Monday, September 17, 2012

Potus, Introductions part IV


With obvious relief, Potus asked the room, “So, what’s next?”
“Lunch,” said Johnson, then lifted his arm and spoke into his wrist.  “eight forty four, platypus in the cave.”
Potus frowned.  “What kind of lunch?” he asked plaintively.
“I’m not sure,” Johnson replied stoically.  “Three seventy seven, requesting five nine niner.”
The First Lady grabbed Potus’ arm excitedly.  “Oh, this is fun.  We’ll meet the chef and we can tell him what kind of food you like.”
Potus was in a grumpy mood.  “Oh, sure, he’ll probably be making all kinds of fancy food.  Le pâté du la froo fraa fraa.”  He dodged the swinging should slap the First Lady threw at him.  Two agents moved forward apprehensively.  Johnson held them back.
The First Lady chided him, “You can’t say that.  These are very nice people and they keep the Office of the President of the United States well fed.”
Potus was still grumpy.  “That’s not the Office.  The Office is not a man.  An Office can’t eat.  The man who fills the Office eats and he wants a cheese sandwich.  American cheese, too.  Not that yellow stuff in huge blocks.  Who has time to cut the cheese?  The people demand convenience.”
“Roger.  Salmon,” Johnson said abruptly.
“How’s that?” Potus asked.
“They’re serving salmon, Sir.  Au gratin.”
“You’re welcome.  I like salmon, but usually it’s overcooked.  It’s not baked is it?”
Johnson whispered into his sleeve.  He put his finger to his ear and listened intently.  “No, Sir, it’ll be half-baked.”
Potus rubbed his hands with glee, his mood lifting.  “What are we waiting for, let’s go to lunch!”



Meanwhile upstairs in the Presidential bedroom, Potus was removing his tie.
The First Lady approached from behind and hugged him from behind.  She purred, “So, Mr. Newly Elected President in the White House, how would you like to have a little intern fun?”
They occasionally liked to role-play as strangers, and Potus played along.  “How about instead of an intern, you could be a defenceless maid who is changing the sheets?”
The First Lady walked over to the bed and draped herself on it, resting a limp wrist to her forehead.  “Oh, woe is me, Mr. President.  I have been cleaning this whole house all day I am just positively tired from the effort.”
“Perhaps you need to unwind,” said Potus, a glint in his eye as he turned and undid his pants belt.
“You’ve been awfully bad, Mr. President,” said the First Lady slipping back into her more dominant role.  “You might need a firm spanking for making a mess for me to clean up.”  She grabbed the belt from Potus.
Outside the door to the Presidential bedroom, Johnson and one other agent were about to go off shift.  They could hear some muffled laughter.  Johnson spoke into his cuff and turned to say goodbye to his fellow agent.  Just then both agents heard a distinct shout from inside.
“What was that?” asked the younger agent.
“I don’t know.  Let’s listen,” suggested Johnson.
“Are you sure we can do that?” asked the agent.
“I think if there is imminent…”
Johnson was cut short by the sounds of slapping and a few hoots.
“What the…” Johnson said.
The younger agent drew his weapon.
Johnson raised his hand to stand down the agent and leaned against the door to the suite, listening.
He heard some fragments, “You bad…  traitor…  break it…”
He looked back at the other agent.  The other agent was turning pale.
Suddenly, they both were jolted into action by a loud distinct gurgling scream of pain from inside.
Johnson kicked the door in and drew his weapon.  The younger agent rushed in first.
Potus was on all his knees on the ground, wearing nothing but a few straps of leather around his legs, chest and wrists.  He was wearing some kind of strange bar or shower curtain attached to cuffs on his wrists, which kept his arms apart like some kind of cross.  The First Lady had one foot in 12” heels planted firmly on his naked backside, wearing nothing but a body netting with a cigarette dangling from her lips  and a leather cat-o-nine tails dangling from her right hand.
Potus was screaming in pain.  “Donuts!  Donuts!  Donuts!”
Johnson pointed the gun at the First Lady and shouted, “Drop it!”
The First Lady dropped the whip, straightened up and raised her hands.
Johnson yelled, “Potus, are you OK, Sir?”
Potus said, “Calm down.  Calm down. It’s my ass muscles.  I have a cramp.  Donuts!  God damn it.  Donuts!”
Johnson looked confused at the First Lady, still reaching for the sky.  “What’s he saying?”
The First Lady was exasperated.  “It’s our safe word.  I need to unlock him so he can massage his cramp.  I usually do it for him.”
Johnson and the agent lowered their weapons.  The First Lady asked, “Can I lower my arms?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Johnson said, holstering his weapon and motioning for the other agent to do so as well.
She lowered her arms and got a ring of keys off the bed.  She unlocked Potus’ cuffs and he dropped his arms in relief.  “My ass, my ass,” he complained grabbing his bare right buttock.  The First Lady kneeled and started massaging it with both hands.
“It’s your fault,” she said glumly.  “You always strain too hard and I told you to eat more potassium.  Bananas and avocados!  But you don’t listen to me.  Now we’ll have to change our safe word because they know it.”
Johnson and the agent avert their eyes and back out of the suite, making excuses for having to leave to attend to important Secret Service business

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