[Nikki Groves](http://nthegrove.playfarahpublishing.com/) wrote this little story about two college students working out their differences:
Young Republicans and Young Democrats line up outside the Thomas and Mac center with signs and posters and even effigies of the candidates. It looks more like a protest movement than the gear-up for a presidential debate.
Cathy can’t even figure out why they’re still out here. The candidates were both inside already. Tucking her arms deep into the pocket of her hoodie, she scanned the faces on the other side of the aluminum guard rail, searching for the face of her boyfriend amid all the other Hillary supporters. She’d gotten together with Paul in their second year of high school, before politics mattered to either one of them.
They’d grown up, stayed home for college, found out they both loved American politics and stood at the two polar opposites of the political spectrum. Through some miracle (or because Paul had the shoulders of a bodybuilder) they stayed together.
For now, at least.
This would be their first election, post-political awakening, and some days Cathy had her doubts.
Again, she looked for Paul. He was a giant with the bushy beard and curly mustache of a hipster. He shouldn’t be that hard to find. Where the fuck was he?
Freezing cold hands appeared inside the back of her hoodie. She jumped, squealed, turned and slapped her boyfriend’s solid biceps about three-hundred times. Several of her fellow Trump supporters rolled their eyes, but she saw a few Trumpettes eyeball her man candy and smirked with satisfaction.
She took Paul’s hands and pulled them into her kangaroo pocket with her own frozen fingers. “What are you doing here?” she asked. If they recognize you from the other side, they’ll kill you. She leaned into him, soaking in his warmth. Cathy, stood about five-foot nothing. Paul was at least six-five (he hadn’t been when they’d gotten together). She liked using him as a combination wind-block and space heater.
Pall smiled down at her. “Don’t worry, Babe. I’m in disguise.” He motioned to his own oversized hoodie with UNLV stitched across the front. Taking one of his hands back, he pulled the hem up to his chest, exposing a bright blue shirt with the words Keep Calm and Clint On printed in white.
Cathy’s eyes went wide, almost causing her glasses to spill off her face. She yanked his hoodie down with both hands, inadvertently yanking him down as well. He took the opportunity to steal a kiss, and she let him have several more.
He took her hand in his and pulled her through the crowd of rabid Trump supporters. As badly as she wanted to show her support, it was cold, and she couldn’t quite see the benefit of standing around shouting at their counterparts.
Almost on cue, the Young Republicans around her took up one of the Trump-chants: “Build that wall! Build that wall!” hundreds of fists pumped in the air around them.
She caught Paul’s glance at her; only momentary, but it was there.
She tried to keep her mouth shut, and she succeeded as they walked down the little path with desert landscape on one side and buildings rising on the other. As they passes a little alcove leading into one of the classroom complexes, she pulled Paul into it and faced him.
“What’s your problem?” she asked. He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t play dumb. You looked down on me over there. You have something to say?”
“Babe,” he countered, “I have to look down on you.” As he spoke, he shifted and straightened his back, it emphasized their considerable height difference.
“It’s not funny, Paul!” she pushed him, and he fell lazily against the opposite wall, resting his back on the concrete.
He seemed to chew the inside of his cheek, contemplating. Finally he sighed. “How can you support that guy? ‘Build that wall’? What have you got against immigrants?”
She stalked up to him, pointing a finger. “Legal immigrants? Nothing. What do you have against a healthy economy?”
Paul shook his head, closing his big fist around her pointing finger and guiding it down. “Democrats can be good for the economy too. Sacrificing the poor to the Bull Market god isn’t the way to do things.”
Leaving her hand in his, she pushed closer, mashing her breasts against his abdomen. “Throwing free money at them isn’t the way to solve their problem either. Maybe it’s time for tough love, force them to get a job that doesn’t pay minimum ways, or mooch off taxpayers. Nobody’s advocating cruelty. We just want accountability and responsibility.”
“Kinda like your guy accepts responsibility for being a philandering womanizer?”
Her hand wrestled away from his grip and grinded against the growing bulge in his pants, causing it to rapidly grow harder. “Kinda seems like you like the idea. At least Trump isn’t a criminal.”
Without really telling them to, one of Paul’s hands fumbled at his belt. The other, warm for their shared grip, slid down the front of her Red and white track pants. He ran his fingers down through the wiry patch of her trimmed pubic hair, until he found the little button at the top of her cleft. “It’s criminal not to pay your taxes,” he growled.
His cock was fully out now and she was stroking it with one hand, playing with his balls with the other. Her hand didn’t quite wrap around its width. Paul was a large guy, in more ways than height. “Hillary’s only platform is ‘I’m not Trump.”
He was grinding into her hand now. His magic hands moved from deep between her legs, with his fingers buried in her pussy to drawing little circles around her clit, which sent shivers through her knees and down her back. “It’s a good fucking platform,” Paul whispered, finally lowering his mouth to hers. Their lips locked. Their tongues pushed into each other’s mouths, hungry for the taste.
Paul’s hands moved. Cathy shook. Without the constant political banter, he had to focus most of his will on not cumming before she did. He stroked her clit, them moved his finger inside her once more, but she moaned in protest and whispered, “Keep going” with her lips mashed against his. He brought his finger to her pleasure button again, alternating strokes and circles.
Cathy gave a high-pitched yip and collapsed against him. Her fingers spasmed, but she never let go or stopped stroking the length of his cock.
Paul held off as long has he could, delaying the moment, but it was quick in coming.
His muscles began to jerk. Cathy stopped stroking along his shaft, but squeezed his balls even tighter. She used the hand that had been stroking him to block the endless stream of hot, white cum from staining her track pants.
They stood there in the alcove panting, kissing shaking. A small crowd of students passed by, laughing. When they were gone, Cathy and Paul went into their own fits of giggles.
What that subsided, they both looked down at the mess in Cathy’s hand. Paul shrugged. I have an extra shirt, but it’s in the gym.
With liquid-lightning quickness, Cathy’s hands were inside his hoodie again, hovering just above his campaign shirt.
“Oh, don’t you dare,” Paul warned.
Staring him in the eye, she slapped a hand down on his chest with a hollow thump.
Paul’s jaw dropped. Cathy’s own dropped, mocking him.
“I can’t believe you did that. That’s our future president!”
She pulled back and let him put his cock back in his pants. Stuffing the still-messy hand in her kangaroo pocket and grabbing her boyfriends’ hand in the other, she pulled him out of the alcove, toward his car. “Future president? I didn’t know you changed into a Trump shirt, Babe.”
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/58edkm/political_discussion_at_the_debate_turns_physical
Thomas and Mack*