Painful Presidential Pleasure

“Hurry up, you swine!” Special Agent Sadina Rice commanded President Bush in the dimly lit hallway that ran in front of the three presidential torture chambers. Bush quickly punched in the security code and the door to the first chamber swung open, blue neon light spilling out into the hallway. They entered the room and Rice laughed to herself at the hypocrisy: a Christian metal cross, eight feet high having hand and footholds, was mounted on the far wall of the torture chamber. In the far right corner of the room stood an authentic, medieval torture rack and a gynecological chair with leg shackles. A 600-year-old portrait of Niccolo Machiavelli adorned the south wall. A selection of whips hung on the north wall. This room served equally well for both military torture and S&M sessions.
Bush pressed a button beside the door and Gregorian chant music began to play from unseen loud speakers. Smiling, he took two black ice crystals from his pocket, inhaling one and offering the other to Rice.
She slapped him hard across the face. “How dare you do anything without first being told!” She knocked the black ice crystal from his hand to the ground.
Wordlessly, Bush continued smiling euphorically at his dominatrix; they had done this here many times before. Fingers trembling, he reached into another jacket pocket and withdrew a huge diamond, held it between two fingers in front of Rice’s face, and silently pushed it into her cleavage.
The dominatrix slapped the president again, punishment for a second uncommanded action. Retrieving the stone from her bosom, she eyed it thoughtfully; it caught the blue, neon light on its dozens of faces. “Impressive,” she said without emotion, hiding her amazement. “Five karats, more or less. Not too shabby.” She tucked the rock into a pocket. “Speak!”
“Does the president deserve to be punished today?” asked Bush, rhetorically. “And a harsh punishment it should be! He has been truly naughty. He met secretly with the queen of the She-Huns in order to betray millions of his own people. And, he has eaten without manners in the presence of a lady again. What would his mother say about that?”
Rice assumed the part, and looked at him with authority, “Negon, I command you to strip yourself naked, you disgusting bastard!” Bush tore his clothes off eagerly. Within seconds, he stood before her, naked.
Rice walked over to the whips and took a twelve-tailed one down off the wall. “Kneel before your mistress, you pathetic piece of white trash!” Bush dropped down onto his knees. She walked around behind him and continued, “You will answer to me here and now for your shameless acts. This—” she reared her arm backward and then flogged her submissive slave, “—is for stuffing your face like a gluttonous pig while millions of Americans can barely put food on the table!”
Bush cried out in pain-pleasure as all twelve tails of the whip bit into his back.
“And this—” Rice yelled louder, rearing her arm back again and whipping the president savagely, “—is for pumping your stomach in front of a lady!”
Bush howled again, his head and shoulders slumping forward and down.
“And this—” Rice was now screaming at the top of her lungs, as she had learned to do in dominatrix school, “—is for your worst crime of all,” she knew this insult would particularly excite him, “sacrificing fifty million Americans to the murderous and enslaving She-Huns so that you and your wealthy, nepotistic cronies can live on in luxury in the tax-payer-built and protected city of New Vegas!” She swung the whip back as far as she could and whipped him a second time for this last crime. Bush’s back and buttocks were covered in open, bleeding wounds; welts had risen up everywhere.
Bush moaned again loudly, almost unconscious from the pain; masochistically aroused as never before. He looked at her lustfully through half-closed, tear-filled eyelids.
“Ah, Sadie,” the words came out slowly, his mind in a haze, “it’s so wonderful to be the most corrupt and evil Bush president of all time. I deserve one more lash for that accomplishment.”
With precision, Rice flogged him a final time on his buttocks, avoiding his back and kidneys, not wanting to put him in the hospital again.
As Bush arched his back in pain, pushing his hips forward, he ejaculated, screaming in pain-pleasure. He then fell to the floor, resting on his side.
With neither hatred nor compassion, but rather with professional detachment, Rice retrieved an aerosol can and sprayed a medicated agent on Bush’s wounds, which would heal them within forty-eight hours. “Oh, shit!” she muttered under her breath, as she looked down and noticed tiny blood droplets sprayed across her dress uniform skirt.