“Do you do this for everyone, Ms. Clinton?” James Comey tried to joke after the Secret Service agent left, leaving them alone in her home office.
“Not at all, Mr. Comey. I believe our situation’s unique.” Her tone was a touch acerbic, but she was smiling in a way that was clearly designed to put him at ease. It didn’t.
“Thank you for having me over,” he said. He made to cross his arms, but reconsidered and put them at his sides. He initiated their conversation, after all; it wouldn’t do to let his jitters show.
“No, thank you for suggesting this meeting,” she replied. Jim could see printed copies of the emails they exchanged spread across her desk, peppered with indecipherable red-inked annotations.
“Please, sit down.” Hillary Clinton motioned to a leather chair that passed its best days. It creaked threateningly under him, and she accepted his banter about the threat his size poses to old chairs with a polite chuckle.
She took her sweet time saying anything after that, though. Comey couldn’t say he relished the silence, but meeting her for the first time was strangely gratifying. He belatedly realized he ceased to see her as a person; to him, she had been a disembodied collection of emails, an indirect threat to his nonpartisan work, the soaked-in wine stain on the cloth of his reputation.
Finally, Hillary had her fill of examining him with an inscrutable expression. She dug through the papers strewn over her desk, flipped open a spiral notebook, and cleared her throat.
“Let’s begin, shall we?”
As per their agreement, he sat silently as she spoke. She had come prepared; he expected nothing less of her. He stared straight ahead and listened to her evaluation of his decisions during the investigation of her email server. His tongue was restless in his mouth as he longed to clarify, to defend. But now, it was her time.
Only the deepening light from twilight to evening showed how much time had passed. There were no timepieces in the room, just a subtly unfaded circle of wallpaper behind her desk suggesting a clock had been there.
An eternity later, she closed the notebook and took a sip of water.
“I’m so glad we cleared the air, Mr. Comey,” she said. She seemed almost chipper now, and for a second, under her makeup and the passage of time, he saw the earnest Wellesley undergrad she had been.
The illusion shattered as quickly as it arrived when she patted her thigh. He swallowed heavily, and plastered on a smile that probably looked even faker than it felt. This was the other part of their agreement, a running joke in their correspondence until she decided she rather liked the idea.
"Pants on or off?" he asked before he could stop himself.
“Oh! You've done this before," Hillary said, a little sardonically. Her round blue eyes shone with the joy of new knowledge.
“No!” he said, and his voice broke. He cleared his throat. “Sorry to burst your bubble,” (he wasn’t) “but I haven’t.”
She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but didn’t pursue it.
“Okay,” she said.
“Pants and underwear down, please,” she requested.
He kept one hand over his front as he pulled everything down to mid-thigh. She raised an eyebrow, as if to say Don’t be bashful.
With each step he took toward her, his heart sped up and his mouth got drier. He thought longingly of the glass of water on the end table next to his chair, but couldn’t show weakness by going back for a sip.
Jim groaned softly as he knelt at Hillary’s side. Her smile turned genuinely sympathetic at that.
“I’m fine,” he said preemptively, feeling uncharacteristically small as he looked up at her from the ground.
He sat back on his heels, waiting for her okay. At her nod, Jim settled himself more carefully against her leg. Her jeans (It was her house and her prerogative to wear them, but still. He was in his Sunday best.) were worn thin and soft at the knees.
Jim stiffened when Hillary lifted his shirttail, and gently tucked it under his sweatervest. She barely touched bare skin, but her cold hand sent goosebumps prickling down his thighs.
“You, uh, keep yourself in good shape,” she said softly.
“Thank you?” Really, what else could he say?
Hillary’s first smack felt almost hesitant, like she couldn’t believe she was doing this. Well, that made two of them. Jim braced for the next one, pulling himself ramrod-straight against her thigh. Somehow, he didn’t think she would give him a few half-hearted smacks and stop; she was in it for the long game.
After a second, less hesitant smack, she asked “Do you know why I’m punishing you like this?”
“You went into great detail as to why,” he said, perversely disappointed by the bland opening question. He expected more from her.
“Don’t be rude.” Her next smack was sharper, and Jim barely avoided yelping in surprise.
“Now, are you ready to cooperate?” she asked.
He paused for a second, then summarized her reasons listed.
“Much better,” she said.
Time slowed to a crawl as she grew bolder. He started off as dignified as anyone could be on their knees, but her running commentary on every decision of his that she objected to started to wear him down as much as the physical sensation of being spanked. His head gradually drooped and his shoulders sloped forward. The sensations of his newly-flushed face and his overexposed and smarting lower half coexisted uneasily.
He had expected to feel vulnerable and embarrassed. He expected for his back and knees to ache and his ass to sting as Hillary punished him. The shivery arousal working its way through his body, though, was deeply jarring. At the next touch of her hand, he inhaled sharply.
Adrenaline shot through him, turning the trickle of desire into a full-blown stream. Jim tensed his muscles against the urge to squirm. Her blows took a backseat to thoughts of basketball statistics, the dog’s rash, anything to tamp his urge down before it made itself visible. That went out the window when she landed a particularly hard hit, and it felt so shockingly good that he shivered. His hand tightened on Hillary’s knee and he squeezed his thighs together, even though he realized he passed the point of no return. He was starting to get hard.
Her hand slowed, but didn’t stop entirely.
“Your ears and the back of your neck are the same color as your ass,” she observed.
His internal temperature ratcheted up even further at her words, and he shifted against her thigh to free one of his hands. His palm made the freshly-barbered skin feel slightly cooler, but he was still burning from the weight of her gaze and his cock throbbed anew at every unpredictable strike of her hand.
“I’m a little overdressed,” he admitted.
“We can take a minute for you to roll up your sleeves,” Hillary offered, and the small kindness hurt almost as much as her prior murmured litany of everything she thought he’d ever done wrong.
“That… that would--.” Jim thought it sounded wonderful, except he didn’t think he could do it in his current position.
“Yes, please.” He made up his mind quickly.
“Go ahead,” she said.
His fingers left sweat-prints where he unbuttoned his cuffs. Even though he raced through folding his cuffs just below the elbow and slouched forward, he could feel his cock tenting the bit of dress shirt hanging that she hadn’t bothered to tuck up into his sweatervest.
“Thank you,” he said hoarsely, but she didn’t look satisfied. There was a glint in her eye that he was wary of.
“And loosen your tie, just a little,” she said.
He hesitated for a second before obeying, swallowing a gasp at the rustle of fabric against the head of his cock.
“Hmm,” she said, looking openly his groin. “At first, I thought it was a trick of the light.”
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to--” he babbled.
“This is,” she said, and stopped. His mouth was still offline, but his powers of observation weren’t, and he realized that surprise lurked under her carefully-neutral expression. He tugged at his shirt and resisted the urge to wipe sweat off his upper lip.
Then, she collected herself enough to say “I didn’t expect this to happen, with your age,” and he spared a second’s thought of pity for her marriage before reminding himself that she would probably consider that offensive.
“Does he know we’re here?” he asked, hoping his inflection was friendly enough, and her lip curled before answering.
“Of course. And your wife?”
“Yes.” He didn’t mention that as she straightened his tie, she stood on tiptoe to hiss I don’t care what you have to do to get her forgiveness. Literally kiss her ass if you have to in his ear.
Her face settled back into its earlier guardedness. “Okay, break’s over.”
Bending back over her thigh made Jim feel less exposed. A sigh of relief escaped as his erection moved from her line of sight.
Hillary seemed impatient, her hand twitching on the small of his back. She barely waited for him to settle himself before smacking him again.
He yelped involuntarily; his skin was newly-sensitized from the break.
“Shh,” she warned him, but her irritation seemed artificial.
Jim bit down on his bottom lip, but inhaled sharply, too audibly, at the next hit.
His eyes widened and his cock jumped uncomfortably at the realization: he recognized that smell, that muskiness starting to cut through her flowery perfume.
She was starting to slow down again, and her strokes were lighter. He wondered if she was as affected as he was, or if she simply decided he had been punished enough. Then, he mentally shook himself. He wasn’t sure she’d ever think that
Then, an unexpectedly forceful hit sent him sprawling over her. His fingers bit into her upper thigh as he struggled to re-balance himself, repeating ‘sorry, sorry,’ like the world’s most annoying parrot.
“No need to apologize,” Hillary said, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Thank you,” he said.
“I have another idea, though.”
Though it was bad for his nice shoes, he sat back on his heels. She gave him a frankly appraising glance, and it took every ounce of self-control not to cover himself.
“We can stop here, if you want,” she said. He was sorely tempted, but he didn’t trust that she’d be satisfied with anything less than complete abjection.
“Or, we could do something else.” His tongue lay thick in his mouth and his cock bobbed ridiculously in the still air.
“To the chair, I want you to touch yourself for me,” she said.
“Okay,” he said, overly-conscious of the sweat on his forehead.
A catty smile lit up Hillary’s face before she said “After all, you were always such a good performer.”
“Keep ‘em down,” she added when she saw Jim trying to give himself some decency. He waddled a little on his way to the chair, hunching as the weight of his belt dragged his pants to his knees.
The cool leather was sweet relief against his skin for a second, then very uncomfortable. His jaw was clenched and he sat as still as he could while he waited for the stinging to recede.
She wasn’t looking at him. Opening and closing desk drawers, he heard her swear under her breath until she pulled out a cloth glasses case. After donning them, she propped her elbow on the table and her head on her hand.
“You can start any time now,” she said. There was a look of undisguised interest on her face that he had never seen before.
He was still fighting the urge to cross his legs as he circled a trembling thumb and index finger around his cock. He kept his eyes fixed on the bookshelf behind her desk as he slowly stroked himself.
She pursed her lips, looking distressingly like her husband for a second. After taking a long, slow sip of water, she asked “Is that it?”
“Excuse me?” Jim said, hand stilling on his cock. He’d been raised to be modest about himself, but he’d been in enough locker rooms to know that he wasn’t poorly endowed.
Even behind smudged glasses, her blue eyes shone with barely-concealed mirth.“I expected more of a show than this,” she said.
“Guess I’m out of practice,” Jim said, arranging his face in what he hoped was a congenial smile.
“Forgive me, your twitter account led me to believe you were more familiar with self-gratification.”
The 'fuck you' rolled around in his mouth like a jagged stone in a river, smoothing into a “Fair enough,” that made her nod approvingly.
He spread his legs further and leaned back in the chair, inching his ass closer to the chair’s edge with a poorly-concealed wince.
“That’s a little better,” she said. “Now, try again.”
He took a deep breath before taking his hand off his thigh. Slowly, he circled his thumb over the head of his cock. His eyes dropped down to his lap for the first time and his heart jolted with renewed realization of precisely what he was doing. For a while, he forgot about the outside world, of the context of why he was sprawled over a chair and touching himself for the possibility of forgiveness.
Hillary must have realized the change in his thoughts, because she cocked her head and said “Close your eyes.”
It was almost worse when he did. Jim felt even more vulnerable without the reciprocity of her gaze.
He stopped for a moment, one hand loosely on the base of his cock, the other white-knuckled on the overstuffed leather arm. The air was still and thick. Over his ragged breathing, the subtle sound of a zipper caught his attention, and he swore he could smell her again, competing with musty books and his mingled sweat and cologne.
“This would make a surprisingly pretty picture,” she said, and his heart skipped several beats. His eyes squeezed shut as obeying her command became harder.
“You-- you don’t have--” he struggled to reply.
“Don’t worry, I would never,” she said with a hint of impatience, like his fear was unreasonable.
He heard her shift in her chair before saying “Please continue.”
Jim’s cock, flagging from panic, twitched slowly back to life under his renewed attention.
“Never thought a camera would be a dealbreaker for you,” she said, and he could hear the smug little smile on her face.
He sighed, and couldn’t restrain himself from saying “I know, I know, you think I like attention.”
“No, I think you’re in denial about loving it,” she told him, and he wasn’t proud of either the loud squeak of his bare ass against the leather or the quiet whimper that escaped his throat.
“I walked right into that one,” Jim admitted, a little delayed.
“Mm-hmm,” Hillary said. He palmed the head of his cock while waiting for her to say something else, but she didn’t. Once he heard the rhythmic rustle of fabric, he was unsure of how he missed it before.
She was so buttoned-up, it was hard to imagine her touching herself, even as she was doing it right in front of him. Jim wanted to open his eyes and see her hand down the front of her jeans, watching him with flushed cheeks and maybe her other hand up the front of her shirt. After bearing the brunt of her rage for so long, he wanted to see her look at him with lust.
Okay, maybe she was right about the attention thing. Jim’s hand sped up and he moaned at the fresh surge of heat to his cock.
“Tighter grip,” Hillary said, her usually commanding voice gone breathy.
He did, and his hips bucked up into his hand. His hiss of discomfort didn’t entirely cover up the sound she made, a tiny, surprisingly high-pitched moan.
His elbow wobbled and his thighs strained and his with the effort of keeping his stinging ass off the seat. He was uncomfortably aware that in this position he was displaying himself, offering himself for her consumption like so many of her allies gave her their time, expertise, reputations. As he writhed and panted his way toward orgasm, he confirmed her judgement of him; she made it clear that she thought of him as a man with an unwarranted martyr complex and unseemly taste for attention, and, by God, he was delivering.
“You’re showboating.” The mocking inflection clashed with the breathy timbre of her voice. His cock throbbed and a bead of fluid ran down the back of his hand when he heard the fabric-and-skin sounds speed up.
“Th-thought you wanted that,” he said, sounding lame even to his own ears.
Her laugh sent a sickening bolt of arousal ran through him. He handled himself more roughly, stroking hard and fast. He heard her chair scrape the wooden floor.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked jokingly.
“Fuck you,” she said, and that’s when he finally came. Even through gritted teeth, his whimper was embarrassingly loud and he felt like something snapped inside him. He gave his cock a final squeeze just to hear her slightly wheezy inhale one more time.
He waited until she was silent before opening his eyes. His first coherent thought was that it was everywhere. All over his khakis, spattering his burgundy sweatervest like a constellation, coating his right hand. It was grossly unfair that he was rumpled and sticky and sore while she didn’t have a hair out of place. Her eyes were glassy and her cheeks were flushed under her makeup, but that was it.
“Need a tissue?” she asked with a twinkle of mirth in her eyes.
“Please,” he said, and she pointed at an end table bearing a tissue box.
He wished she wouldn’t look at him as he cleaned himself, but he didn’t say anything. After he was somewhat presentable, he stood up and approached her at the desk like a schoolboy handing in a test.
“Thank you for allowing this opportunity to clear the air between us,” he said and held out his hand to shake.
She hesitated before taking it, likely before realizing that her hand was just as gross as his.
“I’ll never forgive you, but I’m glad I got to know you better,” Hillary said, and though it hurt to hear, he walked out of her office with optimism in his heart for the first time in forever.