The Escape of Karl Rove's Leather Slave:
It happened some time in the early dawn hours of this past Wednesday. It had truly been an epically joyful night for Karl Rove's leather slave. Karl Rove's leather slave had been kept, until then, chained to a radiator in the basement of the White House, just to the left of Grover Cleveland's striker-shooting rifle and under George H.W. Bush's signed photo of Osama bin Laden, with the inscription, "Thanks for the training in guerilla warfare. Yours always," now turned to face the wall.

On Tuesday night, as the returns dribbled in, Rove made a crazed promise to his leather slave: for every seat that the Democrats gained, the leather slave could beat Rove with his favorite Florida stockwhip. But for every seat that Republicans gained, Rove would shove increasingly larger implements into the leather slave's asshole: from a golf club to a soup can to a Bible, both testaments. The leather slave wondered what would happen if Republicans maintained a seat. "Well," Rove said, "then I'll just fuck you." The leather slave prepared himself for a long evening. When Rove wanted to wreck some ass, it always happened. He pulled the panel off the back of his chaps, bent over the lowered pommel horse, and awaited Rove's punishing grunts. Rove had already stripped down to his suede thong and, as it neared 7 p.m., he popped some Viagra and fondled his cock to get it nice and hard for the evening ahead.

When the first race was called for a Democrat, the leather slave had already been fucked a couple of times in the ass and face, but then Rove handed the leather slave the whip and said, "Well, bitch, a deal's a deal." It's something the leather slave had always loved about his master: Rove's innate sense of ethics. But having the whip in his hand was a new feeling, and, as Rove turned around and said, "Give it to me, spunk mug," the leather slave stood up straight, planted his feet, and lashed at Rove with everything he could manage from his aching ass. "Holy shit," Rove exclaimed. "What the fuck?" Rove touched his back and felt the blood beading on the welt. "Gimme that goddamn whip. I'm gonna peel your ass raw."

Then, before Rove grabbed the whip, they both heard from the small television: another Democratic pick-up. Their eyes met. Rove saw something in the leather slave's eyes, and, at first fearful, but then accepting, Rove put his hands up and sighed, resigned, oh, so, knowing, saying, "Have fun. Avoid the face." The rest of the evening, the leather slave beat Karl Rove with that whip. When the Senate started to turn, while Rove was a sweaty, weeping, bleeding hulk nearly unconscious on the floor, the leather slave grabbed Rove and turned him on his stomach, ripping the thong off the political genius, and then Karl Rove's leather slave fucked Rove, hard, slamming his long-denied cock into him with all the force of a full-speed semi running over a mini-Cooper. Sobbing, Rove weakly turned around and said, grabbing his own half-erect dick, "Can't I even get a reacharound?"

They were both passed out when Josh Bolten came down the stairs. The White House Chief of Staff shook his head at the scene, of a nude, red-striped Karl Rove dripping jizz from his ass, of the leather slave turning blearily to Bolten and giving him a thumbs-up. "Karl," Bolten said, "put on some fucking pants. We're having a press conference." Rove jumped up, grabbing his clothes quickly, looking at the leather slave and, half-smiling, half-wincing, shook his finger in warning at the exhausted leather slave. Rove headed up the stairs, and the leather slave saw it: right where Rove's pants had been. The keys. To the chain. When a man falls, the leather slave thought, he falls all the way down.

Now Karl Rove's leather slave, who is no longer Karl Rove's leather slave, runs free through America. It was surprisingly easy to get out of the White House, actual security never being as tough as the talk about it there, and he breathed clear air. Everywhere he's gone, he's stripped away different pieces of his leather slave's outfit. He headed to Pennsylvania and ripped off his nipple clips, tossing them into the streets of Pittsburgh. In Ohio, he stood by the Cuyahoga River and unzipped his mask, throwing it into the waters. Over in Indiana, he ran through a just-harvested corn field and left behind his spiked collar and wrist bands. He's out there, just free and wild, a leather slave no more, belonging to Karl Rove no more, heading to Montana where he'll drop his chaps and scream, dancing in naked exuberance, shaking his ass at the American sunset, before he heads back to Virginia, before he begins the work of rebuilding the life that Karl Rove had long denied him.

Back in the White House basement, a tear in his eye, Karl Rove sniffs the pommel horse, holds the unlocked chain, and fondly remembers all the delicious fucking, all the ejaculated seed, all the wondrous pain he caused. And, just for a moment, Rove wonders if it is, indeed, really over.