Mr. President

The press is now clapping. One reporter is even yelling out, "Congratulations Mr. President!"

This is going just as I intended.

They're eating out of my hand.

I'm not even sure I need this fake fiancée, but God do I want to fuck her. I take another glance at her perfectly round tits and picture them both in my mouth and in my hands. My eyes travel further down to her ass, which sways with each seductive step she takes. I can picture bending her over my desk, hiking up that white dress and—

"When is the wedding?" a reporter asks, breaking my train of thought.

"We'll make that announcement soon," I reply, "But for now, I just want to reiterate the fact that I would never risk my relationship, or the reputation of the country. My priorities are on this great Nation, and on the future Mrs. Bain," I say.

Ashley walks up to me, joining me at the podium, and she laces her arm in mine, giving me a soft peck on the cheek.

"Ashley, how did you meet Mr. Bain?" one reporter yells.

Another one asks, "Are children in your foreseeable future?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Ashley smiles, fielding the last question. "One step at a time. I think we have our hands full enough just planning a wedding, let alone future children."

The press reporters love her comeback. They laugh and nod in agreement.

“How do you respond to the fact that the President has had sex with numerous women before you?” a reporter calls out.

I close my eyes and cringe.

I mean, I barely know Ashley and already I feel bad for her having to deal with this.

And what kind of asshole is this, asking that kind of question.

In a heartbeat the cringe is over and I’m about to fucking address this myself when Ashley steps in.

“Well, we just recently decided to get back together again, so I can understand that the President had to go through a number of different options until he realized that I was the best choice,” Ashley says with poise and grace. “We’re not all perfect like me, after all.”

Again laughter.

Jesus Christ. She’s good.

“Any plans on the wedding?” someone asks. Softball question.

“Just me and Austin and 300 million of our closest friends,” she says with a smile and the room laughs again.

They fucking love her.

It quickly becomes apparent that they love Ashley. I feel a tinge of jealously settle in my mind.

It's as if the press likes Ashley more than they've ever liked me. I decide to jump in.

"I know this is exciting news," I say, "but I'd like to bring this press conference back on track. It's my intention to keep our country's best interests in mind and work hard to boost our economy by facilitating important international trade agreements—such as the one with South Korea."

This time, there are no questions about Jia Park. Instead, my comment is greeted with a full round of applause.

Arm in arm, Ashley and I exit the stage, along with Tracy and my office staff. We walk into an office, away from the prying eyes and ears of reporters, and when it's just Ashley, Tracy, and I alone in the room, I turn to Ashley and say, "You're supposed to be too shy for the spotlight."

"You're jealous, aren’t you?" she smiles.

I laugh. "You can't be serious," I lie.

"Look, the press loved me, and that's good for you."