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jackie kennedy sucking cock november 1963.nnJackie adjusted her pillbox hat that threatened to tip in the warm Texas breeze. She kept her smile fixed, perfectly polished for the cameras, but her fingers tightened imperceptibly around the bouquet of roses in her lap. The car rolled forward, slow enough that she could pick out individual faces in the crowd—cheering, waving, their voices a blur of adoration.nnThe President chuckled, leaning back against the leather seat like a man without a care in the world. His hand settled casually on her thigh, just above the knee, the way it often did when he wanted something. "Just thinking how lucky I am," he said, flashing that grin—the one that could charm a nation or a waitress in equal measure. "All these people, and they have no idea."nnJackie didn’t ask what he meant. She knew better. Instead, she lifted a gloved hand to wave at a little girl in a starched dress clutching a flag. The sun glinted off the chrome of the Lincoln’s trim, and for a moment, everything was blindingly bright—the sky, the crowd, the absurdity of it all.nnThen his fingers dug into her shoulder, sudden and insistent. She turned her head, startled, just in time to see his free hand flick open his belt with practiced ease. The zipper hissed down before she could react. "Jack—"nnJackie’s protest died in her throat as his fingers tangled in her hair, forcing her down with a grip that brooked no argument. The sudden press of his cock against her lips was hot and insistent, the salt-tang of his skin flooding her senses as he thrust forward without hesitation. Her gloved hands flew up instinctively, pressing against his thighs, but he barely seemed to notice—too busy angling her head just so, guiding himself deeper with a satisfied sigh.nnThe car jostled over a seam in the pavement, and the motion drove him harder into her mouth, her teeth scraping against him before she could adjust. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, blurring the crowd into a smear of color beyond the windshield. She could hear the muffled cheers, the distant popping of flashbulbs, all of it drowned out by the wet, rhythmic sounds of his hips driving relentlessly forward. Someone in the backseat cleared their throat pointedly; Jackie caught a glimpse of Governor Connally’s profile, rigidly turned away, as if the passing storefronts held some sudden fascination.nnJackie's lips stretched obscenely around him, the slick pressure of his cock forcing them wider with every thrust. The stretch burned—her jaw ached, the muscles protesting as he pistoned into her throat with the same casual arrogance he used to sign bills into law. Spit pooled at the corners of her mouth, dripping down her chin onto the pristine fabric of her dress, but he didn't slow, didn't stop. His fingers tightened in her hair, guiding her head in a rhythm that left no room for hesitation. The wet, sloppy sounds of her gagging were drowned out only by his low grunts, the occasional chuckle when her throat fluttered around him.nnShe could taste him—salt and musk and something faintly metallic, like the edge of a newly minted coin. His hips jerked forward, burying himself to the hilt, and Jackie's vision blurred as her nose pressed into the coarse thatch of his pubic hair. Tears streaked her cheeks, smudging her perfect makeup, but the crowd outside kept cheering, kept waving, utterly oblivious to the raw violation happening inches away behind the Lincoln's glass. Someone shouted "God bless you, Mr. President!" just as he shoved her down again, her throat convulsing around him. The irony would have been laughable if she could breathe.nnThen, with a groan that sounded almost bored, he came. Hot spurts flooded her mouth, thick and bitter, and Jackie's body locked up—instinct screaming to pull away, to spit, but his grip was iron. He held her there, forcing her to swallow every pulse, until her throat moved obediently under his palm. "Good girl," he murmured, patting her head like she was a damn dog. She could feel his cock twitching against her tongue, still half-hard, as if he might just start all over again.nnThat was when the first shot rang out.nnJackie lifted her head with a gasp, strands of saliva still clinging to her lips. She wiped her mouth with the back of her glove, the white fabric streaking with sticky remnants. The taste of him lingered—bitter, metallic—but then she saw it. The President’s head wasn’t there anymore. Just a ruin of red and pink, bone fragments glistening wetly in the sunlight, his body slumped forward like a marionette with its strings cut. His cock, still half-hard, rested limply against his thigh, a grotesque contrast to the horror above it.nnHer scream lodged in her throat, silent, choking. The world tilted—too bright, too loud, the cheers morphing into shrieks, the motorcade lurching forward with sudden urgency. Instinct took over. She scrambled backward, her heels slipping on the leather seat, hands grasping for anything to pull herself away from the corpse beside her. The car jerked again, and her knees hit the divider between the front and back seats. Her skirt tangled around her waist as she hauled herself up, the fabric hitching higher, baring her thighs, the curve of her ass, the wet glint of her cunt to the open air.nnGovernor Connally twisted in his seat, his face a mask of shock—not just at the President’s shattered skull, but at the First Lady’s exposed body, her panties lost somewhere in the frenzy of the last few minutes. Flashbulbs popped, capturing her humiliation in stark, unforgiving detail. Someone in the crowd pointed, their voice rising above the chaos: “Christ, look at her!” Jackie didn’t care. She clawed at the trunk of the Lincoln, her gloves tearing on the metal, desperate to put distance between herself and the thing that had been her husband.nn----nnThe oath still hung in the air, the Bible’s leather cover warm under Lyndon’s palm when he turned to her. His eyes—always too sharp, too knowing—dropped to her mouth, still red and swollen. Jackie flinched before he even spoke, her body remembering the way Jack’s fingers had knotted in her hair not twenty minutes ago. But LBJ didn’t bother with preamble. He just leaned in, the musky tang of his sweat cutting through the metallic stench of blood, and murmured, “Ain’t proper to leave a man’s dick swinging loose at a time like this, darlin’.”nnHis hand clamped around her wrist before she could recoil, dragging her fingers to the bulge straining against his slacks. The sheer size of him made her stomach lurch—thick as a beer bottle already, and from the way his hips jerked when her knuckles brushed him, he wasn’t even fully hard yet. “That’s it,” he growled, guiding her hand up the length, his breath hot and sour against her ear. “Feel what you’re workin’ with.”nnJackie’s throat clenched reflexively, still raw from Jack’s abuse, but LBJ didn’t wait for compliance. His belt buckle clattered to the floorboards, the sound lost under the panicked shouts of the agents swarming the plane. Then his zipper hissed down, and his cock sprang free—a monstrous, veined thing that curved upward, the flushed head already glistening with precome. “Christ,” someone gasped—Connally, maybe, or one of the aides—but LBJ didn’t so much as glance their way.nnHe fisted his hand in Jackie’s hair, wrenching her head back until her spine arched painfully. “Open up,” he ordered, thumb pressing cruelly into the hinge of her jaw. When she hesitated, his grip tightened, yanking a whimper from her lips. “Don’t make me ask twice, sweetheart. Not when we got a nation to console.”nnJackie's lips parted with a shuddering gasp, her breath hitching around the sob lodged in her throat. LBJ didn't wait for permission—he shoved forward, the broad head of his cock smearing precome across her tongue before she could brace herself. The taste was overwhelming—sweat and musk and something darker, like bourbon left to sour in a tumbler. Her body jerked instinctively, her knees scraping against the carpet of Air Force One as she tried to recoil, but his grip in her hair held firm.nn"Easy now," LBJ murmured, though there was nothing gentle in the way his hips rolled forward, forcing another inch into her mouth. Tears spilled down Jackie's cheeks, streaking through the blood and makeup already caked on her skin. She could feel him throbbing against her tongue, the veins along his shaft pulsing as he fed himself deeper. Her jaw ached, her lips stretched taut around his girth, but he only chuckled—a low, satisfied sound that vibrated through her skull. "That's it. Just like you did for Jack."nnThe mention of her husband's name sent a fresh wave of nausea through her. Somewhere behind them, agents barked orders, their voices tight with panic, but LBJ paid them no mind. His free hand dropped to cup her chin, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as he guided her head into a slower rhythm. "Suck," he ordered, his thumb pressing down on her tongue to make space for him. "Ain't got all day, darlin'."nnJackie's breath came in ragged hitches, her nose bumping against the coarse thatch of his pubic hair with every shallow thrust. Spit pooled at the corners of her mouth, dripping down her chin onto her already ruined dress. The sounds were obscene—wet, sloppy gulps punctuated by her muffled whimpers. She could feel him growing harder, the tip of his cock nudging the back of her throat, and when she gagged, he only groaned, his fingers tightening in her hair.nnThe moment LBJ’s cock pulsed against her tongue, Jackie knew she wouldn’t be swallowing this time. His grip on her hair turned brutal, yanking her head back just as the first thick spurt of cum erupted from him—hot and viscous, splattering across her cheekbone with a wet slap. The second landed higher, streaking through her carefully arranged bangs, the white strands turning translucent as it dripped toward her temple. She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn’t matter—the third shot caught her lashes, gluing them together in sticky clumps. nnHer breath hitched, a whimper trapped in her throat as he painted her face in uneven stripes, his hips jerking erratically to milk every last drop. Somewhere between the fourth and fifth pulse, a glob landed on the collar of her Chanel suit, the fabric already stiff with drying blood—Jack’s blood—now mingling with LBJ’s release in a grotesque, pearlescent smear. He sighed above her, his fingers loosening their grip just enough to let her head loll forward, strands of saliva and cum stretching between her lips and his still-hard cock.
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