Chapter Text
Monday, April 17, 1961
"Where's our air support?!" the frantic voice shouted over the radio as Colonel Mick Richardson listened, rubbing his eyes in despair. Gunfire could be heard in the background. "The rebel reinforcements can't approach... *bang* the coastline! We need air support!"
"Where is the President?!" the Colonel asked aloud, banging the table and looking around the room. "It's been three hours!"
This small group in the basement of the Executive Mansion comprised Richardson, intelligence officers, political aides, and the Vice President.
"He-he'll be here," the suited senior advisor replied, clearly distressed by the agitated, broad-shouldered military man.
"Gem 1, this is Wave 1," Mick said into the radio microphone with a sigh. He glanced over to Larry Jones, the Vice President, who simply shook his head in disgust. "Please stand by - we're working on it. Hang in there. Out."
Mick put the microphone down and turned to face the advisor.
"If the President is not in this room in the next thirty minutes, I will make the call myself," Mick said, coldly, with a piercing stare. A spook could be heard chuckling in satisfaction.
"Uh..." the advisor squirmed, nodding as he scrambled to the door. "I'll-I'll g-go get him!"
Meanwhile, three storeys above them, James Fordham Kent was lying face-down on his bed, his ass slightly elevated, and his face pressed against his pillow.
"Ugh!" he grunted as he felt the thick dildo rubbing against his prostate. "Fuuuck yes..."
The thrusting slowed, and he sighed.
"No, no," he said, peeking over his shoulder. "Keep going."
The young naked black girl, no older than 12, looked at him with trepidation, as she hesitantly took hold of his hips again and pressed forward with the strap-on.
"Yes!" James squealed in delight as he reached under himself to stroke his hard cock. "Oh!"
The girl, with tears welling up in her eyes, began fucking him harder as her hands squeezed his sides tightly.
"Harder!" he shouted. "Like that! Oh yes... just like that!"
His mouth opened wide and he trembled as he spurted streams of cum into his hand and onto the white sheets below.
When he stopped shaking, the girl slowly removed herself from behind him and stood quietly by the side of the bed.
"Ugh," he sighed, content, before turning around and scooting closer to her. He used his finger to collect some of the cum he had shot onto the sheets and held it up to her. "Tell me what this is?"
She closed her eyes.
"S-Sir," she whimpered, "please... don't..."
"I said, tell me what this is," James insisted as he rose up and glared at her. The fear in her eyes prompted a wicked grin across his face.
She continued crying softly and whispered:
"C-cum..."
"And what did I tell you when we started?" he asked in his unmistakeable Arklow, New Anglia accent.
"T-to... not..." she sobbed.
"Not...?"
"... not let you cum," she replied, blushing in embarrassment.
"And now look what happened!" James scolded her, wagging his sticky index finger right in front of her nose.
She shook her head apologetically, wiping away tears as she gazed downward.
"I said: smack my hands away if I try to touch my cock," he explained, sounding disappointed. "Or slap my balls. Or slap my face. Something!"
"Sorry, sir," she managed through the sobs.
James sat back on the bed and smiled.
"Fine," he said. "What are..."
A knock came at the door.
"Mr. President?" an urgent voice called out.
The young girl's eyes widened as James glared at the door.
"WHAT?!" he shouted angrily, as he grabbed his crumpled up robe and tossed it over himself.
He got off the bed and walked toward the door, opening it forcefully, nearly causing the caller to jump back.
The presidential advisor looked inside, seeing the frightened young girl standing timidly near the bed, before gazing at his furious boss.
"Yes...?" James snapped, impatiently.
"Uh... the Colonel..." he began nervously.
"Fuck sakes..." James muttered, rolling his eyes in annoyance.
He turned to the girl and motioned for her to come to him.
She looked around nervously before walking forward.
James placed a hand firmly around her wrist and dragged her to him, before ushering her out the door into the corridor.
"Ross," James said to one of his Secret Service agents standing nearby.
The man quickly walked up to the President.
"Get her back to her group," he said, pushing the girl into the bodyguard's hands.
James made eye-contact with Ross, and shook his head slightly. Ross nodded once, understanding, before James stepped back inside his room.
The advisor closed the large double doors just as the President saw the agent tightening his grip on the girl's shoulder. The dark skinned child yelped in discomfort and was quickly escorted away.
James glared at his advisor before heading to his wardrobe, picking out a fresh suit for the day.
"He says it's urgent, sir," the advisor explained. "They have been waiting for you for hours."
"I alone decide what is urgent," James muttered as he got dressed. "That 'Colonel' doesn't get to dictate anything to me."
"Very well, sir," the advisor replied with a sigh.
After the President adjusted his tie and inspected himself in the mirror, he moved toward the bedroom exit.
"Okay, okay," James said, calmly. "Let's go see what these clowns want."
A short elevator ride later, the pair of them arrived at the basement briefing area.
James turned to his advisor.
"Have the next one ready for me when I get back to my room," he simply instructed, before closing the door in his face.
He looked around at the small crowd, all of whom appeared visibly upset.
"Mr. President," Mick began, rising from his chair and saluting the commander-in-chief. "You're finally here-"
"How nice of you to notice," the recently sworn-in politician interrupted sarcastically, taking a seat next to Larry, who just acknowledged his presence with a nod. "What do you want?"
At 37, the President carried himself with the easy confidence of a man born to wealth and privilege. His good looks and carefully styled blonde hair had made him a hit with the liberal press, who fawned over his beautiful, exotic wife, photogenic children, and his progressive policies.
"We need you to authorize the air support for the Mongoose Bay operation," Mick answered promptly, glaring at the President.
James sighed.
"I told you that I would consider it, Colonel," he said dismissively. "You're trying my patience."
"Sir, we agreed all of this before the operation began," Mick protested. "We can't jus..."
"We can't just depose every government that the American Army doesn't like, Colonel," James retorted, folding his arms across his chest. "There are repercussions for this type of action."
Mick gawked in disbelief as everyone else stayed quiet.
"James, we agreed to th..." Larry began to say before James raised a hand, silencing him.
"Are there any Americans involved on the ground?" the President asked sternly, looking around at each person at the table.
Mick sighed.
"Sir, we have two special forces operators embedded with the first wave of the rebels," he said. "The rest are locals."
"What's the current state of the beachhead?" James asked.
"Uh, well... it's being overrun, sir," Mick explained. "They were dependent on Air Force cover..."
James raised his hand.
"There is no way I am committing airpower to an operation that appears to have already failed, Colonel," he announced, pushing himself up from the desk.
Mick's eyes widened as Larry simply sighed in frustration.
"Sir, we..." the Colonel began to protest, standing up.
"Colonel," James said, agitated. "I'm in the middle of teaching a group of inner city schoolgirls how our government works for them. You interrupted me, and this is not the first time the Army has tried to insert itself in my domestic agenda. Turn that radio off, and get out of my house!"
With that, James exited the room, leaving behind a stunned Mick Richardson.
Larry got up from the table and tapped the military man's shoulder.
"Welcome to my world," he grumbled sarcastically before following Kent outside.
Mick stood rooted to his spot for another few moments, lost in thought, before turning off the radio and heading back to his office.