Date: Tue, 26 Apr 2005 23:54:08 +0000
From: Graham Collett <graham_cro_uk@hotmail.com>
Subject: Coalition

The events and characters in the following story are (of course) entirely
fictional. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is purely
coincidental. Please DO NOT continue reading this tale if you are not an
adult or you have a healthy respect for politics and those who purport to
represent us.

* * *

"Say Codelia, how long is it now?"
"I beg your pardon?... Oh... he's been waiting nearly forty five minutes Mr.
President."
As ever, the President tried to conceal his smug grin with only partial
success.
"Who did you say this shmuck was again, darlin?"
Cordelia cringed at the over familiarity.
"He's the Prime Minister of England, Mr. President.
The President called to mind recent picture book illustrations shown to him
of England during a briefing. It depicted London busses and quaint rustic
villages with horse drawn carriages wending their way through bewildered
flocks of sheep.
"Hey, that's near the Middle East, right?"
Cordelia gave an exasperated sigh.
"Kind of, Sir. It's nearer Europe."
He pulled a familiar, rather befuddled expression.
"Say, they got any oil there?"
"I believe they have North Sea oil, but they're one of our staunchest
allies, Sir."
"Aw shucks. So we can't go in there and whoop some ass?"
"No-can-do, Sir."
"Damn it Cordie. You know how I just lurve grabbing myself a piece of `black
gold'."
He winked at her clumsily. Cordelia winced at the repulsive memories of
performing felatio for `Rodeo Joe', as he liked to be known. He had
presented his hideous alter ego in full cowboy garb during a late night
briefing session in the presidential suite. Since then, the President would
often resurrect his gun-toting cow farmer and role-play with an horrendous
assortment of related fetish props.

The president would regularly refer to her Afro-American ethnicity. Cordelia
secretly loathed reminders of her black heritage, especially his referring
to her as his `brown sugar'. There was a time when she had much admired him
during his govenorship of that god-fearing state in Middle America. Despite
his borderline literacy skills, he had still managed to sign well over one
hundred death warrants and thus despatch large numbers of black Americans.

The President's predilection for dealing out judgement and death, despite
occasional mitigating circumstances, proved quite a formidable aphrodisiac
for her.  However, during his presidency, she had come to realise that he
was in fact possessed with the mental faculty of an imbecile. His low IQ
might have been considered quite respectable for the average primate, but
not for a leader of the so-called free world. Besides, she was beginning to
tire of his monkey business. Her forthcoming posting overseas would be quite
a blessing. It was a constant irritation to her that despite her years of
fastidious legal studies, she presently held the dubious honour of being
little more than a glorified presidential `fluffer'.

It was well know in White House circles that the President liked to read his
autoque from the podium with a sturdy erection during press calls. The
secret of his very stiff, unyielding foreign policy rested on her lips.
Without her intervention, resistance to the various foreign axis of evil
would soften and the free world might wilt into anarchy.

"Hey watch this Cordie!"
The President fired a jellybean from an oil-well shaped dispenser and caught
it in his mouth mid-air. He proceeded to champ on it like some gormless
steer.
"Guess you'd better show this guy in." he slurred between chews, "but he can
hit the road by four. That's when I got my prayer meeting."

The sight of the jellybean conjured up another hideous memory for Cordelia.
During their role-play of `vet and mule', he had blown one of them up her
fanny with a party straw. She was well aware how veterinarians administered
medication to ruminant beasts, but she had never envisaged the possibility
of her rectum being used as target practice for his suppository fetish.
Quite fortuitously, during his second humiliating attempt, her impromptu
bout of wind had put pay to his veterinary `ass-pirations' The violent
coughing fit that ensued as he choked on a jellybean had dampened his
enthusiasm to make further attempts at turning her sphincter into a candy
dispenser. Thank goodness it wasn't something larger like a pretzel.

Cordelia left the room and returned with the Prime Minister in tow. She
discreetly excused herself and retired to the relative sanity of the
library.

The Prime Minister stared enviously at the grandeur of the office, before
strolling up to the large leather-topped desk. The President stood,
thrusting out a hand, smirking inanely. The Prime Minister bowed his head
rather obsequiously and extended his hand, surprised at the near crushing
grip that threatened to dislocate a knuckle. Mustering all his considerable
reserves of smarminess, the Prime Minister traded smiles with his superior
counterpart.

"Hi. I'd just like to say what a tremendous honour it is to meet you again.
I think that this will prove to be a truly momentous day in history. I would
just like..."
The President was unimpressed by the excessive display of fawning.
"Just park your ass down, Timmy. Let's move on and get this show on the
road."
He kicked the opposite chair out from under the desk. He got up again and
strolled over to the drinks cabinet, fixing a couple of huge bourbons.
"Err, actually my name's..."
"Hey, let's cut to the chase, Timmy. You got ten minutes and I got a busy
schedule.
The president took a large gulp of his drink.
"And don't give me none of that Kyoto Protocol crap this time. We Americans
like our gas guzzlin' automobiles. You want us to go back to a goddam horse
and cart like you guys?"
"Well, no, but the reason I came is so that we might discuss my proposals
about ways to increase homeland surveillance. I am sure we agree that the
threat posed by..."
"Listen, cut the crap, Timmy. I ain't got all day."
The Prime Minister became flustered. His toothy grin faltered momentarily.
He changed tack.
"May I say Mr. President that I have always admired the strident tone of
your speeches. So magnificently outstanding and upright..."
The President grew tired of the man's gushing compliments and outpourings of
flattery. He decided to bring matters to a swift conclusion.
"I got one thing to say to you, Timmy. If you really want to be my buddy,
then you gotta learn how to stand tall. Take things like a man."
"Of course, I understand your majesty, I mean your grace, I mean..."
The President tilted back in his sumptuous leather chair and glanced at the
B52 models suspended by wires from the ceiling.
"Tell you what Tim, I'm gonna cut you some slack here. Whadda you say we get
down to a bit of horse-play?"
"I beg your pardon, Mr President?"
"Oh, come on now, Timmy. You're a man of the world. Hell, you guys still owe
us for saving your ass in the First World War."
"I'm sorry, I don't think I fully understand the ramifications of what
you're implying, Mr. President."
"Okay, this is how things work around here. You tickle my back and I scratch
yours."
The Prime Minister speculated about the somewhat sinister inference that
reverberated in his mind. He tried to conceal a growing sense of unease as
he looked vacantly out of a veiled window, quietly squirming at the
direction the conversation appeared to be taking. The President continued
indifferently.
"Don't go all shy on me Timmy. You ain't no blushing belle. You're the
leader of a whole goddam island for God's sake!
As the President continued, his hand reached under the desk. With the other,
he took a silver cigar case from a top draw and put one in his mouth.
"These cigars sure taste funny. Must have been left here by the last guy.
Always knew there was somethin' fishy about those Democrats."
"Perhaps your predecessor couldn't find an ashtray, maybe he had to
improvise..."
The Prime Minister suggested speculatively.
A plume of mottled smoke ascended towards the B52s like some vast detonation
and wafted towards the Prime Minister making him cough nervously. His paling
face became possessed by a series of facial ticks as he shifted in his chair
self-consciously. He had had enough of `flawed intelligence' back home
without having to confront its very embodiment.
"I am not quite sure if I can continue this meeting Mr. President. I
actually have to use the lavatory quite urgently."
The President started to shuffle his arm more vigorously under the desk,
blowing smoke directly at the Prime Minister.
"Got to say Timmy, the moment you walked through that door, I couldn't help
noticing what a mighty pretty rear end you got there. I'd be much obliged to
you'd permit me to saddle you up. I've ridden a few Mares in my time, but I
think you'd be trying to buck me like a hog with a flea up it's ass."
"Er, with the greatest respect, Mr. President, I am actually very happily
married. In fact you must meet my lovely wife very soon. I am sure we can
consider alternative ways that we might cement our coalition.
"Sure we can Timmy, but from where I'm sitting, it figures like this. I call
the shots around here and right now, I got an awful lot of goodwill to
plough into your special relationship."
The Prime Minister squirmed in his seat.
"Well, naturally, I would value a closer dialogue with you Mr. President,
but there must be other avenues that might present themselves. I happen to
know several members of my cabinet who would gladly accommodate the point
that you're beating on about. I mean, gosh, it's been my experience that my
cabinet will swallow just about anything."
"Did I say I gave a hoot `bout cabinets. I don't even like all that prissy
English furniture. Just hold your goddam horses and wait there!"
The President commanded as he rose to his feet. The Prime Minister averted
his gaze as the President swaggered manfully towards a set of drawers
wearing a grotesque leer. He retrieved a pair of flared, weather-beaten
leather chaps and a holster. To the Prime Minister's relief, he disappeared
through a side door and closed it behind him.

The Prime Minister's cell phone began to ring. The tiresome theme tune of
`Things can only get better' hardly seemed apt in his present predicament.
Things were, in fact, getting decidedly worse...

"Hi, PM here."
"Hello."
"I'm sorry, who's this?"
"It's the author here..."
"How did you get this number? This is a secure network."
"Really? Anyway, I wanted to warn you that you're in grave danger of being
shafted by Rodeo Joe."
"Who is this? And who on earth is Rodeo Joe?"
"Never mind that. You need to leave immediately. Even as we speak, the
President is readying his weapon of mass destruction. If you wish to remain
virgo intactus, you should head for the back door. The choice is yours.
Let's hope common sense prevails. I have to go."
The line went dead.
"Hello? Hello?"

The Prime Minister looked at his cell phone, perplexed. He would have to
authorise an extensive security review upon his return to Downing Street. He
took a slug of bourbon and coughed. His mind drifted to thoughts of his
wife. He would probably have to impregnate her again soon in order to
bolster his flagging popularity back home. The latest opinion polls
suggested that the electorate was beginning to tire of his increasingly
autocratic style of government.

>From the adjacent room, he heard the president singing a hoe-down. After
several angst-ridden minutes, the President emerged like some monstrous
parody of John Wayne. The Prime Minister's mind reeled as he absorbed the
full horror of what confronted him with an almost out-of-body detachment.

Atop the President's head was a Stetson, cocked at a jaunty angle. A
pristine, chequered scarf concealed his mouth, accentuating a chiselled
jawline. Its neat triangle steered he eye past a tasselled leather
waistcoat, highlighting a portly, slightly hairy midriff. Framed within
leather chaps and a holster belt was a colossal, fully erect prick that
looked nearly as leathery and worn-in as his knee length, spurred boots he
was wearing. However, even more terrifying was the red-hot branding iron
that he appeared to be brandishing. The torture device bore the glowing
insignia of a confederate flag.

For a moment, the Prime Minister wondered if he was getting a flashback from
his LSD experimentation during the late sixties. A blind panic arose in him
and he realised that he was hyperventilating. All of a sudden, he became
light-headed and then darkness took him.

* * *

The Prime Minister stirred and felt a jab of searing pain on his right
buttock. The twanging chords of `Stand by your man' rang in his ears. He
found himself slumped face down in the chair with his trousers around his
ankles. Hands were grasping at his flanks. There appeared to be some kind of
restraint over his mouth. He balked as something large and fleshy struggled
impatiently to intrude into his tightly puckered anus. He turned in horror
and witnessed the maniacal grin of Rodeo Joe, eyes burning intently into
his. He struggled to extricate himself from the uninvited tryst, but
restraining hands tightened their grip.

"Oh!...what's going on?"
Came his muffled whimper from behind the muzzle.
"Now just you simmer down. I'm gonna take you for a `lil mosey on round the
ranch."
Rodeo Joe jerked on some reigns boisterously, jarring back the Prime
Minister's head. He reapplied pressure to the unyielding sphincter.
"This is absurd! Oh gosh!... No!... For God's sake man!"
"Now quit your belly-aching. You'll get your sugar lump soon, so stop your
frettin' there!"
The President angled his manhood with an exacting precision. As the Prime
Minister inadvertently unclenched his buttocks, he thrust home his veined
and grizzled chopper.
"Think you've been saddled up before."
The President remarked accusingly as he eased his thick, knarled,
beef-bayonet into the warm recesses. A peculiar tingling pleasure began to
eclipse the discomfort in the Prime Minister's traumatised rectum. It grew
in him as the unyielding cow prodder continued its relentless journey
towards an oblivion of pleasure.
"Giddy up, now boy, giddy up."
Rodeo Joe reached for a small bottle of motor oil and decadently doused his
inflamed shaft with it as he proceeded to bury the remaining inches.
"You gotta whinny for me, boy. Whinny like a mule."
"Nay... nay."
The lack-lustre, clipped English vowels failed to impress him.
"Damn it Toby, you ain't even trying!"
Rodeo Joe drew himself out to the tip then rammed it in to the hilt,
bringing tears to the Prime Minister's eyes and making him yelp.
"Naaaay! Naaaay!"
The PM whinnied, desperately re-entering into the spirit of transatlantic
co-operation.
"That's it, Tammy. I'm go' drill you hard, just like Alaska."
Rodeo Joe was becoming increasingly breathless.
"I am gonna sink my drill head and pump you till I drain off every last
drop. I heard you like spin, well spin on this with that peachy `lil white
rump a yours."
The Prime Minister felt his senses gorging on a delicious delirium of
forbidden fruit. He could barely speak as a hand grappled ineptly at his
block and tackle, then started to jerk him.
"I must...impress...upon you... not a word to the wife about this... you must
promise?"
"Don't you fret. I'll know how to keep these things under my Stetson."
Rodeo Joe started to plunge him in a circular motion, bringing a renewed and
escalating delight.
" Say, you got a bit of manure in your tail pipe!"

* * *

Meanwhile, in the library, Cordelia sat gazing absently at the President's
well-thumbed children's edition of the Joseph McCarthy's memoirs. Perhaps
she should have listened to her mother and avoided politics. How could she
have ever guessed that the President would interpret their `de-briefing'
sessions in the Oval Office quite so literally?

It seemed that her relationship with the President was becoming increasingly
volatile. It was not the fact that he lassoed her, and all the uncomfortable
associations with black American history that this seemed to re-enact. It
was not even his occasional dribbling or complete ignorance as to methods of
foreplay. It was more the sheer ingratitude of the man that aggrieved her.
It was the way that he always left it up to her to clear up his messes,
whether diplomatic, or otherwise. It was she who had had the foresight to
order the leather-bound copy of `Mein Kampf' for the forthcoming Papal visit
to the White House. What thanks did she ever receive from the President for
her devotion to duty? Absolutely none. Even though he had a fearsome
reputation for barbarism that even Ghengis Khan might have envied, he lacked
the magnanimity to reward even his closest ally.

Cordelia left the library and wandered into the pantry, opening up the
freezer. Her large collection of DNA-soiled dresses that occupied it was
beginning to raise eyebrows amongst the domestic staff. Perhaps she would
always love the President, whether he was incumbent or recumbent, but in the
dog-eat-dog world of politics, she thought it prudent to keep an insurance
policy, should things turn ugly

* * *

Meanwhile, back at the proverbial `ranch'...

"Oh my word, this is splendid. Faster!
The Prime Minister's head was in a spin as he worked his booty up and down
the shaft like a back-street pole dancer.
"Always pump my bore holes at around forty rpm, Tammy, same speed as an oil
well."
Their thrusting bodies started to work up quite a sheen. Rodeo Joe gripped
the PM's shoulders as he knelt, energetically plumping the yielding
love-pillows. The smell of sweat and ageing leather proved a heady mix for
the Prime Minister. The electric tingling in his scrotum began to erupt into
a molten magma of ecstasy. Rodeo Joe continued to jerk the supplicant
Premier until he had discharged the last tantalising drops from his sated
trouser snake.

Behind him, Rodeo Joe's leather chaps slapped his thighs, steady as a
metronome.
"Don't you try bucking me off before I'm done, boy."
Rodeo Joe wheezed huskily with booze-laden breath.
"Hell yeah! That's it. I gotcha good. Get ready for it..."
The Prime Minister pushed back and forth in time with the President's steady
piston action as reigns lashed at his rosy flanks.
"Oh yeah, Mustang, that's it... Oh Bessy, swish that tail, oh yes, buck me,
whinny for me, oh god, gonna spur you on back home now, Missy... Oh Kissenger,
Nixon... Oh lord... Oh Mommy!... Yeeehaaar!"

The President unholstered his cap guns and fired off several rounds as he
shot from the hip. For the PM, however, the image that the president's
mother conjured up in his mind not a pleasant one. He had met her on several
occasions and she called to mind a Chieftain tank stranded on a couple of
gargantuan tree stumps.

For a few precious moments, they slumped, exhausted, in a tangle of limbs.
The Prime Minister savoured the delicate afterglow of being buggered by the
most powerful man on the planet. The President retracted himself and nuzzled
his faithful mount tenderly. In all his long years of marriage, the PM had
never felt so liberated, so carefree. He could almost skip through prairies
of daisies like some dizzy debutante.

"Mr. President, I feel compelled to say that that was truly wonderful. I've
never felt so unfettered, so alive."
The president yanked playfully at the reigns.
"Well, just remember who's boss round here, Terry."
Came the nasally reply.
"I could almost shout our love from the roof tops..."
"Now just you hold your horses right there. I'm much obliged to you, an'
all, but I ain't ready for nothin' serious. I don't wanna give anyone no
achey-breaky heart, but I was born under a wandrin' star."
Despite the charming lyrical cliche, the Prime Minister's smile faded.
"Least I ain't lying to ya."
The president offered appeasingly.
"But surely we could make the people understand. There's plenty of my people
who bat for the other side. One only has to think of the diplomatic
service..."
"Well from where I'm from, they sure as hell don't like queers. Hell, if my
ma heard `bout this, she'd yank my nuts off and griddle `em for breakfast."
"Well, obviously we need to consider all the possible permutations of our
special relationship, but, well, I don't know, I am ready for another
transatlantic tryst."
"Well, that's as maybe, but I'm a busy guy. Heck, I still got places left in
the world that I haven't invaded."
The Prime Minister's face dropped. He felt the melancholy wrench of
disappointment.
"But you invaded me. You conquered me!"
The President's half-cocked smile returned.
`Sure I did, but now that I've planted my flag pole, I gotta find new
territories to conquer."
"But what of our special relationship?" the PM implored "I thought that it
meant something to you! We have a coalition! Gosh, I think I'm falling for
you, Mr. President!"
"Listen, I'm gonna level with you. I think you got a honey pot sweeter than
molasses, but I gotta roam. I know plenty of mares who wanna be sired."
"But I love you Mr. President."
"Lurve? My ass! I don't believe I'm hearing this horse shit. Heck, you don't
even know your fanny from your fetlocks."
The President unbuckled the harness and stood over the Prime Minister
masterfully.
"I will see you again, won't I?"
The PM gazed up plaintively.
"Guess you just might at that, Talbot, `sides, I might just want you to
visit my ranch. We can let our womenfolk get better acquainted while we go
for a long hard ride. We could even have a spit roast with my neighbour
Hank.
"I'd be delighted to..."
"Mr. President, the Reverend Whitmore is here to see you and.... Oh my God!
You bastard!"

Cordelia stood at the opened door, rooted to the spot. Her jaw dropped, as
did the dossier she was carrying. Her blood-chilling wail trilled over the
country and western sound track with an almost operatic magnificence. The
President took his gun and expended the remaining caps in rapid succession.
There followed a deafening silence, only the acrid wisps of gun smoke
stirred in the storm-charged air. The President stood and faced the
statuesque Codelia.
"Who in the hell do you think you are? Barging in on us like some headless
turkey with its ass on fire! Ain't you never heard about privacy, goddamit?
The President bellowed.
Cordelia stared at the Prime Minister's semi-naked form with revulsion.
Tears welled up in her eyes. She turned and fled, slamming the door behind
her. The Prime Minister struggled to draw up his trousers, wincing as they
passed the swelling blister on his buttock.
"Now, um... I realise this is a somewhat sticky situation, but I think it
might be prudent to try to reason with that young lady."
"Hogwash! My guys have been diggin' the dirt on that lil' missy's family for
years now. If she so much as farts in a near a news-stand, I'm go' hall
their asses over the barbecue.
"How very shrewd of you, I must say. Now, getting back to the question of
the integrity of my internal security..."

* * *

In the pantry, Cordelia wept as she gathered the slightly crisp, soiled
dresses into a large attache case. She would teach that bovine-bum-bandit
not to mess with her affections. Who did he think he was, riding roughshod
over her feelings like that? Well, now he would rue the day that he had ever
laid eyes on her. He would certainly regret ever having `come' across her...

Graham XXX Copyright 2005