apatheticrater - Tumblr blog

apatheticrater · 1 month ago

Text

MADAM PRESIDENT

you weren’t supposed to last. you were a temporary solution, a vetted stand-in until the real hire cleared clearance. now, you wait outside the most powerful woman in the world’s bedroom at 10:29 p.m. every thursday with your shoes polished, your pulse hammering, and your underwear already soaked.

pairing: potus!tashi x personal assistant!afab!reader

cw: explicit BDSM, dom!Tashi Duncan, strap-on penetration (receiving), orgasm control and denial, D/s dynamic, power imbalance, spanking, light breathplay, handcuffs, uniform kink, edging, begging, restrained oral, use of silk ties, possessive behavior, political hierarchy, emotionally restrained dominant, extremely slow and descriptive pacing, gagging, praise kink, degradation, heavy sensual detail, established hookup routine. MDNI

word count: 3.2k

tags: @destinedtobegigi, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @imperishablereverie, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery, @zionna, @nozhdyved

notes: this was requested by @cinnamoncunt but i forgot to respond to the ask itself before i formatted literally everything and i am far too lazy to redo it all sooooo yeah. thank you for this scrumpdiddlyumptious idea my love!

It starts, as all routines do, with repetition.

Three months in, you already know the way the marble floors feel under your soles. How the lights dim in the private residence corridor at exactly 10:15 p.m., as if they too are signaling transition. You pass the final security checkpoint with your badge pressed against your chest like a rosary, nod at the agent who no longer looks you in the eye, and turn left at the velvet-lined door that separates West Wing authority from her sanctuary. You don’t knock yet. You’re not supposed to. Not until the grandfather clock in the hallway strikes 10:30 exactly. There are rules. Unspoken, iron-clad, never-written rules. And she is not the kind of woman you test.

The silence outside her residence feels cavernous. Presidential, in the most literal sense. Your heart is a precise beat, timed now like a metronome to this hour. 10:26 p.m. You reach into your coat pocket, fingers grazing the small tube of gloss you always reapply just before you knock. It’s habitual now. She’s never asked you to wear it. But the one time you didn’t, she had looked at your mouth for a beat too long, a flicker of disapproval in her otherwise unreadable face, before saying flatly, “You look unprepared.”

You’ve never made that mistake again.

At 10:29 p.m., your hands are clasped in front of you. Wrists crossed naturally, demurely. You practice breathing evenly. Slow inhales. Slow exhales. Anticipation can’t be allowed to shake you—though it always does. A little. That hum under your skin, the breath caught behind your sternum. A visceral sense of not knowing what version of her will answer the door tonight. President Duncan, all severity and consequence. Or Tashi, the version only you see in flashes—like lightning, beautiful and barely survivable.

Then, the clock chimes.

Once. Twice. Three times.

You knock.

Three times.

Exactly like always.

The seconds that follow are designed for suspense. You’re sure of it. Because she never opens the door right away. Sometimes, you imagine she watches you through the peephole, gauging your poise, your stillness. Tonight, the pause stretches until your stomach tightens in its own restraint, until your heels ache from not shifting your weight.

And then—finally—the click of the lock.

The door opens slowly. Not theatrically, just deliberately. And there she is.

Barefoot. Always barefoot, like she owns the fucking ground. Slacks ironed, hanging low on her hips. The sleeves of her white shirt rolled just enough to show the fine muscle of her forearms, the glint of her watch. Her hair is loose tonight, coiled back but imperfect in a way that makes your hands ache. And the tie—navy silk with a crisp diagonal stripe—is already loosened around her throat, a slanted suggestion.

You recognize that tie. She’d worn it yesterday during her press conference on trade reform. She’d also used it last week to bind your wrists to the legs of the chair in her private study while you begged—embarrassed and soaked—to come.

The reminder makes your throat close a little.

Her eyes move over you slowly, dragging like they’re weighted. Shoes. Ankles. Knees. Hemline. Blouse buttons. Hair. Lips.

She doesn’t speak right away. Just surveys. Evaluates.

Then, finally, her voice: low, controlled, soft in the way silk can also be a noose.

“Come in.”

You obey.

Of course you do.

Inside, the air feels heavier. Not warm, not cold—just dense. Full of implication. Her private quarters always smell faintly of something expensive and sharp: vetiver, bergamot, the barest trace of leather, like the lining of a bespoke glove snapped tight over a palm. You cross the threshold with your eyes lowered, as expected, as trained. You hear the soft snick of the door latching behind you. That’s when you finally allow yourself to exhale.

“You’re early,” she says, though it’s not a rebuke. Not really.

Your voice is quiet, pitched properly. “Only by a minute.”

“You’re not permitted to anticipate me.” She says it without turning. She’s moving again, slow, soundless, towards the wet bar tucked into the far corner. She pours herself a glass of something clear—probably gin—and brings it to her mouth without looking at you once. “Strip.”

The word cracks across your spine like a whip. Not because it’s sudden, or cruel, but because of how casually she delivers it. Like she’s ordering you to file something. Or fetch her notes for the climate summit. You know the ritual. You know better than to hesitate. So you start with your coat, folding it neatly over your arm before placing it on the leather ottoman by the door. Then your shoes, careful not to scuff the wood. You toe them off with practiced grace.

When you reach for the buttons of your blouse, you feel her eyes land on you for the first time since you stepped inside. It’s a physical thing, her gaze. Hot. Heavy. Invasive in the exact way that makes your skin flush with heat.

“Slower,” she murmurs, voice dry as her gin. “Let me see you remember who you’re undressing for.”

You pause. Nod. Then, obediently, you slip the first button free. Then the second. Your fingers tremble just enough for her to notice. She watches, entirely still, as you work your way down, each button revealing more of the dark lace you’d chosen for tonight—navy, matching the tie at her throat. You didn’t have to. But you knew what you’d be doing. You always do.

By the time your blouse is off, she’s taken a seat on the edge of the chaise, one leg crossed over the other. Her glass dangles from one hand. The other rests against her thigh. Her fingers tap once, twice, against the side of the tumbler. She doesn’t blink.

“Turn around.”

You do.

Her voice is quieter now. Laced with something darker.

“Bra.”

You unhook it. Let it slide down your arms. You can feel the cool air kiss your skin, feel the faint prickle of arousal drag down your spine. Her gaze is like a tether pulling tighter by the second.

“Panties, too.”

You bend to step out of them, carefully. And when you straighten, bare and exposed, your hands instinctively come to rest clasped in front of you.

“Hands behind your back,” she corrects.

You comply.

She stands. Walks toward you. The sound of her bare feet against the floor is whisper-quiet. Predatory. By the time she reaches you, you can’t breathe.

The tie is in her hands now. She lifts it with one long finger, lets it unspool like a ribbon, slow and deliberate. “You know what happens when you come without permission, don’t you?”

You nod. Too fast.

She steps in close—too close—and runs the silk up the inside of your arm, over your shoulder, across the base of your throat. Her eyes don’t leave yours. “Say it.”

You swallow. Your voice is smaller than before. “I don’t come. Not without your say.”

Her mouth tilts. Almost a smile. But there’s nothing kind about it.

“Good.”

She binds your wrists with the tie—twice around, then a firm knot that settles just above the bone. Her fingers linger a moment too long. Then she pushes you—gently, but without room for protest—down onto your knees.

The rug presses against your shins. Thick, soft. Your knees sink in.

Her fingers tangle in your hair, firm at the base of your skull. She holds you there, staring down like she’s deciding whether she wants to wreck you with her mouth or her silence first. Then she sighs. A long, drawn-out exhale.

“You suck like you’re afraid to disappoint me,” she murmurs. “I want better.”

She unfastens her slacks with one hand. Steps out of them. The harness is already strapped tight to her hips—sleek black leather, the dildo smooth and long and dark, shiny at the tip. Her nails trail down your cheek as she guides it toward your mouth.

“Open.”

You part your lips.

“Wider.”

You do.

She slides it in slow—inch by inch, the stretch deliberate, her hand tight in your hair. You gag halfway down, and her grip tightens.

“Shh,” she says. “Breathe through your nose.”

You try. She keeps going. Doesn’t stop until the whole length is inside and your throat is spasming around it. Her hips rock once—firm and slow—and you moan around the intrusion. Your eyes water.

She watches every twitch of your face, every flinch of your jaw.

“That’s better,” she murmurs, stroking your cheek with her thumb. “Look at you. Pretty little thing, all full of my cock.”

Her voice is still even. Still controlled. That’s the worst part. She never raises it. Never yells. Just… presses.

She fucks your mouth in slow, measured thrusts. Her hips shift like she’s timing it to a metronome only she can hear. You gag again, louder this time. Saliva spills from the corners of your lips, drips down your chin. You feel it, wet and messy, and you can’t help the moan that follows.

“Oh?” she says, cocking her head. “You like it dirty, don’t you?”

You whimper around her.

“Sloppy little thing.”

She keeps going, lets you choke on it a little. Just a little. Her eyes never soften.

When she finally pulls out, the strand of spit that follows clings between your lips and the tip of her cock. She lets it break on your chin. You’re panting, mouth open, spit-slick, eyes dazed.

She smiles, slow and satisfied.

“You’ll be good for me now.”

You nod. Or try to. Your neck feels loose. Your knees ache.

She reaches down. Helps you stand.

The tie stays on.

She walks you to the bed, slow and certain. You go willingly.

She’s going to fuck you now. Hard. Unrelenting. Until you’re sobbing into her pillows, begging to come and not allowed. And you’ll take it. Every thrust. Every command. Every cruel little reminder of exactly what you are to her.

You’re hers.

And this is routine.

The bed is cold beneath your knees. Always is. She doesn’t warm it beforehand. Doesn’t let the sheets hold residual heat or comfort. She doesn’t believe in softness unless it’s a trap. Tashi prefers obedience rendered raw—your skin flushed against linen, muscles braced, balance kept only by her permission. She makes you crawl to the center. Doesn’t help you. Doesn’t touch you. Just watches as the silk tie binding your wrists shifts between your shoulder blades, trailing like a flag of surrender. You feel ridiculous. Beautiful. Owned.

“Ass up.”

Her voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. That tone is an executive order.

You shift with a shuddering breath, forearms bracing against the pillows, spine arching under its own tension as your knees spread wide. The position is humiliating in how familiar it’s become—an echo now etched into your body’s muscle memory. And she takes her time behind you, you know she will. You can’t see her, but you hear everything. The soft shuffle as she moves. The sound of the harness buckle tightening. The low, clean sound of her spitting into her palm, just once, before slicking the strap with it.

You groan—soft and helpless. She hasn’t touched you yet, and you’re already aching.

“Needy tonight?” she says, somewhere behind you. Close. Closer. One hand drags up your thigh—smooth, knuckle-brushing—before landing sharply across your ass.

Smack.

Your body jerks forward, a strangled gasp torn from your throat. “A-ah—!”

She laughs, low and terrible. “God, I never get tired of that sound.”

She hits you again, firmer this time. Smack.

The heat blooms fast, a flush that curls your toes and tightens your cunt until it aches, wetness leaking freely down your thigh. She crouches behind you then—one hand on your hip, the other nudging your thighs farther apart.

“Dripping already,” she murmurs. “What a fucking mess.”

You choke on a moan. “Please…”

“What was that?”

You tremble. “Please, Madam President.”

She hums approvingly.

Then, the tip of her strap nudges against your entrance—slick and insistent. You brace yourself. But she doesn’t thrust in. She circles with it instead, teasing, parting your folds without pressure.

You push back instinctively.

“Ah ah,” she warns, fingers digging into your hips. “Don’t fucking move.”

You whimper, face burying deeper into the sheets. “I—I need—”

“You’ll get what I give,” she says, calm as ever, and then she pushes forward.

The stretch is delicious, unbearable. You sob into the pillow as inch by inch she fills you, the tie at your wrists pulling tight with the way your arms strain. Your knees buckle slightly, legs shaking.

“Oh—god—” you breathe. “It’s—fuck—”

“Too much?” she asks, but she’s already bottoming out, buried deep, her hips flush against your ass.

You try to answer, but all that escapes your throat is a strangled, “Nnnhh—ah—haa—!”

She grinds there, just a little. Slow circles with her hips that make the shaft inside you press and drag against every tender spot. Your whole body is trembling.

“Say it,” she demands.

“F-fuck—please—”

She stills. “Say. It.”

“I don’t come unless you let me,” you pant, voice broken.

“Good girl.”

Then she starts to move.

Slow at first. Deep, deliberate thrusts that shake the breath out of you, rock your hips forward, make your hands clutch the sheets helplessly. Every slap of skin against skin is sharp in the quiet room. Wet. Measured. Thwck. Thwck.

You moan with every thrust, loud and open, no room for shame left in you. “Ahn—hahh—oh—fuck—”

“That’s it,” she purrs. “Take it. That’s my pussy now.”

Your back arches. Your mouth falls open in a silent cry.

She fucks you deeper.

Harder.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

You’re crying now, a little. Your face slick. Drool and sweat and tears mingling as you sob into the mattress, her strap splitting you open, your thighs shaking violently.

“Please—please, I’m gonna—oh my god—”

She doesn’t stop. Her hand slides around your throat, not tight, just present. Dominant. Commanding. Her mouth lowers to your ear, breath warm and damp.

“You wanna come?” she growls.

You nod frantically. “Y-yes, yes, please—please, let me—”

“Then say who owns this cunt.”

“You do,” you gasp. “You—Madam President—it’s yours, it’s yours—!”

She smiles. You can hear it.

“Then come.”

And you do. Violently.

Your whole body spasms, the orgasm tearing through you like a lightning bolt—hot and brutal. You scream into the sheets. “Aahh—fuck—fuck—fuuuck—!”

Your pussy clamps down around her strap, pulsing in rhythmic, desperate waves as she keeps fucking you through it, not stopping, not even slowing.

She fucks you through the aftershocks until your thighs collapse under you, your voice raw, your lungs ragged.

Only then does she stop. Pulls out slow. Watches the mess drip from between your legs.

“Fucking soaked,” she murmurs. “Goddamn.”

She doesn’t untie you right away. Just turns you over like you weigh nothing, spreads you open, your wrists still bound in that now-soaked tie. She lowers herself between your thighs again—hungry.

“Let’s see how many times I can make you scream,” she whispers.

And then she devours you.

Her mouth is unrelenting.

You barely register the heat of her tongue before it’s already dragging flat across your swollen, overstimulated cunt, spreading slick and spit in slow, greedy swipes. You cry out—raw, broken already—and she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pause. She moans low and deliberate against you, lips curling around your clit like she’s tasting the center of something sacred and sinful.

“Mmnh—still so fucking sweet,” she mutters between licks, her voice muffled and wrecking. “Keep those legs open.”

You try. God, you try. But your thighs are trembling, twitching against the mattress, your body still rippling with the aftershocks of the orgasm she forced out of you moments ago. Your wrists twist uselessly against the tie, damp and tight and unyielding behind your back.

“Madam President—” you gasp, barely forming the words.

She growls—yes, actually growls—and sucks your clit into her mouth with a pressure that makes your hips buck violently.

“Nnnghh—fuck! Fuck, please—!”

“Still talking?” she says, lifting her mouth just long enough to speak before plunging her tongue inside you, slow and thick, fucking you with it like she doesn’t care if you come or cry or break—just so long as she hears every little pathetic moan pour out of you.

“S-stop, I c-can’t—ahhnnn—!”

“Yes, you can.”

Her fingers dig into your hips, bruising and firm, anchoring you to her mouth as her tongue presses in again—deep, wet, relentless. The obscene sound of her mouth working your cunt fills the room—slick, slurping, purposeful.

Shhlk—slrp—shhckk.

You’re delirious. Your head thrashes against the pillow. Your moans come in hiccuped, helpless bursts.

“Uhnn—ah—haahhh—oh fuck—fuck, Tashi—please—!”

Her teeth graze your clit and you scream.

She pulls back just enough to speak. Her voice is quiet. Icy. Like calm water hiding a rip current.

“What did you just call me?”

You sob.

“I—I’m sorry—Madam President—”

“That’s better.”

She grips the insides of your thighs, presses them wider, then dives in again—deeper this time, hungrier. Her mouth is a weapon and you are helpless beneath it, squirming, whining, incoherent.

You’ve never felt anything like this. Never been devoured with this much focus, this much cruelty, this much care. She’s working you like a problem she’s already solved a hundred times—slow, methodical, devastating.

She flattens her tongue against your clit, presses hard.

“Come again.”

You shake your head, crying into the pillow. “I c-can’t, I—”

“Come.”

And you do. Again.

You come like you’ve been pulled under water. Like you’ve been struck and set on fire. Your thighs snap shut around her head as your whole body convulses, cunt spasming, back arching, toes curling against the sheets.

You scream. Loud. Shameless.

“Fuuuhhhck—uhhhnn—ahhnnn—fuhhhk—!”

She rides it out. Tongue never stopping, lapping you through the quake, through the tears, through the shaking aftermath that leaves you limp and twitching, your body wrecked and your mind hollowed out.

When she finally pulls away, her face is glistening. Her mouth is smug. Her eyes… calm. Almost affectionate, but not quite. She kisses the inside of your knee, slow and soft—an afterthought. Like she didn’t just unravel you.

She stands, watches you lie there, wrists still bound, body heaving, lips parted in a daze.

She unties the silk from your wrists slowly. The fabric peels away damp with sweat and tears. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t stroke your skin or say anything gentle. She just helps you lie down properly on the bed, like a body being arranged, limbs pliant.

You blink up at her, chest still heaving.

She leans down, presses a kiss to your cheek.

“You’ll be here next week,” she says softly. “Same time.”

You nod. Or you think you do. Maybe your body answers for you. You’re not sure anymore. Your voice is gone, swallowed by moans and sobs and yes, yes, please.

She tucks the silk tie into your open palm. Closes your fingers around it like a secret.

Then she walks away, bare feet against the floor, shoulders relaxed. You hear the door to her private bathroom click shut.

You stare at the ceiling.

You lie there, wrecked, ruined, ruined and radiant in the aftermath of her, skin humming, legs sore, mouth still tingling with her name on your tongue.

And you know—next Thursday, 10:30 sharp—you’ll knock.

Three times.

Exactly like always.

#literally almost opened my mouth when she asked #god this was so good!!

170 notes · View notes