Lay or Be Laid Upon

"...bin Laden is there! Ninety percent, fifty percent, thirty, I'm sick of probabilities. We need decisive action," said the fuming secretary of defense.

"Evaluating the risks against the benefits, storming the cave complex could save far more than it could possibly kill," said the president's advisor, far cooler than the last. "What say you, Mr. President?"

Bush's teeth were clenched, knuckles white on the table, eyes staring fixedly at the image projected ahead: the face of Osama bin Laden.

A trickle of sweat ran down his face.

"Let's... let's hold off deciding anything for now," muttered the president. His staff exchanged uncertain looks. "I need some time... some time to think."

He backed away from the table, gaze still unbroken from the robed form of the enemy. Bin Laden's eyes scorched him as he retreated, until he bumped clumsily into the door. His staff watched as he fumbled for the handle.

He heard half a murmur as he left. "...president's going soft," someone said. But the truth was just the opposite.

When the door of the Situation Room was closed behind him, he let out a ragged breath. This hunt needed to end, but how? He looked to the ceiling, imagining what was beyond it, and knew that there was only one way to find truth. He walked to his office and closed the door. He found the key in his pocket, and it took him nearly thirty seconds to lock up, because he could feel him in the room.

He didn't turn, but stood plastered against the door, like a cowboy-suit-wearing deer in the headlights. "Your Oval Office looks empty, Mr. President," came the nearly melodic rasp from behind. "I think you need somebody to fill it."

At those words, shivers coursed through his dick. "I'm... I'm not here for that," said the president. "I need to pray."

Bin Laden was silent -- always an ominous sign. The president could feel the man scrutinizing him, eyes judging, up from his feet, to his thighs, to his -

"Then pray," said bin Laden, lips inches from the president's ear. Bin Laden could move in absolute silence when he wanted to. He was always so hard to find...

The president turned, gaze averted, until he felt the lustful breath of his Imam. "Meet my eyes," bin Laden demanded. The president obeyed, slowly -- bin Laden claimed that he could see sins in the eyes of men, and the president had made many transgressions. But then their eyes had met, and if bin Laden was displeased, his eyes did not show it. They held something of a different nature.

"To your knees," demanded bin Laden. The president obliged, till his torso was flush against bin Laden's legs, trembling lips just below the man's waist. "You learned the meaning of the words I taught you, I trust?"

The president nodded. He was ready to give himself to Allah.

"Good," said bin Laden, and without further word, he stepped aside and allowed the president's head to touch the ground, so the beautiful poetry was pouring from above. Bush lost himself in the prayer, connected for minutes, feeling only the love of Allah and nothing else.

Until he felt something else.

A light pressure on the small of his back sent tingles through his balls, and it became impossible to ignore the bulge threatening to tear apart the fabric of his pants.

"Keep going," rasped bin Laden. The president tried, but his focus was shattered, and all he could think about was the body underneath that white robe. And now the hand had shifted from his back to his belly, and was sliding from button to button of the president's jacket, opening each in sequence.

When the hand reached his chest, the president couldn't stop himself. He pressed the hand in hard, holding it still, and gasping when it closed around his breast.

"You are insolent," growled bin Laden, interrupting the prayer. "You do not want my jihad released upon you."

"Please," the president whimpered. "Osama..."

Suddenly, a calloused hand clasped tight around his throat, and the president felt himself lifted with ease. My, bin Laden was powerful...

The leader of Al-Qaeda took him in his arms as though he weighed nothing at all, then swept the clutter from the president's table. The president was dropped, and not gently, on the wooden surface. He used the table's edge to get off his shoes, as strong, long brown fingers ripped apart his white dress shirt.

The chest revealed was bare of any hair, as bin Laden had requested. Osama caressed it with greed, then bent down and slid his teeth over the bumps of the areola. The president arched his back to get closer, but bin Laden forced him back down, and bit his nipple in punishment.

"Ah!" yelped the president. That hurt.

"Keep quiet," said bin Laden around the president's nipple. He bit again, and again, the president squealed. "Stupid Americans, never know when to keep quiet," muttered Bin Laden. He unwrapped his turban and stuffed it into the president's mouth.

Bush moved his tongue around the cloth. God, he wanted to taste him.

Bin Laden bit the other nipple, and nodded when the yelp was sufficiently muffled. Satisfied, he moved to the president's belt, and with the dread of realization, the president remembered what he'd forgotten.

In a swift movement, his pants and boxers were gone, thrown savagely against the wall. Bin Laden looked down and chuckled. "President Bush is right," he said, smiling.

The president blushed, and moved his hands to cover his embarrassment. "No!" bin Laden demanded. When the president didn't move his hands, bin Laden forced the president's undershirt over his head, then down his arms until his hands were bound underneath him.

The thrill of being powerless rushed through Bush's spine, all the way down to his asshole. Then hands... everywhere, until the president was close, so close, just a little longer, yes, yes, wait, no, don't stop, please...

The hands had stilled, and the president would scream in frustration were his mouth not stuffed. All he could do was moan, and this earned him a sharp slap on the cheek. "Now," said bin Laden, "my turn."

His robe dropped off smoothly, pooling around his naked feet like silk woven by thousands of nearly fetal Chinese hands.

The mere sight of bin Laden's body, a waterfall of black curls, nearly sent the president over the edge. "Are you ready, George?" asked bin Laden, accent thick. The president was too excited even to nod.

Then, lithe as a cat, bin Laden was on top of him, thick beard brushing bare chest as bin Laden licked his way up the side of the president's neck. The president looked down to see bin Laden's dong resting neatly on top of his own. When bin Laden noticed, he smiled. "Would you like me to make our twin towers explode?" he asked sensually.

Bush just shivered.

"Good," said bin Laden, letting the president's body do the speaking.

Bin Laden began, entering deeply into minutes of sexier anal penetration than Bush had ever had with Laura. And finally, the president melted, like steel beams and jet fuel.

The president's eyes glazed, entire body relaxed. Bin Laden's jihad was released inside him, and with it came a divine certainty of the correct course of action.

There was a knock on the door. Bin Laden looked over, then turned back to the president. "Should I leave?" he mouthed. The president nodded, and bin Laden removed the gag from Bush's mouth and produced a curvy knife to cut the bond behind Bush's back. They both slid to the floor. Half a shirt dangled from each of the president's wrists.

"Mr. President?" came the voice of a young secretary at the door. "Are you in there?"

When Bush looked to bin Laden, the turban was back around his head, and he was shrugging on his white robe. He tossed the president a burka to wear. Torn clothes wouldn't be any good.

"Be right there," said Bush, all the confidence of Allah flowing through his colon. Bin Laden retreated into a closet, winked once, and closed the door. The president opened the door into the hallway, to the surprised face of the secretary.

"Um," said the boy, "you have a speech in thirty minutes. Have you decided on our policy yet?"

"That I have. Now, I'm going to need to dress up as a bull-wrangler, or maybe a spaceman. Let's get to wardrobe."

***

Cameras flashed in the background.

"What are your thoughts on bin Laden, Mr. President?" asked a reporter. The president smiled. If there was one thing that America liked more than fear and hatred of easy targets, it was blind confidence that Americans were great and invincible and awesome.

"I'm truly not concerned about bin Laden," said the president.

The crowd went wild.

It was a weird eight years.