Karl Rove Contemplates His Leather Slave:
Goddamn, this should go on forever, thinks Karl Rove as he receives a rim job from his leather slave. Karl Rove keeps his leather slave in the basement of the White House, right next to Woodrow Wilson's drool bucket and the cabinet that holds John Tyler's "Ladies' Surprise" dildo made from dead slave bones. Yes, Rove removed the ball gag from his leather slave's mouth and before he could say anything, Rove shoved his White House-sitting ass right in the leather slave's face and commanded him, "Start lapping."

Karl Rove's leather slave has been so obedient all these years, even though he doesn't realize that Rove would rather slit his throat than willingly turn him over to another Presidential aide. Oh, sure, sure, Rove'll share his leather slave, masturbating furiously in the corner as he watches a latex-cocooned Stephen Hadley or a strap-on packing Condi take turns fucking away on his leather slave's willing anus. But these are done to please Rove, not to give pleasure to anyone else. Should he be forced to leave this White House, should he lose access to this basement, rather than think about someone else using his leather slave for their orgasmic glee, he'd gut the leather slave and dance with his entrails, whooping like a mad pagan running crazy-legged on too much peyote into the desert sandscape.

Rove is feeling the bitter sting of rejection. His leather slave's sphincter has been tighter than usual - typically, Rove would see this as an opportunity, a chance to fuck away and love the squeeze on his dick. But something's different this time. He thinks his leather slave senses weakness. He thinks his leather slave has seen how the end of the relationship is imminent. But in Rove's strange mind, every other time he was revealed to be the puppet master behind the Herman Miller chair in the Oval Office and his leather slave resisted his cock and balls, Rove saw it as a tease, a little game that said to him that the leather slave was demanding more punishment. And so he made sure that he broke out the bullwhip, the spiked glove, the branding irons to teach his leather slave that he, Rove, will decide when his leather slave is fucked and how hard.

Now, though, oh, now. Rove wonders, as he farts on his leather slave's face, if maybe he should do something graceful. If he should just walk away, head back to Texas, become a consultant. If he should tell the puppy dog President, who bows his head and looks at Rove sad-eyed these days, as if he's thinking that Rove wants to put him to sleep, that the President will have to go on without him. And then he'll set his leather slave free, release the straps and chains that have held him down here for these long years. Yes, grace and honor, such things are not alien to him, but they are mere concepts, not practicable. No certainly not practicable. Not with Fitzgerald out there to be crushed and discredited. Not with Democrats to be stomped on like so many hamsters by so many spiked boots. And certainly not with this huge boner he's gotten from the rim job.

Karl Rove turns around and faces his leather slave, gives him a sip of water. "You've been so good to me," Rove says, caressing his leather slave's cheek, pulling the hair away from his eyes. The leather slave smiles, expectantly, like perhaps he's finally going to be freed, because he's so, so tired of the sodomizing. It is a terrible turn of events, you know, when the slave no longer wishes to serve the master for, indeed, he is just a slave, and there is no safe word. "And you look so very tired." The leather slave nods, his eyes saying, Yes, yes, too tired to do this anymore.

"That's too bad. Because now I'm gonna fuck your face," says Karl Rove before yipping insanely and plunging his cock into his leather slave's mouth, slapping that chin with his nutsack. For indeed, at day's end, all Karl Rove knows is how to treat his leather slave like a leather slave, and until the day one of them dies, the leather slave will not escape Karl Rove.