A Leather Slave Only Knows How To Be a Leather Slave:
Karl Rove has a funny fantasy about his leather slave.
Karl Rove keeps his leather slave in the basement of the White House, chained to a radiator right behind Lyndon Johnson’s scalp collection of "Asians What I Killed" and just across the floor from Calvin Coolidge’s novelty joke collection (including his famous “bladder of the flatulence” he used whenever Indian chiefs visited the Capital). Karl Rove pays nearly nightly visits to his leather slave, and the leather slave can tell whenever things are good or bad: if Rove breaks out the metal dildo he calls “Steely Ann,” the leather slave knows that his master has received another letter from Patrick Fitzgerald or that Tom DeLay has called, weeping, threatening; if Rove lubes up the plastic strap-on or just straight fucks him the ass, the leather slave knows that a bill has passed, a nominee’s been confirmed, or a poll has risen. Rove allows his leather slave to watch only Fox “News,” the basement television locked onto that blissful channel.
The fantasy Rove has about his leather slave (and they are legion, these fantasies, usually ending in Rove fucking Lee Atwater’s skull’s eyehole, an act Rove’s mentor would have appreciated in the pre-brain cancer days) is of releasing his leather slave. See, Karl Rove believes he’s so well-trained his leather slave that the leather slave doesn’t remember a time when he wasn’t being tied down and fucked in the face and sodomized by various bottles, kitchen utensils, and items large and small. He bets that the leather slave can’t understand that life might be possible without Michael Hayden, Dick Cheney, and Alberto Gonzales coming down to the basement for an unsubtly-named “Hey, Guys, Wanna Fuck My Leather Slave?” poker night, where he’s the first ante in the pot and whoever wins him on each hand gets to take him behind Andrew Johnson’s “Cabinet o' Nigra’ Miscellany,” and whip him, jack off on him, or put his balls in a tight leather nut cozy.
Yes, Rove laughs when he fantasizes about the leather slave, out there on the cold streets of D.C., looking around, wondering wondering where the next fucking is going to come from, for all he knows is fucking, or, to be more precise, getting fucked. If one is constantly fucked, even if one is a leather slave, then of course everyone around you is a potential fucker. Indeed, it would take a mountain of non-fucking kindness to convince you the world is different, that it’s possible to exist without your ass cheeks being spread open like a butterflied pork chop every other night while a screeching insane Karl Rove, wearing an ill-fitting black leather vest, savagely plunges his demi-tumescent cock into you until he howls in a mad, gibberish-ridden orgasm as Bill O’Reilly wags his finger at you, telling you that you are not behaving correctly.
In other words, if you expect to be fucked, if you live your life thinking that fucking is just the way of things, if you think there's nothing you can do so you may as well just shut up and take the fucking, if you believe that those who want to rescue you just want to fuck you themselves, then you may as well return to the basement, chain yourself back to the radiator, and wait for Karl, just like Karl knew you would.
