to hear… Just… be prepared for anything kiddo.”

Ali gave her a smile and an enthusiastic nod. And then Michaela was gone.
For the next twenty minutes she went into lowly assistant mode, while trying to keep out of everyone’s way. She emptied overflowing ashtrays, discarded cold and abandoned coffee. And took orders for replacements. Two thirds of the time the guys were polite and thanked her, even the guys on the phone flashed her smiles. In fact, she was surprised really at how fairly she had been treated so far. She had expected numerous ‘playful’ spanks on the ass or an accidental slide of an arm against her boobs by a passerby. But these guys were all pretty good to her, respectful. Too busy for pranks and the like. There was plenty of stares into her cleavage of course but that had been a daily occurrence since her mid-teens with half the time, more than half the men struggling to speak to her face, happy to chat to her boobs. But again, that was par for the course in her experience.

All in all, Ali felt pretty good, making herself useful and not slowing anyone down with getting in the way and constant questioning. All the while keeping her ears open and her mind whirling. Whatever was happening it was serious, there was an oppressive anxious atmosphere, though it was lanced through with a kind electricity, unfocussed excitement.

Ali had done everything she could do and was hanging around by the coffee machine, out of the way but within earshot of a good number of the assistants, trying to pick up on what it was that had everyone so flummoxed. Japan. Catastrophic. Maybe a natural phenomenon. Maybe not an attack. She couldn’t imagine Japan declaring war on anyone. They had no nukes and only a small defence force with no real capability for invasion. They dare not attack China or North Korea. The last thing they would want to do was to provoke their potential enemies. Maybe they were the ones under attack? But then, why the secrecy?
The door swung open and an assistant burst in, starting across the room. He caught Ali’s eye without really seeing her or taking her in.

“Don’t know what the hell this thing is, but it sure as hell don’t read like no natural phenomenon.”

For a second, she thought he was talking to her, but it soon became clear that he was just muttering to himself as he passed her by. Still, his eyes dived into her cleavage for a second before he had his back to her. The next second, he was taking a seat at his desk.
Ali found herself following him. He looked up at her as she leaned over the corner of his desk, her boobs right in his face, a deliberate accident. And silent payment for her proffered question.
“Sorry, what did you mean ‘not a natural phenomenon’?”
“Hmm?”
His eyes were staying right where she expected. Still, he answered her question. She locked her arms, elbows pressing her boobs together in their lace-trimmed tank top that she wore beneath her jacket, locked arms adding another couple of inches to the depth of her cleavage.
“Oh, just trying to analyse data babe, only it ain’t making sense. And now there’s no information coming out of Japan. While the radio traffic from the countries around it is a real mess. Nothing making any sense.”
“But you said it wasn’t a natural phenomenon, do we even know what it might be? If not natural. It has to be something manmade, doesn’t it?”
“Just bullshit, that don’t make any sense, girl. You ever see that old Raymond Burr movie, Godz…?”

The door opened and Michaela burst in again, looking far more haggard than the last time. Even though her entry all but silenced the room - other than a telephone ringing on a desk at the back, a fax machine making its electronic music and a dot matrix printer rattling away - that initial distraction deafened Ali to whatever the assistant guy was saying into her cleavage. Seeing Michaela’s eye locking onto her, Ali straightened up quickly, pulling the creases and folds out of her jacket.

“Ali? Believe it or not, you’ve been requested. Please follow me.”
“What? Really? Great!”
“Just grab your essentials, for now.”

Ali grabbed her purse and her notepad and pen and hurried to the door, catching it just as it slid shut in the aftermath of Michaela’s departure. By the time Ali was out of the room and in the corridor, Michaela was half a dozen paces ahead of her. Forcing the girl to hurry to catch up.

“What’s going on?” She asked.
“You been asked for personally. But that might not be as good as it sounds to you. Things are happening here and I for one am not too happy about it.”

Before Ali could ask for details or clarification, Michaela was literally waving-away her own commentary.

“Don’t mind me girl, I’m just bullshitting.”
“Well… asked for by who?”
“The President. He wants a replacement for Dana. And he spotted you. It’ll pretty much be fetch-and-carry, so don’t worry about being overwhelmed by duties and responsibilities. And you be assisting Christina, but still, it’s the inner sanctum, girl.”

Ali was taken aback, she couldn’t think of what to say. It didn’t help that the corridor had just gotten busy. Men and women hurrying past, weaving in and out, sometimes getting it wrong and causing a momentary blockage for Michaela and herself. Little sheepish apologies followed, along with working around each other, and then hurrying to catch up or keep up with colleagues.
President Kennedy, the delicious Jacob Kennedy himself had personally requested her to be brought in as his replacement PA! What the hell was going on? She was still trying to think of a viable response when she realised Michaela was actually still talking to her.

“Remember hon, take in as much as you can, but zip your lips, right now no one’s gonna have the time to answer questions. Maybe later.”
“Right, gotcha.”

She knew enough geography by this time that they were heading to the Oval office. And it was complete hustle and bustle along the corridors. Snatches of conversations kept filling her attention as she hurried along in Michaela’s wake.

“Where is it now?”
“Unknown. Norad lost track. They’ve got three AWACS spread out over the south Pacific but, they’ve fucking lost it.”
“What? How in the hell can you lose something that damn big?!”
“Voice down, pal. You’re shouting out classified bullshit.”
“Yeah but, what is it? Estimated at like, three-thousand feet? How can you lose something like that?”
“That’s conservative. Like, really conservative.”

“How’s the orbit?”
“Not good. We’re talking a forty-eight-hour travel time.”
“Two full days? Damn… And docking?”
“Don’t even ask.”
“Damn.”
“Gotta go, brother. I need to make sure wireless connectivity remains viable.”

“See that blonde intern? Fuck!”
“Yeah, what the bet ‘Call me John’s’ after a piece ‘a that!”

She baulked at the last overheard comment, throwing daggers back at the two young men who had already passed her by. They were both looking back but were too focussed on her ass, cinched in her tight A-line skirt to even realise she was scowling back at them. She felt herself being pulled to the side and turned her attention back to face front in time to recognise that she was actually walking into the Oval office.

“Hawaii is the frontier. If it passes Hawaii, they’re heading for PEOC.”
“It’s on the move. Registered velocity… over three hundred fifty knots!”

The room was pretty packed. Most of them, Kennedy included, were sitting on the two couches that faced each other, framing a long, low table to the left of the centre of the room. While the Presidential desk sat in the floor-to-ceiling bay windows to the right. The President, his Chief of Staff, the National Security Secretary, to head of the DoD and all their PA’s were present. So were a couple of heavily medalled General types. There were a couple of computers and an intercom system set up on the low table between the two sets of couches.

“Just take a seat here for a moment, until you’re called for.” Michaela whispered.

Then the PA to the head of the DoD crossed the room, with a model-perfect sashay, and slid down into position on the edge of the closer of the two couches alongside her boss, crossing her long legs and readying her notepad and pen on her lap. Without looking across at her as, like everyone else he was focussed entirely on the computer monitor facing him, Jefferson Chainey idly slid a palm up and down Michaela’s skirt covered thigh, just the once. It could have been affection, but to Ali it very much implied more than that.
She glanced to her right and noted, then slid down into, the small padded wooden chair backed up against the wall. Just like Michaela, she crossed her thighs and positioned her notepad at the ready, a quick but decisive stretched back of her shoulders thrust her young bosom forward and parted the front of her buttoned-up jacket just a little more. Then she settled down to watched and listen and wait.

“For comparison, how fast are our Naval craft?” Kennedy asked.
“Average of around thirty or thirty-five knots, Mr President.” A uniformed military man said.
“Jesus…”

[Nickamano]

Chapter 2.

From her position Ali could barely make out the green on black display on the monitor. It appeared to be the clockface-like image of a radar screen, the spinning arm like a second hand, with a number of pinhead size blips. And one much larger, maybe the size of a one-cent coin.
Though she was trying to pay attention, most of what was said was going over her head, it was speeds and coordinates but she didn’t know what ‘it’ was supposed to be. An enemy plane? Maybe it was a sub. And she was looking at a sonar display.
All too soon, her mind started to wander. She wondered about Mrs Kennedy. She was probably in the First Lady’s Office over in the East Wing, or maybe upstairs with her son.

“Where is it now?”
“Mid Pacific, Mr President. Heading East.”
“Hawaii?”
“Definitely heading in that direction, Mr President.”
“We can only hope it’ll pass it by. But if it does, the next stop will be the Continental United States.”
“Maybe it’ll hit Cuba.” Someone muttered.

The talk of ‘Continental United States’ and ‘hit’ snapped Ali straight back into the Oval Office. Straightening her posture, she mentally chastised herself for losing focus. Hit Cuba? Perhaps a missile? An ICBM? Did the Japanese have ICBMs? Maybe one of their own? A malfunction or an accidental launch? Ali told herself to stop guessing and just to listen carefully.

“It’s hit Hawaii!”

There was a collective gasp. A few muttered swear words. Some of the bosses slid a reassuring arm around their white-faced PA’s. And then, barely three seconds later. The room was nothing but grim and weighty silence. Nothing but a distant sound of a telephone ringing and the ticking of the old solid gold mantle clock.
That silence, three seconds that felt like three years, was broken by one of the military men.

“All communications cut off, sir.”
“That’s it, Mr President.” Susan Coyote, Kennedy’s Chief of Staff said. “Its next stop is this Continent. You agreed…”
“Yes, yes Susan. I remember what I said. Get my wife and son ready. Everyone else, you all know your jobs. Let’s make this happen as smoothly and quickly as possible.”

Everyone involved rose in Kennedy’s wake, but Michaela was the first to sidle up to the President, she whispered into his ear and nodded in Ali’s direction. He turned his head and looked. And grinned. Michaela turned and swept away, hurrying after her boss.
The President’s Chief of Staff took hold of Kennedy’s upper arm and they completed a hurried exchange. However, Kennedy’s eyes barely left Ali’s seated figure, one of those glazed looks as though he was actually looking right through her. Still, she felt herself straightening up and then standing up and once again awkwardly pulling folds and creases out of her professional looking suit.

The President and Chief of Staff having completed their business, Susan Coyote swept across the room to get the attention of the Secretary of State while Kennedy, attention wholly on Ali, crossed the room to stand in front of her. Face to face with the President, it felt to Ali like standing in front of a shut door, tall and broad and bulky, practically rectangular. While the door itself - or really what was beyond it - held the promise of potential opportunities.

“The young intern.” Kennedy said, eyes alight as he stared down at Ali. “Miss…?”
“Whitmer, Mr President…”

Jacob Kennedy was a tall man, and toe-to-toe her eyeline would be lower sternum. This close, she had to crane her neck to look him in the eye. And as she watched him, she noted unsurprisingly that he was no more immune to the hypnotism of her cleavage than any other man. Not surprising in the slightest, he had long possessed his father’s reputation as a womaniser.

“What’s you first name, Miss Whitmer?”
“Alina… Ali, Mr President.”
“Real pleasure to meet you, Ali. I have need of you. You’re to come with me.”
“Yes, Mr President.”

Her heart was fluttering like crazy and she felt like she was shaking all over, uncontrollably, her nipples instantly beginning to stiffen. She silently thanked the concealing thicker cotton of her jacket. She could even feel slick, warm movement between her vulva. She hoped her panties weren’t already getting damp.

“Stick to my heels, young lady. We’re moving quickly, so don’t get lost or left behind.”
“No sir, Mr President.”
“And Ali, I know you’re full of a million questions. And I will absolutely make time for you. But kindly hold off until I let you know.”
“Absolutely Mr President. I’m here to follow your orders. Whatever you say.”
“That’s my girl!” He grinned. “Off we go then. Stay close now.”

That infectious grin if his floored her. She’d had that face, that smile, plastered to her bedroom wall, and in her fantasies, for over a decade.

“Yes sir, Mr President.” She stammered, throwing her best smile back at him.

The thrill she felt, at “Mr President” and that it was Him, the power he had, a thought flickered into her torrid mind - only tall and handsome men, like Kennedy, should be allowed to be President.
She was terrified that the aroma of her damp pussy might be detectable. But quickly shut down the paranoia. It was foolish, she’d be the first to smell herself and she couldn’t, so that was that. Even so, the way he looked at her for that one extra half-second, staring into her eyes with that infectious smile. And hadn’t his nostrils flared a little?

The next hour was a tumult of confusing activity. She eventually managed to confirm two things; firstly, that they were being evacuated from the White House. And secondly that, by all accounts, Hawaii no longer existed. Whatever it was that had struck had completely obliterated the entire island in an instant.
To Ali that suggested a nuclear strike, with multiple warheads. What else could destroy the entire island of Hawaii in a single instant? Which meant they must be at war with someone. China or the Russians, but they had the new peace with the Russians… Had that fallen through somehow? She couldn’t wrap her brain around the snippets she was catching on to. And to make things more confusing still, were the reports that they were struggling to locate the whatever-it-is’s position. But if it was a ‘whatever-it-is’, then it couldn’t be a country or a foreign power.
She thought of The Hunt for Red October. She had read the book, a few years ago after a recommendation from her father. That had been about a rogue nuclear submarine. That could account for this situation. Russian submarines carried numerous nuclear warheads, didn’t they? Like a couple dozen? Would that be enough to destroy the whole of Hawaii? She couldn’t think about that - all those people, the devastation, the radiation. It was too horrifying, so she shut that process down before it got started.

People were packing, grabbing up things they thought they would require, generally running around in not quite organised-panic mode. Ali felt no different, she had no idea whatsoever how or when the evacuation would occur, where they would be going or for how long. She assumed no one knew. It was a fluid situation after all.
She wondered if and when she would be able to let her parents know about her own evacuation. They had the number of her hotel and they had the switchboard and department extension number here in the White House, but she had no idea where they were going or how long she would be away. And right now, it felt far too personal and selfish a question to ask.

There were three helicopters on the south lawn outside, three big ones – VH-60s she believed. They were obviously waiting for the staff chosen to be evacuated with the President. Apparently, there were two emergency locations and the heads of departments were being divided up as a security and safety factor. Some, including Ali, were joining the Kennedy’s in one location, while the others would join the Vice President and his family. She supposed the Helicopters must be Marine One, and maybe Two and Three?
Ali managed to gain enough information to confirm she was being put on the same helicopter with the President, his wife and son, along with her PA and Susan Coyote with her PA. While the second and third helicopters would take most of the department heads; the head of the DoD, the NSA chief and their respective PA’s, no doubt with a sprinkling of armed Secret Service agents in each.

Before she knew it - and she didn’t know it until they emerged from a door and were then hurrying across the south lawn toward the waiting helicopters - all of a sudden, the preparations were complete and the evacuation was fully underway.
The President has his own private window seat, with a second seat facing his and a small table between them. Mrs Kennedy took that one with her boy on her lap. Behind the President’s seat was a two-seater couch occupied by Susan Coyote and her PA. While backed up to the opposite bulkhead was a three-seater couch. Ali, Kennedy junior, who was passed across to Christina Kirshner, the First Lady’s PA all sat there. A female Secret Service agent joined them, perched on the corner of the couch pressed up close to Ali. A male Secret Service agent joined them bringing the total passenger contingent to nine. The male agent remained standing to the rear, holding onto a white leather handhold screwed into the fabric-covered bulkhead.
The décor was the expected white and cream, with wooden trim that matched the tables and Presidential blue carpets throughout.

Ali checked her watch, though she didn’t know the speed of helicopters or where they were going so there was little point in checking on the time. They would get where they were going when they got there. It was probably classified anyway.
She wanted to ask about letting her parents know that she was heading to an unknown location as part of the President’s retinue, but the helicopter was full and as the youngest person on board by at least a decade or more (ignoring five-year-old Norman), she felt embarrassed at the idea and so kept her mouth shut. There should be plenty of time for all that once they got where they were going.

She felt eyes on her. Both the Kennedy’s had their heads turned toward the couch seat where Ali was sitting. Heather Kennedy was watching her son, smiling at him and muttering gentle soothing comments and questions. The President was looking at Ali. She felt herself blushing profusely but looked back at Jacob Kennedy with a welcoming smile. A smile of his own awaited her, though his eyes were roaming her jacket and skirt-covered figure opulently. She watched him for a while, half wanting to flirt somehow, cross her legs maybe, or shift herself so her boobs moved under her jacket. Just something nice for him. De-stressful hopefully.
But then his eyes shifted over onto the Secret Service agent perched on the edge of the couch beside her. She was more precarious in her posture, one arm stretched across the back of the cushions gripping the seatback to keep her balance. Her legs, in snug, high-waisted Navy trousers were spread apart, another way to maintain her balance and Ali supposed, her combat readiness. She also wore a sportscoat style jacket that matched the deep blue of her trousers and a plain white blouse. Of course, she was supremely fit and athletic, probably Olympic level or thereabouts. So, it was expected she would have a great figure beneath her business suit. Plus, the way she was sitting her clothes pressed shear against her supple curves, perhaps more than she would like.

President Kennedy had been personally instrumental in bringing more up-coming female military into the Secret Service, and had hand-picked a number for his personal protection detail. Ali believed there to be five of them. There had been an article about it in Forbes magazine, though of course their identities had been kept secret and the few photos attached to the article were all distant telephoto lens captured images.

Someone’s phone rang, it was a wall mounted handset beside the two Kennedy’s. Heather’s attention had been on her son sitting across the other side of the aircraft, now playing quietly on the lap of Christina Kirschner, but she immediately reached for the receiver, put it to her ear and listened to the voice on the other end. She lifted her eyes and caught her husband’s attention, his eyes had returned to Ali, until he felt his wife’s attention on him. She swung the mouthpiece down beneath the smooth length of her slender throat.

“Landfall.” She reported, her voice heavy. “California.”

Kennedy nodded then reached for the phone. Heather passed it across. Ali noted how pale she looked. The President announced himself, listened. Frowned. Shook his head slightly.

“Check your accuracy, keep us updated on changes in direction. That’s quite alright, son.” He said and then put the phone back on its cradle.

He looked at his wife and then across at the others. Susan Coyote shifted in her seat and leaned out into the passageway to look back at her boss.

“Baja Peninsula.” He said. “Travelling south. At the moment.”
“Total destruction?”
“By all accounts.”
“What is it, Sir?” Ali couldn’t help herself.
“We don’t know. Something. Came out of Tokyo, Japan two weeks ago.” He said and then looked away.
“Any attempts to capture information has failed.” Susan Coyote said, taking over. “We were hoping it might be a localised phenomenon. That the Japanese would deal with it. But they haven’t and now it’s gone international.”
“We don’t even know if it’s an organic or artificial phenomenon.”
“Like a UFO maybe?” Ali asked.

Immediately she felt herself blushing, as she heard the foolishness of the words coming out of her own mouth. Coyote’s assistant took over, as his boss settled herself back into her seat, apparently holding that twisted position was uncomfortable for her.

“We have wide satellite coverage. SETI and all the international observational astral telescopes at our disposal. Not one reported a thing. We just don’t know.”
“You’ll just have to sit and wait, young lady.” Heather Kennedy said, surprisingly Ali. “There’ll be a full briefing when we get where we’re going.”
“Yes, Mrs Kennedy. I apologise ma’am, I’m still new to all this. I’m sorry ma’am.”
“No need to apologise, Young Alina.” The President said, smiling at her. “We’re all stressed and uncertain. And my lovely wife is right. I’ll be filling you all in as soon as the time it right.”
“Yessir, Mr President.” Ali gushed.
“You’re in the safest place on Earth right now, Alina.” The First Lady added, with a slightly forced smile.
“I’m sure of it, Ma’am.”

Ali practically sang her reply, giving the stunning woman her best smile. Then, before thinking about what she was doing, she leaned forward surreptitiously and whispered to the TV star and First Lady.

“By the way I’m a huge fan. Since I was a little girl.”

It broke the ice with the First Lady and she flashed Ali her first, and famous beaming smile. There were good natured titters of laughter around them.

“You’re still a little girl!” Christina Kirshner said.

Even little five-year-old Norman, sitting beside her joined in with the laughter, though he could have no idea what he was joining in with. The laughter was interrupted by a crackle from the intra-com. The pilot’s voice coming through over the speakers.

“Half an hour out, Mr President. Making good time, sir.”

<><><>

The Helicopters touched down on a private airfield and the group were transferred to a fleet of limousines. This time Ali was separated from the Kennedy’s, sharing the third car with the two Secret Service agents who were all business and didn’t give her a single opportunity to converse.
She felt as much as heard the second helicopter touching down behind her as the limousine fleet started off along a road and then between two aircraft hangars. There didn’t seemed to be anywhere else around. On the far side of the hangars, they took a ramp the lowered them into a narrow tunnel. And there was nothing but two pairs of limousine’s rear lights and the flashing-by illumination of overhead tunnel lamps, casting obtuse pools of a dull, dirty amber.
The tunnel seemed to go on and on and, though it was hard to judge accurately, she had the sense that they were continually descending. Eventually they slowed and turned a corner pulling into what looked like a rather standard underground parking garage. Ali’s limo pulled in alongside the other two. She saw a dozen other vehicles parked in random places around the parking garage. Though the limousines all pulled into what appeared to be specialised parking spaces, closest to the elevator.

She got on board, catching up to the Kennedy’s and Coyote and her PA. Little Norman, assumedly named after his grandmother, was fast asleep, cradled in his mother’s arms. No one spoke. Ali noted as the door closed that the elevator only went down, garage floor and sublevels. Which was really strange. But then, so was the rest of the journey.
A corridor, low ceilinged and narrow. Golf carts transporting them quickly from one end to the other. Then there was another door leading what was basically one of those extendable boarding tunnels you occasionally had in airports. It led them into an enclosed space, its décor not unlike the interior of Marine 1. The colour scheme was the same too, though the seats all pointed front to back like a standard passenger plane. However, they were moulded more than padded, more utilitarian. And sported impressively convoluted safety-harnesses.
The First Lady and Christina Kirschner were busy fitting little Norman into a child seat which was already strapped into the moulded utilitarian seat. Susan Coyote’s PA collected Ali and lead her to a seat to the rear, helping her into her harness.

“Actually, you might want to head rear and visit the powder room first. This is going to be a long flight.”
“I’m okay, thank you. I haven’t actually drunk anything in a couple of hours, more I guess, so I won’t need to go for a while yet.”
“If you’re sure.” He said, shrugging.
“Can I ask where we’re going?”
“PEOC, the Presidential Emergency Operations Center? The location itself is classified. You’re in for a treat though, you’ve no idea how lucky you are, seriously.”

Ali didn’t know how to respond to that. She just nodded and allowed him to lock her into the seven-point seat harness. He was very careful not to touch her boobs, even when he almost had to in order to slide the straps over her shoulders and lock them into the cylindrical centre piece. He left her to tighten the straps herself, pulling on the loose ends. With a quick nod and warm smile, he left her and returned to his seat up front alongside Coyote’s.
She looked around. The President was leaning across toward the chair alongside his, apparently whispering to his wife, though Ali couldn’t see her face. She could see two of the female Secret Service agents looking serious and watchful and yet slightly unnerved. One of them even looked a little green around the gills.
There was a bit of a clatter up front somewhere and then additional voices, talking animatedly was heard approaching. Ali craned her neck and did her best to lean out into the walkway, wincing as the straps fought her, cutting into her flesh through her clothing. She caught sight of two more Secret Service guys, one male one female, entering the pod and after paying their respects to the President, they took their seats to his left at the front of the pod. It occurred to Ali for the first time that, not only were there now two female Secret Service agents present but that they were both exceptionally beautiful women. She guessed it was probably down to Kennedy, just wanting to surround himself with beautiful women no matter what their jobs were.

A voice came over the intra-com.

“We have our full complement now, Mr President, and preflight checks have been completed. Ninety-degree elevation is about to get underway.”

Ninety-degree elevation? What was that? What was going on? She looked around, trying to catch someone’s eye But no one was looking her way. In fact, most of those she could see had their eyes closed.
And then the whole world started to slowly move, a universal rotation, lifting her upward and backward head first, making her stomach lurch. It felt like a fun-park ride, slowly being taken up to the top of the tracks, heart hammering away. Then the pause, with the exquisite anxiety of it, before the world abruptly drops out from under you. And she was sitting there, now literally shivering, waiting for her world to drop. The Intra-com kicked in again -

“T-minus three minutes.” - and then, thirty seconds later - “Engine gimble test complete.”

Ali leaned a little to her right into the walkway, she could see President Kennedy, or at least the left side of him, the side of his face, his shoulder and arm and left leg. His steel grey pants were riding up beyond his ankles revealing presidential blue socks, even featuring the Presidential crest on them. Ali had to bite down a giggle.
For a second, she wondered if he had heard her, as his head turned to the left to show off more of the side of his face, however she quickly realised that he was catching the attention of one of the female Secret Service agents seated to his left. She also realised there was a mirror positioned in the seat back facing the agent’s position, allowing her a good view of the rear of the pod.
President Kennedy, lifted his hand and made a little waving gesture to the agent.

She responded with a little nod, quickly slapped her central harness lock and freed herself from her straps. It allowed her, with some awkwardness, to lean out of her chair toward the middle of the walkway, which by now was a vertical drop. Kennedy did likewise, unlocking himself and then gripping his seat back with one hand, he leaned to the left until their heads were almost together. Leaning in another inch or two, she put her ear close to his lips.
Interested and happy with the distraction, Ali watched them both closely. This was obviously a private conversation, something security based. Sitting behind them, quite a few seats behind, Ali could neither read lips nor gauge facial expressions. Instead, she found herself assessing the woman.
She had short brown hair, soft waves that were pinned to keep them under control and away from her face. Her light brown-skinned complexion suggested perhaps a Hispanic heritage. Features were difficult to see due to the angle, but there were suggestions of full lips, quite a flat nose, and long lashes. She couldn’t see her eyes at all. Ali guessed she was probably in her thirties. Under the professional pants suit and white blouse, she had a short and compact figure, and whatever curves she might have had were tightly contained beneath her clothes. Cinched.

Ali saw a flush burst across the agent’s full cheeks. And she appeared to be staring into the President’s eyes, while he looked back at her with what Ali thought was a smirk. Still blushing, she gave POTUS a belated nod. He made some kind of dismissive gesture and she leaned back into her seat, locking herself back behind her harness. Now Ali could see her in the mirror, her warm brown eyes were lowered, the blush barely faded, looming discomfort, refusing to look at anyone else.
The Intra-com cracked to life -

“Tank pressurization underway.” - and then, at two minutes - “Engine purge complete.”
“Go for auto sequence start.” - at ninety seconds, and counting - “Go for main engine start.”

It was only in that particular moment that Ali realised where she was, or at least the first suspicions were born. Vague memories of seeing footage of rocket launches, Apollo 11, Saturn 5, the Challenger tragedy. Her stomach dropped and a wave of anxiety overcame her.

“T-minus 10… 9… 8… 7… 6…” - “All three engines up and burning.” - “2… 1… Zero. And, lift off.”

The sudden eruption of thrust and acceleration was like a wall slamming into Ali, crushing her against her seat. She couldn’t help but scream. However, within a couple of seconds there was no more air in her lungs and it was a real fight to fill them again. The violent rattling of the pod as well as the sheer dragon-roar of the solid fuel rocket engines blasting away at the same time, deafened anything except her scream, that echoed inside her own ears.

Through the violent shaking that obliterated her vision, making it useless, she noted a something red and black; a shapeless blur ahead of her at the front of the pod. More than likely on the forward bulkhead. She simply hadn’t noticed it before. She would put money on it being a digital clock or some kind of read-out display. However, there was just too much full-body shaking at the moment. She even felt her boobs shaken out of her bra, even though the slamming g-forces pinned her into the seat, whatever level those forces were, it felt outright insufferable. She wanted to lift her hand to her chest to rearrange her clothing or at least trap the front of her jacket and keep it from bellying open. However, she couldn’t manage to uncurl her white-knuckled fingers from the armrests of her chair.
The shaking seemed to go on forever, as they continued to ascend through the layers of Earth’s atmosphere towards orbit. At some point the Intra-com crackled again, a voice coming over the speaker, shaky but plainly audible -

“Second shuttle launch is go.” - and a few seconds later - “Second shuttle cleared tower.”


Finally, everything became weightless. Immediately the President was delightedly uncoupling himself from his seat and floating free. Ali watched him glance across at the female Secret Service agent and then hook himself clear of his seat, stretching out horizontally in the air. It was a strange thing to witness. Other passengers were also starting to uncouple themselves. But Ali had no intention of following their lead until she was instructed to. Where the hell were they going? Was this a new supersonic type of high-altitude flight? Was the PEOC somewhere in Alaska? Or Some US owned island out in the Pacific?

Playfully, like an overexcited child, Kennedy pushed away from his seat, positioning himself, floating over the centre aisle. He was holding onto his own headrest and that of the seat across from his, for stability. Laughing, he launched himself forward, flying through the air like Superman. It really was like watching a kid at play, Ali thought. Though it just made her love the man even more.

“Hitting the head, be right back.” He said to on one in particular.

Then he was shooting past Ali’s chair, grinning like the Cheshire cat, and giving her a little wink as he passed her by. A few seconds later, the female Secret Service agent was following him. Did he really need close protection even in here?
Ali gingerly unclipped herself from the upper half of her harness, still secured from the waist down. She leaned out and noted, with relief, that no one else was out of their seats or better still looking in her direction. She reached inside her jacket and shuffled about until her boobs were back in their bra and all felt right again, as much as they could in zero gravity.
She heard a little click and clunk behind her. Again no one ahead of her was looking toward the rear, they were either talking quietly with whoever sat closest to them or were engaged in items on their person, an open briefcase, a Filofax, careful of free-floating pens, paper clips and papers. There was another thump from behind and Ali twisted around in her chair and looked back toward the powder room. Or ‘head’? Was that the correct term while on board a plane? Probably anything but powder room. And then all thoughts of correct terminology for a toilet cubicle were thrust right out of her head.

The head cubicle was not quite shut, the standing door ajar by perhaps six or eight inches. And in the gap, Ali could see the President floating there, almost in profile. His pants were open and his erect penis was sticking out of his flies like some solid oak nightstick. It looked almost inhuman; not in appearance, though it did appear particularly massive in both length and girth even beyond her illicit teenage fantasies. However, it was the colouring that made it seem unearthly. Ali had been with men, had played with boyfriend’s penises, and at their most rampant and blood-filled they had looked ruddy brown compared to the pale or tan of the boyfriends’ Caucasian skin. President Kennedy’s erect penis appeared almost purple, like it was bruised. It also looked bloated, practically bulging and pulsing with a life of its own. The dance of veins across the foreskin looked red and blue, while the fat crown was terrifically swollen, smooth and shiny with its hardness, and the colour of beets.

Kennedy had a steadying hand on the door. A casual body movement shoved it open another few inches to reveal the attractive Secret Service agent. She was floating just above the carpeted floor, practically in a foetal position, her eyes locked on her POTUS, her anxious face in line with that shocking phallic baton. It was obvious what was about to happen, and Ali found herself wondering if this would be the first time in zero gravity.
It was pretty shocking to witness, face to face and, not wanting to be caught staring, Ali whipped her head back to gaze up toward the front of the pod. Fortunately, no one else was looking back up the walkway, no one’s attention on her or looking to see where the President had gone. Or the agent for that matter.
The noise that came from the cubicle was quiet enough but Ali, being the closest and only one seemingly aware, could hear it distinctly. A wet sounding throaty assault -

“HUUAWK!” - “HRRK! HRRRK!” - “ACK! ACK! ACK!” - “AWK! AWK! ACK!” - “AUCK! AUCK! HUUARRK!”

- was all Ali needed to have her head whip back around and almost involuntarily, lean herself out into the aisle.

The poor female agent looked supremely uncomfortable. In normal gravity she would have been on her knees, probably with her hands behind her back. But in zero gravity he had both her with her arms and legs wrapped around his legs, clinging to him with her lips encircling the Presidential penis. Of course, Kennedy his had both of his hands on her head, a handful of hair and a handful of her skull. Her mouth was wide open to take his shocking length, jaw flexed and opened to the extreme.
Her cheeks were visibly hollowing, suction pulling them inward and with a noticeable rhythm.
She worked hard on the Presidential meat while Kennedy plunged it forward and back at a shockingly rapid pace, visibly driving deep into the fist-tight tube of the poor woman’s throat.

The zero-gravity created more unexpected consequences, the agent’s slobber, squirting from her orifices, drool, tears and mucus were forming a combined halo around her lower face and Kennedy’s shaft. Some of it clung to their skin and clothes but much of it bounced in globules between them, hitting, sticking, tumbling free, bouncing off, going in all directions. Again, in normal gravity her face would be a mess, tears streaking her make up, slobber pouring down her chin and mucus dribbling from her nose. But here there was no gravity to pull all that liquid away from her face, and it hung about in a way that to Ali seemed both messy and dangerous, potentially blocking airways. Kennedy didn’t appear to care as he held her head tight, dragging her face back and forth as rapidly and far as he could, like a magician making his entire penis disappear past her lips again and again.
He pushed back on her head, angling her throat until it was stretched out straight, Kennedy pumping his full length up and down in the gripping orifice. He kept her that way until the end. More than once, minor geysers of slobber would burst up from her lip-seal in time with his thrusts and then continue their trajectory until they hit something and bounced away, or clung to a surface.

It came to an end with a pop rather than an explosion, though Ali was almost certain there was an explosion, just that it was spurted magnificently down into the depths of the agent’s over-burdened gullet. At the last, he shoved himself balls deep, so his big hairy scrotum was pressed against her chin, and ground his crotch into her face. Ali watched in mute shock as he worked his hips in little grinding circles, giving her little inch-deep thrusts while he thew his head back, the aggressive movement introducing a slow midair rotation to the two clung together bodies. In the middle of their slow-motion somersault, the President - groaning through his gritted teeth - started to shiver all over, his entire body quivering. That was the extent of his climax, at least from the outside.

In seconds he was done, softened penis relegated to his underwear, trousers zipped up. Drool stains in the fabric concealed behind the flaps of his suit’s jacket.
He emerged from the cubicle, the epitome of power and confidence, a little smirk on his flushed handsome face. As he passed, he caught Ali’s eye and tossed her a casual wink. Then he was past her chair and returning to his seat, California cool.

Curious, Ali glanced back at the cubicle. The door was still ajar but given the angle she was sure she was the only one who could see into the little room. The agent was clinging one handed to a handhold beside the sink while she vomited and spat repeatedly into the tube-like receptacle, equipped with its own suction system. Once she was apparently better, she started with the towels to soak up the stains to her clothing, all those clinging spheres of fluid.
It took ten minutes at least before she reappeared, hair in a new, wet and finger-combed style, effectively clothing rearranged and somehow not revealing any hint of what the President had just done to her. Still, she looked pale and a little sickly, her previously subtle make-up wiped clean away. Face fresh, but femininity somehow lessened. She looked barely composed.
She also appeared to be unable to look anyone in the eye, especially not Kennedy. On retaking her seat, her partner appeared to speak to her, Ali could see movement in the mirror, but she just shook her head and looked down. Just once she turned her head and glanced across at Kennedy, he just smiled back at her, making her look away quickly. Ali frowned.

[Claire]

I read the prologue so far and what I find most inriguing about it is that we don't get to know what our pov character actually is other than that he is not (completely) human, most likely. I'm not familiar with the hentai this is based on, but I suppose it will get some knowing nods from fans of the original I briefly searched for the hentai and read that it is credited for making tentacle rape popular in hentai. Since I'm neither a fan of forced orgasms nor tentacles, I'm probably not the target audience for this story, but I appreciate the eerieness of the prologue nevertheless!

Also, I think some phrases suffer from missing words or repetitions that could be avoided. But I'm not sure whether you'd like me to point those out or not.

Is this something you wrote recently or again an older story?

Also, I noticed that there were no tags at all on the story, so I took the liberty to add the mandatory tags and a few optional ones based on your description of the story and what I read about the hentai. But please, feel free to adjust those!