Praise Me: President (Praise Me Daily)

Twenty minutes later, I’ve finished my pitch to the senator and it’s no surprise that he’s agreed to see a formal proposal from the council. I like to think I impressed him, but deep down I know he’s a little terrified of Pierce, too—and that’s A-okay with me.

Whatever gets the job done.

“Ms. Rogers, the president would like to see you.”

“Please excuse me, Senator. Thank you for your time.”

“Yes, of course.” He reaches out for a conclusionary shake and I put my hand in his grip, surprised when he squeezes a little too tight, looking somewhat…chagrined? “I’m probably courting political ruin here, but…I would love to discuss the initiative further. Maybe we could slip away during the gala tonight for a quiet drink, if you’re not hightailing it back to Washington.” His grin causes my skin to crawl. “I’m extending the invitation with the utmost respect, of course. I like speaking with you.”

“Oh, um.” I’m completely caught off guard. What twenty-five-year-old woman wouldn’t be flustered when asked on a date by a fifty-something-year-old man? “I don’t know what m-my plans are for the night.”

“You’re busy, Ms. Rogers,” Pierce says, approaching with an expression of pure malice, all of it directed at the senator. “Somebody doesn’t know when to quit.”

Stokes has the grace to look ashamed, at the very least. “You can’t blame a man for trying. She’s quite something.”

“Eloise, please go wait in the car,” the president says, smoothly, despite the hard glint in his eye. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Not wanting to miss my opportunity to escape the clutches of Senator Lecher, I move briskly out of the room, trying to make out the low, angry conversation that ensues in my wake, but unable to do so over the bustle of security around me. I’m brought down the steps of the state house and hustled into a waiting SUV parked at the curb. Approximately two minutes pass before the president is led to the same running vehicle, climbing in beside me and immediately yanking on his tie to loosen it.

“Sir, you don’t have to intervene like that on my behalf. I can handle myself—”

“How often does that happen?” he interrupts.

He’s not going to like the answer, so I press my lips into a straight line.

His curse is vile. “You’re getting your own security detail.”

“What? Sir, that is totally unnecessary—”

“Eloise, do you want me to be able to concentrate on running the country, or not?”

“Of course, I do!”

“Then allow the security detail.” His hands curl into fists where they rest on his thighs. “I find…I’m very protective over you.” His chest shudders up and down. “Very.”

“No one has been this concerned about my safety since my father.” I reach over and tug his tie gently, wanting to lighten his mood. “Should I start calling you daddy?”

Pierce stills, his jaw flexed, catching my wrist when I start to draw my hand back, bringing it to his open mouth, the heat of his breath ghosting over my knuckles. Very slowly, he reaches up with his free fingers and presses the button to close the privacy screen, rendering us alone and insulated in the dark backseat. “Am I a hypocrite, Ms. Rogers?” he asks when the screen is fully engaged, rubbing his lips against the pulse at my wrist. “I just threatened that man’s life for asking you out on a date, yet here I am, dying to check and see if you need a panty change.”

I blush, zipping my attention down to my lap.

“It better be because of me.”

“It’s always because of you,” I whisper. “And you’re not a hypocrite, sir. I’ve done nothing but encourage you to…touch me. I did nothing to encourage him.”

“That’s the only reason he’s still standing.” His nostrils flare, his gaze setting my thighs on fire under his regard. “Take off your panties and hand them to me, Ms. Rogers.”

My knees begin to tremble. Something about our dynamic is shifting, but I can’t put my finger on why. Or how. Only that I’m feeling very wicked…and the number one authority in the nation is about to find out how wicked, exactly. How wet he makes me.

He’s asking to hold the proof in his hands.

Pulses pound in the most private of places as I lift my hips off the leather bench seat and reach under my dress, hooking my thumbs in the waistband of my lacy white panties and easing them down my thighs, my breath catching when they come into view and the president makes a guttural sound, his palm coming to rest low on his belly, his strain growing more pronounced as I drag my underwear slowly down my calves and past my heels, holding them in my lap a moment, before holding them out for his inspection.

Pierce takes the scrap of lace, unfolding the tiny white garment and holding it up to the muted light coming in through the tinted window. With his chest rising and falling in rapid order, he sets the panties on his thigh and rubs his thumb through the wet cotton section that has been pressed to the seam of my sex all afternoon.

“Jesus Christ.” He snatches them up in a shaking fist and presses them to his nose, inhaling deeply. “Smells like honey and roses.”

“Thank you,” I breathe, shaking. I’ve just given my drenched panties to the president. I’d give him every part of me if he crooked his little finger.

Is he going to? Is he changing his mind about pursuing something together?

“You joke about calling me daddy, but this way I want to guard you, take care of you…and discipline you for having a wet cunt in public…is very real, Eloise.” He rubs my lacy underwear against his open mouth. “I don’t know what you’re doing to me. And I don’t know how to control it.”

Pierce McAlister just said the word cunt. I should be shocked. But there’s no room for shock around how exhilarated I am. How enlivened I am by his admissions. “H-how would you like to discipline me, sir?”

“Lay face down over my lap and find out,” he rasps.

With my sex contracted in a perpetual hold that leaves me dizzy, I turn on the seat, pressing my knee to the leather to lever myself up—and I do as I’m told. Because I want to. I’m dying to surrender beneath the care of this worthy man. And no sooner am I face down over the president’s lap does he yank up my skirt with rough hands, fully exposing my bottom, the mere eroticism of what’s happening causing me to whimper, my open mouth pressed to the leather seat, butt raised in the air.

“Christ. This ass is so hot, it’s disrespectful, Eloise.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Answer me this. How does a virgin get so fucking wet?” he says hoarsely, massaging my right butt cheek, before switching to the left, then back. Back and forth and back, moisture trickling and pooling between my legs. “Maybe it’s the same reason I blew a load in my pants the first time you touched me. Our bodies know something is happening here and our minds are playing catch up.” His tone thickens. “My body definitely liked you calling me daddy, and I don’t know if that’s fucked up or not.”

Pinpricks from head to toe, my vision coated in sparkles.

Daddy.

The rightness of that term, in reference to this man, locks into place and I feel like all my confusing emotions and near-hostile attraction to Pierce start to make sense.

“I’m sorry about my wet cunt, Daddy,” I murmur, excitement racing over my scalp.

Choking, he fists the flesh of my ass in a shaking hand, then delivers the first blow. SLAP. And his ragged, subsequent exhale makes me think of stabilizers falling away from a rocket ship as it launches. Spanking me embodies relief for him. The Daddy role feels right to him, too, and if I had any doubts, the pulsing, rigid bulge against my stomach would clear them right up. “Oh God. I shouldn’t be laying my goddamn hands on you.”

“I love your hands on me,” I manage shakily, arching my back to angle my backside higher. “However I can get them there. Soft. Rough. I’ll love it all.”

Pierce takes a cheek in each oversized palm, hesitating, before drawing them apart. Moaning. Parting them more and more until I can feel the air conditioning against that puckered part of me. His reverent breath, too. “Son of a bitch. Can’t believe that tight little thing was sitting in my lap earlier, scooting all over my cock.” I sense him tilting his head, his exhale coming out uneven. “Your pussy made you wet all the way back here. Fuck.”

His palms cracks down against my buttocks, and I whimper, tears of pleasure blurring my vision, the moisture tracking down my cheeks, dripping off my chin, my open lips. I’m lying across President McAlister’s lap and he’s spanking me. Repeatedly. He drops his hand like a judge with a gavel, his breath growing increasingly dense, my sex leaking down the insides of my thighs, onto his pant legs. Out of my control. Out of my mind. I’m out of my skin and yet I’ve never been more at home inside of it, receiving the president’s love blows, followed by soothing rubs of his hand, crooned words of praise for having such a fuckable little asshole and letting him spread my cheeks. Redden them.

“I can’t stop,” he says raggedly, slapping my bottom. “I need to stop.”

“No!”

“Yes, angel. Stop me or you won’t sit down for a week.”

I don’t know what comes over me, I just act on instinct, crawling backwards and fumbling with the gold buckle of his belt, ripping the leather free through the loops, and sucking him through his pants. Sucking and moaning and fondling the president’s steely erection through his dress pants, my mouth watering as I lower the zipper and stuff his big, bare shaft between my lips, suckling and whining over the salty taste, his fingers twisting desperately in my hair, his stomach hollowing at the pleasure, his grunts animalistic, his hips thrusting up, up, up, fucking my mouth with his enormously thick flesh.

“Oh God. Oh fuck.” He drives to my throat and holds, holds, pulling out when I start to choke, his throat muscles straining with a shout. “A little more, just like that, and Daddy’s going to come down your little fucking throat.”

I squeal into his next deep throat drive, a spasm rippling through my sex, a response to his pleasure. The pleasure I’m giving him. He’s already so big and powerful, but right now, he’s a god in the back of this SUV. I’m the one who has been appointed with his gratification and the responsibility has heightened my state of being. I’m a blur. I’m the embodiment of bliss, my purpose to suck as hard and as deeply as I can.

I’m easing the president’s needs. For the sake of the country. Democracy.

“Flash me some asshole and get your throat ready,” he slurs, holding my face to his lap and grinding upward while I sob over the perfect slide of smooth against my tonsils, the jerk of his inches, his hoarse curses and calls of my name. “There it is,” he says when I widen my thighs, tilt my hips to give him the view he requested. “Begging for a man to take charge of it. Spit on it, spoil it and come in it, huh, Eloise?” He shudders. “Jesus, I’m finished. Motherfucker!”

He spills along with the next draw of my mouth, his tall frame tensing, then shaking, his groans loud in the interior of the SUV. I widen my lips as far as they’ll go and tamp down on my gag reflex, housing him inside my mouth, all the way to his balls, his thighs flexing and jerking beneath me, damp saltiness pouring down my throat and I swallow eagerly, my knees slipping in the mess I made on the seat as I try to scramble closer, not wanting a single drop of him to escape me.

“Eloise. Eloise. Eloise.”

I don’t stop until he’s spent, and the stamina drops right out of me. I have just enough energy to turn over and allow myself to be gathered and cradled in his arms while he kisses my cheeks, my chin, my forehead, before my eyes roll into the back of my head and I pass out from the euphoria, a smile lingering on my face even in sleep.