Founding Fathers Need Pussy Too

Reeves sat on his couch, smiling at a jar of pure dispensary kush. He had been seeing dealers for “the culture” for 30 years, but inhaling a fent laced blunt in 2022 finally gave him a good enough excuse to give up the buds and stems of his dealer and use his medical Marijuana prescription to get the good weed. The typa shit that rich white people smoke. It was only available to rappers back in the day, but now it’s legal. His fingers were too weak and shaky to roll up blunts anymore, so he had taken to smoking weed in a pipe. A younger Reeves would’ve balked at the comical whiteness of it, but in his old age he figured it gets smoked all the same. He smoked his first puff and, like a warm, loving cloud, the 40 dollar a gram government funded white people kush filled and then exited his lungs. Maybe I was right to get off the ledge in 1991. Only when he was high did he think he made the right decision. He started to recall the story, but he had gotten a good batch of Indica, and started to fall into a peaceful sleep.

Then the door slammed open. “Professor, I need to talk to you”, Clara demanded as she entered without invitation.

“Clara, this isn’t Seinfeld, you can’t just come in whenever you want”

Clara ignored him. She started to fall onto Reeves' sofa across from his smoking chair, and Reeves futilely let a “Clara don’t-” but it was too late. She landed, and dust particles, some of which were older than her, spread across the room. Reeves was too old and too male to feel ashamed, and Clara, already being shamed for being an intruder, and still wanting his counsel, didn't bring it up. So they just sat looking at each other for 20 seconds, waiting for the dust to settle.

“Have your friends ever abandoned you?”

The zaza kicking in, and not having the bandwidth for a coherent answer, Reeves merely responded, “Yes”

“So you know how it feels? A friend abandoned me last night.” Clara exclaimed

Reeves, even in his high state, knowing she’d blurt it out, “Which friend?”

“I didn’t want to name her,” Clara lied, “but Ingrid asked me to buy cigarettes and then left as I was about to buy them.”

“Why would she ask you? I’ve never seen you smoke.”

“I don’t smoke, but she exploited me. She knew I was vulnerable. I made a mistake, and knowing me, she sent me on a ‘good girl’ errand and abandoned me”

“What mistake did you make?” Reeves asked, genuinely curious

Clara sidestepped the question and continued, “I can’t change the way I am. I’ve tried for years to change it. I only want people not to exploit my weaknesses. Ingrid did that.”

Reeves was dozing off at this point and responded with a simple “mmhmm.”

Clara realized she had a few more minutes with him at most and decided to go for his fridge. She knew he had some booze in it, and though she rarely drank, she felt she needed a drink. She rummaged through his fridge, wading through the half-eaten turkey sandwiches and a box of wine (she wasn’t gonna drink that garbage), and she found an unlabeled bottle.

“What’s this, Martin?”

His eyes closed now, he mumbled, “Went with some friends to a vineyard in ‘96” trailing off more, “we made some-”

The last thing Clara heard was “‘96” and assumed it was aged wine from that year. She didn’t know that it was amateur wine, not subject to the sealing and preservation standards of professionally made wine. Either way, she poured a generous glass and perched herself on the armrest of Reeves’s chair, not willing to risk another dust storm.

She finished half of the glass and saw his phone lying on his chest. She only needed to guess it once, “1917”, and giggled after it unlocked. Being a bit tipsy and still hating Ingrid, she wrote out her resentments in the voice of Reeves. She didn’t think she was going to send it, but when she clicked enter, she didn’t care much one way or the other.

Finishing her wine, which amounted to at least three standard drinks, she left Reeves’s apartment in Dorchester, the shit part of Boston, and made her way to her shit apartment in the more dignified city of Cambridge. The tipsyness transitioned into pain, getting a splitting headache, she decided to power through, but then, as she was ascending a slope, the pain reached her legs, and they gave out, and she fell to her knees.

She thought of shouting help, but realizing in Dorchester it probably would do her more harm than good, she crawled to the bench. Lying down didn’t help the pain. It continued expanding from her legs to her stomach, and it felt as if a spirit was trying to wring her out. She wretched once, and then twice, and then every few seconds, but the wine, like a jobless aunty, wouldn’t leave.

Tears came easily for Clara, especially alone, and they were the only comfort Clara had tonight. She tried to reach for her purse, succumbing to the 9/11 call, knowing that dealing with her bootleg student insurance was better than death, but only marginally. She reached around and, predictably, there was no purse stolen, she thought.

But there was no bench either, or sidewalk, or even buildings. And all of a sudden, the pain was gone. She sat up and saw around her a hilly grassland. In the distance, she could make out some sort of wheeled cannon. Then two dorks in 3-point hats started approaching her. She didn’t know where she was, but knew where they were, reenactors, and those must be the artillery guns. Trying to find some comfort in the situation, she called out to them as they got closer. “You guys left your wives in bed for this”, hoping that would get self-deprecating laughs from them, but they moved towards her, still unamused. Then she heard one whisper to the other, “loyalist spy”. She tried to run, but one grabbed her arm, and the other hit her over the head with his rifle butt.

She came too with a sack over her head carried over the shoulder of someone, probably one of the two soldiers. Despite her dire situation, she did take brief satisfaction in being skinny enough to be lifted by Revolutionary War manlets. She was put down on a chair, and they took the sack off. They were in a dimly lit tent.

One soldier, a portly man of about 5’3” with watery blue eyes and the appearance that he has, or once had, too much to drink, asked her “, For whom do you act? Speak Plain”

Clara responded, figuring this was some kind of dream responded “I’m not a spy”

The other soldier, this one taller, with a broad chest and square jaw, but still a few inches shorter than Clara, responded, “The maiden is German. She has the tongue, and the Teutonic brow.” He then looked at her clothes, “Pray tell, from which tribe are these garments?”

Clara, frustrated, said, “I’m not German! I’m American. And these clothes aren’t indigenous, they’re from 2025”

The portly one said, “The lady does not know English. Major Jones, send for Müller”

“It will be done, Colonel Hampton”, responded Jones

Clara protested again, “I’m not German!”

Müller was 5’10” with hooded blue eyes, short blonde hair, and a wiry but solid frame. He looked at her dishevelled hair and the bump on the side of her head and said “God vil not be pleased zat you harm zis fair maiden”.

“She is a spy. A Hessian,” said Hampton

Müller chucked and then asked Clara, “Versteht Ihr Deutsch, Fräulein?”

Clara stared back blankly, knowing from context what he was asking but thinking better of saying no. Anticipating the idiot Americans asking, “How did you know what he said if you don’t understand?”

Hampton, feeling stupid, said, “She is obstinate. We must use other means… Rise.” He commanded

Clara obliged. He was 5’3”, basically a Labubu. What was he gonna do? She looked down at his yellow alcoholic eyes, his moobs somehow protruding through his overcoat, and his belly hanging over his belt. She could tell he didn’t really think through telling her to stand up.

Clara decided to speak for herself, “I don’t know why I’m here. I’m from the future.” Clara, hoping they could get together on Patriotic grounds, continued, “We won-“

Hampton slapped her. It wasn’t hard, but Clara stood in silence for a second.

Hampton continued, “Pardon me, madam, but the British will not win this-“ Clara kicked his groin, hitting it clean. “OH SWEET HEAVENS”, he grabbed his balls and collapsed to the floor.

Clara, her voice breaking, not so much from pain but from disrespect, cried, “I mean, we won. The Revolutionaries won. I’m American!”

She, for a moment, forgot that two other men were in the tent with her, and both closed in on her. Jones tried to grab her neck, but Clara took his forearm and bit into it. He screamed and staggered backwards. Muller came in to restrain her, and Clara headbutted his mouth, knocking out one of his teeth. Clara attempted to run, but Jones caught her again. He pinned her to the ground. She wrenched one arm free and poked his eye with her thumb, and he again retreated.

Then came Müller again, and Clara felt confident enough to throw a punch, with the arm that she posted to Instagram with the caption “heroin chic 🥴” a month prior. (and then deleting every reply which called her insensitive). Predictably, her hand bounced off Muller’s chest, and he managed to grab it, bend it behind her back, and then bend her over the war table in the center of the room.

Clara panicked with dread and revulsion she had never felt before. “STOP, STOP, PLEASE DON’T”

Muller focused single-mindedly on his task and reached sideways for a rope which had fallen on the floor. Clara kicked and attempted to flip over, but Muller’s grasp remained solid.

“Fraulein, bitte, stay still”, he begged. He started by tying her wrists, and then moved up to her elbows, understanding only then, as she sobbed on the table, “I vont hurt you,” he said, but to no avail.

Hampton recovered enough to stand up and saw Muller with Clara bent over the table, calling to Muller, “Unhand her, this is not a European war”

Muller obliged, whispering to her, “I am… very sorry”

She stood by herself with arms tied behind her back, finally realizing the futility of fighting.

Jones, still holding his eye, said in outrage, “It’s best we are rid of her, and with haste. She is possessed by some sort of demon,” He gestured to his musket

There are things worse than death, Clara thought in resignation

Hampton, still holding his groin, said, “No, that is not for men like us to decide”

Jones retorted, “She nearly destroyed your manhood”

Hampton pivoted, “We’ll send her to his excellency. He’ll know how to tame her”

Clara’s eyes burst wide open“TAME ME?!?? WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY TAME ME”

Muller whispered to her, still in apology, but with an honest faith in his leader, “Washington vill let you go. He’s firm but just”

Clara doubted that he’d ever met, or even seen, Washington. Jones and Hampton put the sack back on Clara’s head and left Muller to clean up the mess. Hampton limped across the camp, and Jones took every chance he could to pull her off balance. “She must be disoriented so she doesn’t remember our movements,” he said. When they approached Washington’s tent, Henry Knox, 6’3” and 300 lbs, was walking out. Looking at her outfit, a torn cardigan and a black pencil skirt, he said

“An Indian scout, I presume”

Jones blurted, “No, a demon in a woman’s form” he showed Knox the bite mark on his arm, still bleeding “This is what this creature visited upon me. And it nearly unmanned-”

Hampton interrupted, “A witch, she is”

Knox, growing skeptical, said, “Well, let us behold the creature”

Jones theatrically tore the hood off, and Clara blinked and then blankly looked at Knox. He was the first man of today that she had to look up to. He was fat, but not in the drunken, pathetic way of Hampton, more like a jovial, hearty way. She had never thought him handsome in the history books, but in real life, he was even uglier, with porous, reddish skin and a coat that couldn’t button at his belly. Still, his affect and booming, generous voice were comforting.

Knox looked down at her, and a smile started to form, and then a laugh. He looked no more at Hampton or Jones, and then called to Washington, “My General, Colonel Hampton has brought a ‘demon’ for your review”, then heading to his tent, still chuckling without another word.

Jones pulled her viciously into the tent and threw her on the ground behind the man she assumed was Washington, and then stormed out of the tent before Washington could say anything

It then fell to Hampton to explain, “Your excellency, we have captured a German-Indian witch-demon”, realizing the ridiculousness as he was speaking, “... we leave her to you for questioning”

Hampton waited for Washington’s permission to leave, which he withheld for a few seconds and then mercifully gave a dismissive handwave. Washington ordered a servant to cut the rope binding her arms (no one was going to try to decipher Muller’s German knots) and then ordered everyone out of the tent except for Clara and himself.

“...hi”, Clara muttered. Not knowing exactly what to say. Washington didn’t respond, and Clara looked down and twiddled her thumbs. Washington walked towards the corner of the tent to his desk. He then started speaking

“With our possession of these heights, the enemy must retreat”, Washington declared

“They will!” Clara exclaimed, “And we will win the war!” Clara felt stupid for predicting the end of the war again, given how it turned out last time. She expected some sort of puzzlement or outrage in Washington’s face, but instead, he gave her a look of pity. Then she got it, he thinks I’m just a harmless madwoman. He might be right. Then his expression changed from sensitivity to desire. She saw a fire light up in his eyes, and then, he licked his lips, and scanned her body top to down. Clara internally sighed. Typical Man. Men only want one thing, even when they’re marble men-. As she was reflecting, he grabbed her shoulder, and she let out an inaudible shriek from the bottom of her throat. He’s such a lumbering oaf. She thought. Stumbled into a world war, and he can’t help but give me the ick.

“Forgive me, lady”

He took off his coat and wrapped it over her shivering body. It smelled of Virginia Tobacco, sweat, and gunpowder, but nonetheless was a comfort to her. Then came the kisses on her neck. For any other man, she would’ve broken free and run away, but the jacket softened and constrained her, and she fell into a trance. Washington, having landed on his feet once again, as he always did, guided her to his bed. It was really more of a cot, but Clara figured if it was sturdy enough for Knox, it could also hold both of them. She lay on her back on the bed, and Washington stood at the end of the bed, waiting for her to undress. She was too much in heat at this point to raise an objection, and unzipped and pulled down her pencil skirt first, pulling it down and then her granny panties (she hadn’t expected someone to go down there in a while). Washington didn’t wait for her to take off her cardigan, or shirt, or even his jacket and instead went downtown on her pussy. She only caught a brief glimpse of his dick. I didn’t know they came that big, she thought. It must’ve been 12 inches. She gulped in anticipation. In this era, before pussy eating and good lube were invented, and when she only just started to produce the necessary lubrication for a 6-inch penis, let alone a 12-inch one, she knew this was, however pleasurable, going to be painful as well.

Washington went into war mode immediately. With vigorous pounds coming twice a second. Not only fast but hard. The burning sensation in her pussy was combined with the blunt force of her pelvis. And it was not only her pussy, everything burned. Somewhere in the onslaught, his dick fell out, and she graciously took the opportunity to peel off her shirt, which was as wet as her pussy at that point.

“George”, she panted, “ I need water”

“You ask too little, young woman,, He responded. He left through a secret passage in the tent and came back with a block of ice.

Clara looked at him, confused, but Washington inserted his enormous dick before she could think about it. Her pussy walls had already expanded enough to accommodate his girth, but now she felt the length. The violent pain in her cervix became unbearable

“George! George!” she tried to make out, hoping for the coherence to tell him to stop.

And then he pulled out the ice, moving it slowly from her belly to her clit.

“George! George!” She said again, this time not caring for coherence, or pain, or the fact that she was getting dicked down by a founding father after drinking cursed wine

The sweltering heat of the Virginia Plantation and the biting cold of New England, the fatherly dignity of the marble Washington and the fiery passion in a cot in Dorchester Heights collapsed and reformed in kaleidoscopic patterns in the room. E Pluribus Unum was being manifested in the nation, and her pussy.

“Tear this little pussy UP old man!”, Clara blurted, too positively ravished to feel any shame. Wrapping her legs around his back and for the first time thrusting back, “Fuck me like your slaves”, she said. Was it Washington or Jefferson who raped his slaves? She didn’t remember at this point. Feeling some shame for the levity with which she referenced slave rape, she tried to make it up to civilization “General Washington”, she hiccuped as a particularly hard thrust came. “There will be a terrible war in 85 years over the future of slavery. You have to free the slaves”. Then passing back again into the carnal embrace of Washington.

“Is my instrument to your pleasure?” Washington asked, this time his composure starting to break

Is he asking if his dick is good? She thought. Moaning, “Yes, KING!”, and then covered her mouth. Realizing her error, she said “I’m sorry, I mean President… uhh General”

Washington looked at her with an intense gaze, wrapped his arms around her back and lifted her off the bed, and still bouncing on his dick, and moving her up and down with even more speed and vigor than before. The fucked all over the tent, on every dresser, counter, and desk. He then set her down again on the bed, still dick in pussy, and fucked all the way to climax. Clara could tell he hadn’t nutted in a pussy in a long time, his juices like warm lotion settling in her guts.

Washington got dressed quickly, but when he tried to take his coat back, Clara held onto it. “Please stay for longer”, she asked. He looked at her lonely gaze, and, feeling pity, stroked her hair, kissed her forehead, and somewhere in the process got his coat from her. Clara again implored, feeling a mischievous “Come back, king”

Washington looked back with shame and desire and said, “If only you knew”. And left to attend to his troops.