Condi quietly opened the Oval Office door, and slipped silently into the room. He stood there, peering darkly out at the gathering gloom of impending night. Her pulse quickened abrubtly as he turned his limpid brown eyes upon her, eyes brimming over with feeling but sharp with intelligence, like a puppy with a Ph.D.
“Sir?” she whispered, using her pet name for him.
“Its the Iraqi people, Condi. They cry out to me, begging for my help, like stranded flood victims on rooftops. I must free them from that monster, Condi.”
Condi gasped silently, as his manly magnetism scorched through her veins. Her years of secret Sapphic devotion were as nothing in his presence, the psychic musk of his gravitas flared her desires.
“Even if I must shade the truth a bit…a nuance here, a fib there, and a bald faced lie ever which way…” Condi smiled inwardly, he often fell in to the dialect of his youth, from the hardscrabble Texas gated community of Midland.
“Even if I must sacrifice my very integrity, we must lead America to war with Saddam. Its a mission, a sacred mission, a mission from…” (Here he turned to face her, the full force of his charisma washed over her like a blast from a fireman’s hose) “…God!”
She flung her briefing book to the carpet, and ripped her blouse apart across her pert but commanding breasts.
“Take me, sir! Take me now!”
Please deposit twenty five cents for the next two hundred words…