“How do you want it?” asks the President when the shadows grow long in the Oval Office and they’re finally alone, his fingernails rasping against Edward’s five o’clock shadow. He kisses Edward, brushing his tongue against his lips, knocking. Edward lets him in.
“Hard,” Edward answers; it’s what he always wants and when Francis bends him over the desk there’s no preparation other than the stroking of cold lube to the older man’s cock. It burns as they skate the line between pain and damage, something they’ve become very, very good at.
“How do you want it?” asks the First Lady.
“Soft,” Edward whispers, folding onto his knees before her, bracing her long legs over his shoulders as he pays homage to her sex. He can keep it up for hours. He knows she’ll take care of him in the end.
“How do you want it?” they ask.
“Together,” Edward whimpers, already in their heady thrall as his body is stroked and teased by four hands.
They fold together like one of Claire’s origami sculptures. Edward closes his eyes and he can’t tell where they start and where he ends and that’s exactly how he wants it.