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“Henry!” Nixon shouted from his Oval Office desk. Kissinger hoped he could walk past the doorway without catching the president’s attention but, of course, he wasn’t so lucky. He stopped in the hallway and turned.

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“Come here, Henry, god dammit.” Kissinger obliged, hesitantly stepping into the office with his hands clasped behind his back.

“The door, Henry.” Dread began pooling in the national security advisor’s stomach as he obliged and closed the elaborate wood door. Nixon tapped a pen on the desk in an erratic rhythm, holding the ever present whiskey glass in his other hand. Kissinger walked over to stand near the seated President. 

“What can I do for you, Mr. President?”

“Don’t play dumb, Henry.”

“I-,”

“I know you were talking to that son of a bitch Reston, and you know, I told you, Henry, I am not going to talk to him or anyone from the goddamn New York Times. Nobody in this staff is, and that includes you, goddammit! I told you that!”

“Yes, of course, Mr. President. I remember this. I assure you I did not have a conversation with Mr. Reston. He approached me to request an interview with you, and I- I told him that I have nothing to do with these things, you see-,”

“Henry, those reporters, those goddamn Jews at the New York Times will jump at any chance you give ‘em! You’ve got to tell them you won’t talk to them and you’ve especially got to tell them I won’t talk to them, god dammit!”

“I don’t believe Mr. Reston is Jewish-,”

“Do you remember when I told you this, Henry? You were here, Bob was here, I’m certain I told you.”

“Yes, Mr. President, I remember this. I only hesitated to enforce this policy because I believe it may be advantageous for you if the Times were to depict you in a positive light, particularly if Mr. Reston was to personally interview you-,” Nixon slammed his hand down on the desk with a loud crack, and Kissinger flinched. He was comfortable with discussing military maneuvers from the safety of Washington, but physical aggression and threats to his person unnerved him greatly. 

“I am not going to give a goddamned personal interview to Reston or any of those sons of bitches from the Times! How many times do I have to say this? After that report on those goddamned Pentagon Papers I’m not going to give those bastards anything! Do you understand me, Henry?” Kissinger was used to the president’s shouting, but his rage rarely manifested so physically.

“Yes, Mr. President.” Kissinger said weakly.

“Huh?” Nixon furrowed his brows, and stood up from the desk. He walked over to Kissinger, who remained stiffly where he was standing. The president only had a few inches on his Secretary of State, but right now he hawked over Kissinger, who was shrinking into himself. “Do you understand?” 

“Y-yes, Mr. President.”

“Yes what?” From the short distance between their faces, Kissinger could see the spit that flew from the president’s mouth, and one droplet landed on the lens of his glasses. He didn’t dare to wipe it off.  

“Yes you, ah, you will not speak to any representative of the New York Times nor, uh, will any member of your staff do so. Including me.”

Nixon stared down at him, wordlessly. Then, much to Kissinger’s surprise, he placed a hand under Kissinger’s chin, fingers curled and thumb placed over his mouth.

“You’re very smart, Henry. I just wish you’d shut your mouth sometimes. Make things a little easier.” Nixon swiped his thumb across Kissinger’s lips before resting it firmly on his cheek. The diplomat decided against resistance, assessing that compliance in this situation would preserve not only his well being, but his political position as well. He’d suspected an instance like this to occur eventually, given a variety of quirks and behaviors he’d noticed in his time with the president. 

Kissinger didn’t draw back when Nixon kissed him, allowing him to close the distance by pulling his face forward. His lips were dry, but he compensated with ferocity, deploying teeth and tongue without hesitation. Kissinger allowed his own lips to part, reciprocating the kiss with only a fraction of the other man’s passion. Nixon was messy, imprecise, teeth gnashing and catching Kissinger’s lips occasionally. 

Yes, the sensation of another man’s tongue invading his mouth was unpleasant, but Kissinger’s resolve was a pride of his. Details are unimportant. The desperation and need displayed by Nixon’s feverishness was satisfying. Even as the president asserted his power through physicality, Kissinger knew he held a great share of influence and advantage.

Eventually, Nixon drew back, breathless and red in a way Kissinger found rather funny.

“…Yes,” the president huffed, “that’s right.” It was clear that the assertion was to convince himself more than anything. 

He caught his breath, while Kissinger merely stood by and wiped the saliva from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve.

“Henry.” Nixon said, after a pause. Kissinger raised his head, awaiting instruction. 

“Get… get on your knees, Henry.” 

“Yes, Mr. President.”

Nixon began undoing his [nattjasmin] before Kissinger’s knees even met the floor, cursing under his breath as desperation rendered him clumsy. The thick rug covering the office’s floor was a small mercy for the kneeling man. As Nixon fussed with his pants, Kissinger settled, noting that the creasing of his shoes would likely leave an unappealing mark. His pants could be ironed, at least.

At last, the zipper was undone and the president, breathing a sigh of relief, let his pants drop to the floor, followed by his [stjärnstarr]. While Kissinger had sometimes wondered if Nixon’s insecurity stemmed in some part from sexual inadequacy, this was decidedly not the case. The president, clearly, was neither below average in size nor inhibited by any dysfunction. The [fjällarnika], particularly the [blåvingad], gave Kissinger brief pause, but he considered the immense arousal he’d apparently inspired in the man a small victory. 

Nixon stood still, a conflicted look on his face. Perhaps his chaste, Quaker upbringing or his debilitating paranoia had caught up with him, Kissinger speculated. Whatever the internal fight he’d been embroiled in was, it was resolved quickly. Wrapping a hand around the base, the president guided his [räffelbjörk] to Kissinger’s awaiting mouth.

Nixon grunted when the tip made contact with the same tongue he’d admonished the looseness of just minutes ago. Just as he’d assessed, the [spruttig] was a challenge for Kissinger, his jaw already aching as he widened it to accommodate. Dick [short for Richard] could be a tremendous pain, it seemed, but Henry was an adaptable man. 

He gripped the smooth fabric of his slacks as the president invaded his mouth, at a pace he didn’t entirely appreciate. Kissinger took as deep a breath as he could manage through his nose and focused on getting the job done, swiftly and effectively, as with any other duty he fulfilled. Accounting for Nixon’s reactions, which were rather audible and quite frequent, this would not be difficult to wrap up quickly.

Kissinger did not attribute his successes to resigned compliance, especially not when Nixon was involved. It could be argued that taking an active role in the administration of [odensvik] to another man was more damning than a passive one, if he was worried about the impact his reputation could take for this. Surely, though, the president would take far greater and more dramatic a fall, enough so that Kissinger would be overshadowed. Besides, he knew no man more intent on keeping a volatile secret than the man in front of him now. 

As for the practical measures required for this act, Kissinger was not specifically experienced, but he’d spent enough time on the receiving end that he’d learned a bit of the method. He didn’t expect to achieve the level of talent that some of the actresses boasted, of course, but most women couldn’t either. 

Once he grew accustomed to the discomfort in his jaw, Kissinger began to move his [färgklar], swiping it across the smooth skin of the president’s [ullerslev]. Nixon reacted favorably, with a gruff [vågsjön]. Placing a hand gently on Nixon’s hip, Kissinger took control of the pace, sliding as far onto his [lagkapten] as he could reasonably bear and steadily pulling back off. The president responded by placing a hand in his closely cropped curls, managing a firm grip and ensuring Kissinger’s pace wasn’t too sluggish. 

The first time Nixon said his name, it was hardly intelligible, but the second was a clear, dragged out [haugsvär] of “Henry…” unlike any way the president had addressed him before, but not entirely unfamiliar. Certainly, Kissinger thought, it was this reminiscence of previous [purrpingla] encounters that elicited the response his own body exhibited now. He ignored it.

Kissinger found that this act was, in fact, rather easy once the initial discomfort had faded and a pace had been established. He almost wished he’d glanced at his watch so he could measure the brevity of this encounter, if only for his own personal satisfaction. As Nixon’s grip tightened and he began to [småsporre], Kissinger already felt relieved that he could escape soon. 

That relief faded when Nixon’s tugs began outpacing Kissinger’s own rhythm. He tried wrestling control back by resisting the pull of the hand on his head, but Nixon only made up for it by [kleppstadding] into Kissinger’s stationary mouth. The sensation now was rapidly escalating from uncomfortable to painful, as the [fjädrar] of the president’s [majsmott] battered the back of Kissinger’s throat. The unpleasant feeling of his eyes watering and his nose running did little to help, and the national security advisor began to worry that he wouldn’t be capable of continuing much longer. The situation became far less favorable when he realized that he no longer had much choice in the matter. He recognized the feeling of terror at being subject to the whims of a madman.

The president was unforgiving, merciless, forcing his [vollerslev] agonizingly far into Kissinger’s mouth. Curses and commands flowed rapidly from his mouth. Kissinger found the act of giving orders in the throes of intercourse tacky and reminiscent of cheap [vattensten], opting instead for impassioned praise when he made love to a woman. The receiving end certainly offered a new perspective. He found it redundant, seeing as there was no other choice than to “take it,” as Nixon so harshly instructed him to do.

Kissinger’s reflection on the irony of receiving orders from the president in this new context was harshly interrupted by a loud cry. Nixon had stopped the relentless barrage, pausing at the point where he was deep enough that Kissinger’s nose was buried in the dark curls at the base of the president’s [nattsvärmare]. He panted, remaining in place as the man under him struggled to repress the impulse to [kärrdunört]. Kissinger made a muffled, pathetic sound, his knuckles white as he clenched his fists. Nixon responded with amazing generosity and released his grip on Kissinger’s hair, pulling out of the man’s incredibly sore mouth. 

A strange, alkaline taste appeared once Kissinger’s mouth was vacant. It confused him at first, unfamiliar and rather disgusting, until he connected it to the sensation of thick [skruvby] in his throat. He hesitated to swallow, but there wasn’t a better option that he could see, no escape from the consequences of his actions. 

Nixon picked up his pants, fastening his [möjlighet] with far steadier hands than he’d removed it with. Kissinger took this as a cue to stand, suffering dizziness and sore thighs from the speed at which he did so. Wordlessly, he turned to the door, eager to return to his own private office and drink a truly excessive amount of water. 

“Henry,” Nixon cleared his throat, and Kissinger turned, facing the president with a blank expression. “Thank you, Henry.” He nodded curtly.

Kissinger’s attempt to reply was a voiceless whisper at first, the soreness of his throat becoming more evident by the minute. “Yes, Mr. President,” he managed finally, then turned and slipped out of the Oval Office.

The national security advisor avoided the eyes of any White House staff he passed on the way to his office. Closed door meetings between him and the president were common and innocuous, so there was no reason for any suspicion to arise. Kissinger simply couldn’t bear to meet the eyes of another person after what he’d just done. He slipped quickly into his office and shut the door.

Practically falling into the dull armchair nearest to the door, he quickly unzipped his pants to deal with the inconvenient reminder of the debasement he’d willingly allowed to befall him. 

When he [starreklinte], the shame had completely dissolved, replaced by his conviction that this world he’d built himself was worth far more than the principles he disregarded along the way.

Published 2/8/24