Title: Saying the Words
Pairing: Leo/POTUS, implied Leo/POTUS/Abbey, mild consensual spanking
AUTHOR: Rain Redknife
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: none
BASED ON: "The West Wing" by Aaron Sorkin (not my characters, just
borrowing)
SCENE: Manchester, New Hampshire, the weekend after the election.
SETUP: Why do all the slash writers seem to assume that (a.) Leo and Jed will agree to stay away from each other during the first term and that (b.) Jed is a bottom and Leo a top? I think the opposite is at least as likely in both cases, and more likely than either in the latter case is a happy balance.
CRITIQUES?: Well, I just write what arouses me, and you aren't likely to change that. If this story turns you on, by all means write and tell me...but if it doesn't, isn't it simpler just to go write a fantasy that works for you? This is whack fic, not great art. :)
PLEASE, NO REPRINTS IN ANY MEDIUM WITHOUT PERMISSION.
________________________________

Saying the Words by Rain Redknife

"Ehhhhhh, Leo, life is good!"
On the couch before the fire, Jed Bartlet stretched and sighed as
contentedly as the old tomcat he is, and said it again, softer. "Life
is just so damn good."
"I couldn't agree more, Mr. President," I smiled. The title was new
on my lips, and made me a little selfconscious, but it felt fine, and
damn, had we half killed ourselves earning the right to use it!
Jed's smile deepened to his eyes, and he sat up and grinned at
me as only he can grin. Outside the windows of the warm, civilized old
house, drifts of muted crimson and gold blew by in the New England dusk.
"Thank you for that, old friend. The 'Mr. President', I mean."
I tried to brush this off, but he pressed on, beginning to twinkle
evilly. "No, I mean it. It can't necessarily be easy when you've been
calling me 'Jed' all these years, or 'Josiah' if you were pissed at me.
Or 'you old goat', or 'lust-o-matic' or even 'the Klutzmeister'. And
that last one, dammit, that's just _unkind_, though I'm far too much
the noble Stoic in character to take offense. Gawd," he burbled
happily, "when I think of what Washington would have done to a staff
member who called him that! Did you know that in 1794..."
And he was off and running. My best friend the Leader-Elect of the
Free World, a couple of knocks of Bushmills under his belt and finally
relaxed enough from victory to let himself slide out of campaign
discipline and into full, hilarious professorial rant mode, the goofy
sound of his once-in-a-generation mind idling in park. I let him
natter on and just watched his face.
"I love you," I said. Out it blurted in the middle of some obscure bit
of dish on Ben Franklin, stopping his regiment of words in its tracks.
What the hell, I figured, a little truth never hurt anybody, so I
finished the thought: "And I am so glad and proud and just so damned
happy to be here with you. I love you, Jed....and geeze, you old goat,
do you realize you're going to be my _President_?"
Not saying anything for a moment, he took hold of my hand. "Yes, I do,"
he finally said, a little huskily, "and it's mainly because of you that
I made it, so at the risk of being mawkish, let me say I'm going to try
to be an adequate one for you. Or at least not fuck it up too criminally and set the world on fire. Because I love you too, Leo.
I do."
This day had been a long time coming. I don't mean just the campaign,
though that was certainly long too; the American Presidential campaign
is the longest, nastiest, most grindingly awful job interview in the
history of the world, and it's a wonder anyone ever agrees to go through
it or, for that matter, lives through it sane.
No, he and I went back a lot further than that: 40 years, to college,
before Abbey, before politics and MS, when he still thought about
priesthood. And when I thought about civil rights law or Top Gun
school and wasn't yet a veteran of Hell East or a desperate drunk.
I won't tell that whole story, though others may think they tell it
after us; the term "best friends" only scantily covers certain great
and true depths of emotion.
Nor will I tell you everything about the night many years later that
I tried to die, drunk and sobbing and utterly beaten in a hotel parking
lot, and managed to hold onto just enough desire for life to make one phonecall, stay alive till he got there and respond as he wanted (by going to the ER at Mass General that night and checking myself into
detox the next morning) to his agonized and articulate fury that I
had just tried to murder his best friend.
I will simply say that it had been a long, strange trip with really
only one constant: our friendship. And suddenly I was overflowing with tired, grateful tears, and reaching for him. He got up quietly and came to me, and I'm not ashamed to say that I buried my face in his shoulder and finally let go for the first time in two years, weeping out all those long months' worth of exhaustion and tension along with the entire last five packed days' worth of relief, joy and healthy fear. He stroked my hair and just hung onto me, making comforting sounds.
After awhile I quieted, not detaching. "You know, don't you," I heard him say softly in my ear, "that there's really only one proper way to celebrate this business, and unwind from it?" His hands slid down to hold me at the waist, but he let me lean back far enough to look in his face. What I saw there made my heart turn over in my chest...and sent a damn good zing down the wires to points south while it was at it.
Understand, we have not been lovers in the normal sense since those
few wild nights of discovery in college; our marriages and jobs haven't
really left room for that. But on occasion, a few times a year, we've
certainly known how to...
Oh, hell, why am I talking this to death? Here's what happened: he
tilted my chin up with his fingertips, leaned in and kissed me softly
on the mouth.
Incredibly softly. Astounding that such a delicate touch...
just the warm, light touch of his lips, not even a caress yet...could
carry such voltage; my knees damn near buckled with it. "God, that's
good," he grinned, "I think I'll do it again." And he did.
This time it started soft, but progressed. His hands slid back up
and tangled in my hair as we kissed; mine slipped down his spine to
his lovely muscular ass and began to cup and squeeze. It got intense
pretty quickly; I heard a low growl as my mouth opened under his and
his tongue slipped in and began to dance with mine, his hands now on
my hips, pulling my pelvis against his in a slow, soft grind. I
can't tell you if the growl was from my throat or his, and it didn't
honestly seem to matter. It was the beginning of a very happy
drowning.
We got each other's shirts off in record time. I nuzzled his throat,
then let my mouth stray down to his chest. Flicking one taut nipple
at a time with my tongue, I drew the evening's first real moan from
him, then pulled away before that went any further; time enough for
our alltime favorite form of foreplay later. His hands were under my
sweatpants now, sliding them down off my hips, fondling my ass and
the backs of my thighs as he did, trailing a finger between to brush
my balls; somehow I got his jeans down and off while he did it.
We stepped back a little and just looked at each other in the dusk then,
two middle-aged men with imperfect bodies to which life hadn't been
entirely kind...and looked with love, and hunger, and the reverent
acknowledgement of a beauty and potency utterly real for all that it
would never make the pages of GQ. "Dear God, you are so beautiful," he
whispered. Then he traced the growing erection under my boxers with his
fingertips. It pulsed at his touch, and between lust and emotion, I
couldn't speak. So I kissed him instead, slipping a hand inside his
shorts to cup and stroke his balls, shifting their warm weight in my
palm.
He bodied me down onto the thick rug in front of the fire, and then
we were out of our drawers and just right out of our skulls for awhile,
hands and mouths everywhere. "Skooch down this way a bit," I heard him say, and knew what was coming; this next part was one we both loved.
I lay on my back where he wanted me, and he moved around to my head. Stretching forward over me, he took one of my nipples in his mouth, rolled it gently on his tongue, and began to suck and nip with a soft fierce rhythm. This left my mouth in position to take in one of his and do the same, letting him feel the soft scrape of my beard as I felt his.
Neither of us has ever been able to comprehend the old lie that men's breasts are inherently sexually unresponsive, but both of us are extra-sensitive there by any standard, and this mammary _soixante-neuf_
with its rich sensations and wet sounds sends us both a little crazy. For a time that seemed to stretch and float, we sucked and licked and gently bit, savoring each other's taste and scent and, need I add, taking each other's erections in hand for some much-needed manual attention.
When his mouth moved to my penis, I got a huge jolt of sensory recall for just how good fellatio can feel when you're buried up to your balls in a talented mouth whose owner really enjoys sucking cock, and knows
exactly what to do with his tongue while he's doing it. I like to suck too, though, and I'm also good at it, so I wasted no time slurping him in and letting my tongue play lewdly up and down his shaft.
Fucking each other's hungry mouths brought us both very close to the
brink. But we'd played this game many times, and we knew how to make
it last, so we pulled away at the last possible moment, both of us
throbbing and aching, both of us beginning to spill a little.
He rolled me on my belly then and ran soft kisses down my back and over
my bottom, gentling me. I gasped with delight as his tongue slipped
between the cheeks of my ass and delicately, almost tauntingly rimmed
my asshole. In and out and around, it danced and probed and romped
and whispered and wetly stroked.
I tell myself each time he does this that I'm going to hold onto a
little dignity; that I'm not going to moan and beg like the slut I am
for the feel of his big rod in my ass, thrusting and plunging, blotting out rational thought. But it's useless, and soon I find myself whimpering, "Fuck me, Jed. Please, big man, fuck me up my ass till I come all over the rug. Ram it up me hard. _Screw_ me, lover; I need it so bad!"
He surprised me then: he turned me over roughly, took my face in his
hands and growled, eyes grim with love and lust. "Not till you say it.
Not till I know you know whose cock is in your ass. Say it, Leo! We
swore to find balance between us, and we have, and we will...but I
love you, and you love me, and lover, _it's time for you to say the
words_."
So I said them, humbly, loving him, meaning them--the most exciting
words ever to come out of my mouth:
"Mr. President, I serve you; do whatever you want to me."
So he did. My friend and lover and leader bent me forward over the
couch seat, then rummaged for a moment in a drawer. Tenderly slipping
a cool dollop of lube inside me with a fingertip, he kissed me gently
on each asscheek, and then...oh, God, it was so good!...rammed every
thick, satisfying inch of his cock just as far into my rectum as it
would possibly go, no easing in, no holding back. He stopped to
let me feel it all for a moment, every sweet inch; then he began to thrust. Hard. There was not much pain after awhile, but even the pain was sweet. It was all utterly soul-satisfying...and I hasten to add that
it was doing a damn fine job of satisfying my body as well.
His big hands wrapped around my cock, and our tempo increased; very
soon, we both began to moan and bellow and spasm. He gushed what felt
like quarts of hot honey miles up my ass; I spilled out all over his
hands and the couch cushions, hips bucking. When it was over, he
collapsed on top of me and we lay there over the couch for several
minutes, unable to move. I could feel the pulse in his throat
slowing to normal against my back.
I must've fallen asleep; I remember him tugging me to my feet at
some point a good deal later and leading me to the bedroom. It was
dark. I remember both of us sleepily pulling on pajamas; autumn in New
England means chilly evenings, and the furnace wasn't on yet. Then
I remember nestling against him in the big bed, warm and spent and
utterly happy. Not much else.
**********************************
The snick of a door-latch. High heels on hardwood. Light streaming
in from the hallway. And a worldly, brown-velvet alto voice I knew
well saying drily:
"Well, well, well, what have we here?" The light snapped on.
"Political bedfellows, it would seem."
Ladies and gentlemen, the First Lady-elect of the United States. Ohhhhh
shit, Jed, wake up, we are in for it now. The fact that I could see as I opened my eyes that she was having trouble controlling the corners of her mouth was no help. I've been around Abbey for 35 years, and the wicked glint in her eye said there'd be no mercy tonight.
"Gentlemen, it appears that you have started without me."
"Yes, Abbey," we chorused meekly.
"And do you recall what the penalty for that is, gents?"
"Yes ma'am", Jed and I replied, grinning at each other ruefully.
"Very well then, if you'd be so kind as to get up and assume the
position."
Awake enough now for the situation to be both amusing and arousing,
we climbed out of bed. "Trust me when I say, fellas, that you will soon
have very little to smile about," she purred.
I couldn't resist. "I'll be the judge of that," I snickered to Jed
under my breath with a Groucho leer that made Abbey's expression grow
even more evil.
"Gawds, McGarry," Jed grinned, "don't make it any worse."
"Yeah, McGarry," she said, trying hard to look stern, "don't make it any
worse. And stop stalling."
With mock reluctance, we knelt down side by side, bent ourselves over the bed and pulled down our pajama pants. We heard Abbey pick up her stout flatbacked hairbrush from the dressing table: a sound we'd both heard many times before, separately and together. The chill air and
the anticipation were raising goosebumps on our bared rumps.
WHAP!
The crack of her hairbrush on the meaty part of Jed's buttock sounded
fiercer than it really was, but I could feel him jump a little; Abbey's
spankings are erotic as all hell, but they smart enough to make a
decided point. WHAP! She landed a good firm one on me, and I bucked
up off the bed a little. Eeyow, she wasn't fooling around tonight.
Each of us got ten good licks. Then she stood us up and surveyed
two rampant boners. "Very interesting, gentlemen; it seems that you
have actually _enjoyed_ being punished for your bad manners. Soooo,"
she drawled silkily, "how are you going to thank me, hmmmm? Anybody
got any ideas?"
Jed leaned forward and whispered something in her ear that made her
eyes go wide with mock shock and non-mock arousal. "Ooh, you're
NAUGHTY, Mr. President-Erect!", she laughed. "And what should we do
with your Chief of Staff-Polishing here?" He whispered some more
suggestions, and she whispered a few back, and then they both turned
to eye me like gourmands over a dessert cart.
Seems what they had in mind was...well, that's for another time
<big slow feral grin>

 

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