President Ronald Reagan threw himself into bed. It had been a long day for the Gipper, one that he wouldn’t soon forget. In fact, the whole year of 1987 had been quite the busy one for the Chief of State. For now, however, he simply wanted to sleep. He had already changed into his bedclothes and gave Nancy a good-night kiss. That night, however, was not going to be a normal night for the old Great Communicator. After a few hours of fitful sleep — one no doubt plagued by the problems of the Union and the world as a whole — the President rose from his bed and let his elderly — yet still very much capable — legs carry him to the Executive Washroom. He sent the water running forth with a nimble turn of the tap and a familiar squeak. Splashing the cool liquid on his face, Reagan stared at his wrinkled visage in the mirror. He couldn’t deny it — he was getting up there in years. Not that he would admit it to the American people or anyone else, but he couldn’t deny it to himself or his First Lady.
Just then, Ron couldn’t help but hear the red phone ringing in the Oval Office. The Kremlin didn’t normally call this late, so he figured it must be urgent. Sprinting down the hallway as fast as his wrinkled frame could carry him and the Presidential bathrobe he fastened around himself, the Gipper snatched the phone off the hook and held the receiver to his ear. Panting and out of breath, Reagan asked, “H-hello?”
“Hello, Mister Reagan.” A thick Russian accent greeted the Chief Executive.
“Yes. Meet me at Russian embassy alone. I have a surprise.”
The line clicked closed as the President had to do what we elect Presidents to do: make a decision. Only a moment’s thought sent the Gipper out the door, dressed in his best suit without alerting Nancy or the Secret Service. The chill of the winter Washington air beat against his aging frame, the whistling wind rustling both the trees of the White House lawn and Reagan’s skinny knees. His freshly-shined shoes carried him through the Washington streets and directly to the Russian embassy, where he found the gate unlocked for him and nothing but darkened windows welcoming him inside. The door was unlocked as well, and the embassy held nothing but a single desk and one Mikhail Gorbachev, a desk lamp trained on his chubby frame, wearing only a heavy fur coat, the overpowering scent of premium Soviet vodka, and a seductive, come-hither smile. Ronald wasn’t sure how to react. All he knew was that he could feel his own Head of State poking up against the inside of his pants.
“Mister Gorbachev…” He began, slowly undoing the buttons on his sport coat without pulling his gaze from Mikhail’s passionate brown eyes, only slightly gazed from the vodka coursing through his hardy Soviet frame. “…Tear down this wall. To my heart!” With a mighty show of strength and can-do American spirit, the Gipper tore his sport coat and dress shirt from his weathered frame, hurling himself onto Mikhail’s all-too-obliging fur-coated borscht belly and landing without a scratch. The Commander in Chief let his nimble fingers dance just under the coat and gracefully glide around Mikhail’s erect Soviet nipples and the rough carpet of hair that surrounded them. “They’re so hard.” Reagan remarked, his confident, breathy clearly impressed.
“Da. Is cold in Moscow.” Mikhail nodded, a proud smile on his face, as he ran his chubby, yet surprisingly nimble, fingers down the front of the President’s aging body. He started with a graceful circle around the Gipper’s chest, just barely grazing the inside of his tender nipples. These were nipples that Mikhail had wanted to touch for a long time, an urge locked up in the back of his calculating Communist mind until not a few hours ago, when a number of very lonely thoughts and the bottoms of more than a few vodka bottles had left him unable to think about anything other than that charming American and his freedom nipples, the ones that had worked so hard to threaten his precious Soviet way of life. Perestroika and Glasnost — aside from what he had named his testicles — had been working to close the gap between the two, and all that hard work was beginning to pay off. Mikhail let his borscht-fattened fingers glide down the Great Communicator — one still entranced with the fantastic rigidity of his lover’s hardy Soviet nipples. Soon, Mikhail’s fingers made their slow, dancing way down to Reagan’s waistline, gingerly reaching into his star-spangled briefs and wrapping his lonely fingers around the President’s flagpole, the one holding up the tent of his suit pants. A few gentle strokes summoned a blush to the Gipper’s wrinkled face.
“Oh, Mikhail…” He said, breathlessly. “…I didn’t think you would go THAT far.”
“Mister Reagan, there is much you don’t know about me.” Mikhail responded, punctuating his statement with a kiss on his lover’s forehead and a sly smile on his Soviet lips. He continued to stroke up and down the Great Communicator’s rigid penis, laying his hairy hand across his lover’s back in an almost fatherly fashion. Ronald was hardly uncomfortable with this. Quite the opposite, actually. For some time now, Nancy simply hadn’t been giving him what he wanted. Iran-Contra had practically impeached his own little Chief Executive, so this was a very welcome surprise, to say the least. Resting his aging head, and the still-sharp brain inside, against his new lover’s bear-like Soviet chest, the Gipper let Mikhail unbutton his pants and discard them- and his tighty red, blue, and whities- onto the beautifully ushanka-ed hat rack by the door. Reagan could feel his personal flagpole eagerly twitch with Mikhail’s loving touch and quickly bringing the President to the verge of his own Challenger explosion. Just then, however, Gorbachev stopped.
“Something wrong?” Reagan asked, his voice sincere and shaken.
Without saying another word in his silky-yet-harsh Soviet voice, Mikhail sprung into action. He moved surprisingly fast for someone of his age and size. He spun the Gipper around, displaying the graying hair on the back of the President’s wizened head. A smooth, oddly practiced thrusting motion forced a meaty, borscht-fattened ICBM deep into Reagan’s eager, wrinkled ass. It only took two or three emotionally charged, hearty stew-fueled thrusts to wrack both wrinkled bodies with pleasure. Copious amounts of warm, sticky cum filled the Gipper, while Commander in Chief found his own pocket rocket firing all over the door- a good ten feet from the dirty desk- and even pushing the Great Communicator into the hair-cushioned chest of his old nemesis. Both men merely laid on the desk for a good ten minutes after that, letting the last of their shared orgasm leak out of their respective, ample dicks. Gorby’s even remained buried in the Oval Orifice, bathing in its own warm, welcoming product.
After the last deep, recovering breath had been taken, both men sat up on the desk and found themselves on their feet. Ronald realized he had never even removed his shoes, and his socks had become splattered with… probably his own cum. It was hard to be certain. He walked his newly invigorated frame around the room and collected his underpants under the watchful eye of his new lover. After fastening his supportive patriotic briefs around his sagging waist, Reagan secured his Presidential bathrobe around his body and tried to come up with a story to tell Nancy about where he went.
“Same time next week?” He asked, throwing his gaze behind him to the half-naked Russian.