richard nixon x reader

1

You bent over the bowl of spaghetti, adding cilantro, ketchup, and parkinson's cheese. The succulent, mouth-watering aroma of your authentic Italian dish was wafting through your nose hairs into your juul-cancer-ridden lungs.

You were the White House chef, personal cook of the Dick Nixon, but you rarely saw him. When you did, though, you were happier than a curly-haired Jew at his bar mitzvah when he realized that more than his family showed up.

"There," you whispered, garnishing your culinary masterpiece. "It's ready for Daddy Nixon." You handed the dish to a sous-chef, ordered, "Bring this to President Nixon."

The man held it back out to you sheepishly. "Uh, [your name], Mr. President asked that you bring it to him yourself."

Your heart skipped a beat. Your breath hitched. "Do you know what this means?" you questioned the sous-chef, expression grave.

"N.. no?"

"Of course you don't, you little virgin. That is a dick appointment!" you cried out, pumping your first into the air in excitement.

You rushed to the bathroom, pulling out your Kirkland Signature makeup wipes. You wiped your cooch to get rid of the stank.

"Good choice," said another woman, washing her hands at the sink. "My favorite Bible verse is, 'A man can not control the size of his dick, but a woman can always control the smell of her pussy'." She made the sign of the cross.

"God isn't real," you told her, throwing your poosi wipe in her face and rushing up to the Oval Office.

~

You knocked on the door, holding the spaghetti in one hand. "P-P-President Nixon?" you said.

"Come in."

You felt a tingle-tangle in your hoo-ha, but you went in anyway. There he was, sitting at his desk. "Your spaghetti, Mr. President," you said, placing it on his desk.

"Did you bring me a utensil?" he inquired. You reached into your bra and pulled out a fork. He accepted it, said, "Warm. Just how I like it." Then, he twirled the pasta around your titty fork and took a big bite. You became hotter with every open-mouthed chew and noodle slurp.

"Do you like it, daddy?" you asked.

He swallowed his bite, tomato sauce smeared on his mouth. He licked his lips seductively, said, "It's missing something."

"What the fuck?" you cursed. "I'll have you know that I got a B- in 8th grade Home and Careers. I'm practically Bobby fucking Flay!"

"Shhhhh," he commanded, reaching across the table to put a meaty finger to your lips. "It's missing sausage." He stood up, and you saw that he wasn't wearing pants at all.

"So that's why they call you Dick," you whispered.

He winked. "I tape everything that goes on in this office. Let's make a sex tape."

Your clothes flew off, and before you knew it, you were riding Dick's dick on the Oval Office desk that some 43 presidents had used, upon which countless bills had been signed into law. "Yes Daddy! Skskskksksk!" you moaned.

"Why are you making that noise?" he asked.

"Skksskskskssksks," you continued.

Then, the door swung open. "FBI, put your hands up!" barked a furious voice. "President Nixon, you're under arrest for snooping on Watergate!"

"I'm a little busy," Nixon said, and you didn't stop.

"It wasn't a question, Mr. President," said the FBI agent.

You gave the agent an enchanting look. "I have a proposition, big boy. We let you join in, and you forget this whole 'Watergame' business. Capiche?"

And that was the story of how Nixon evaded the law and had a poppin' threesome.

the end