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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