The President

Reader discretion is adviced, this story contain graphic content depicting violence and rape which may not be suitable to all readers. This is a fictional story and do not portray real events or real persons.

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I was excited by the incredible opportunity I'd been given.  A young journalist like me doesn't usually get to interview someone so important.  I'm in my late twenties, and working for a newspaper of note.  Yes, newspapers are dying, but I hoped to use it as a springboard into something else.  False modesty aside, I'm a handsome, fit young guy, with a good but not overdone physique.  Quite a few people had mentioned I was perfect for television.

And I was sure this interview could be what launched my rise to broadcast media; the President of a strategically important, 'democratic' republic.  He was controversial as his government was accused of corruption, human rights violations, suppression of the press, etc.  The usual shady stuff making many people, shall we say, ambivalent about working with him.  He was a bit of a darling of the media though.  His tough guy image and rugged good-looks - neatly trimmed brown hair, beard and moustache, and his trademark tight t-shirts showing off bulging biceps and pecs - made him publicly popular both at home, and internationally.  He was a bit of a power fantasy for many women, and plenty of men too. And it would be my name on the interview.  An interview I hoped would get something 'good' out of him.

His office door was flanked by two tall, muscled, Tom-of-Finland goons, complete with BDSM fantasy presidential guard uniforms. I'd been announced, so they just opened the double doors and escorted me into the President's presence.  His office was less ostentatious than I'd expected, downright modest and tasteful, in fact.  The windows along one wall, looked out over the capital, though they and the furniture were placed in such a way as to prevent a sniper from being able to target the room, or its principal occupant.

The President remained busy with a telephone call until the stormtroopers and I reached his desk, at which point he casually said goodbye, and turned his attention to me.

"Mr. Everett," he smiled charmingly.  "Please take a seat." And he waved at a chair opposite his desk.  "Illich, Andre, leave us," he instructed the guards.  They hesitated momentarily but obeyed.  I had been searched with intimate thoroughness before coming up to the office, and couldn't pose any real threat.

After the doors closed, the President engaged in some small talk about my flight and the local weather, recommending a restaurant of local cuisine he thought I should try, and so on.  With this out of the way, he invited me to ask my questions.  I started diplomatically, trying to get his guard down, but edged quickly into more contentious topics.  He remained calm and dismissive as my questions became more pointed, even a little amused by my insolence.  He was always scanning me, sizing me up in a way that was designed to intimidate.

"You westerners, don't understand my country or my government," he responded at one point.  "You insult me with your ignorance of the way things work here."

"They can't be so different, that human rights are irrelevant, though?"

"Weak, complacent, westerners assume that their freedom and prosperity are the default state of nature.  That their absence is because someone is robbing others."

As he lectured me, he rose from his chair and came around the desk.  He sat on its edge right in front me, a calculated tactic to place him higher than me, and psychologically make me feel small.  I decided not to let it.

"There's no excuse for corruption and torture," I said, self-righteously, staring into his intense, brown eyes.

His mouth turned up in a knowing, supercilious smirk.  Before I could understand what was happening, he drew his beefy hand up, and back-handed me across the face so hard my head was thrown back.  I was dazed, almost literally seeing stars, and I slumped back forward.

While I blinked and shook my head with confusion and shock, he produced a pair of handcuffs, and deftly cuffed my hands behind me.

"What?...  What are you doing?..." I said, groggily, straining at the handcuffs.  What was happening?  I had visions of being held prisoner in this god-forsaken country, of being sent to some gulag.

He grabbed a handful of my hair, and yanked my head back.  "You whining, western bitches have no idea," he spat in my face.  "You are weak, and good for only one thing."  Then he did something that I think shocked me more than the slap had.  He slammed his mouth into mine, and raped my mouth with his tongue.  My eyes bugged out in surprise.

I pulled away and struggled uselessly against the handcuffs.  He slapped me across the face again, not as hard as before, but it stung, and again I was a little dazed.

"Help!" I shouted as loudly as I could. "Please, help."

"Shut up, you western whore," the President sneered.  "My guards will not help you, and there is no one else who will hear."

Holding my head with a fist full of hair, and another hand to my throat, he attacked my mouth again.  Now that I was somewhat cowed, he tore my shirt open, literally popping the buttons.  His hands roamed my pale, toned body, running this fingers through the light layer of hair on my stomach and chest.  When his hand reached my nipples, he fondled them briefly before violently tweaking them. I squealed in pain, and he grinned malevolently at me.

"Nice," he growled, running his hand up to my shoulders, pushing my ruined shirt off them, and feeling my biceps.  He kissed me again, roughly.

With the blows to my head and everything happening so suddenly, my brain was still trying to catch up.  "What's happening?... What are you doing?..." I asked, stupidly.

He chuckled at my naivety, and said, "You are a weak whore, to be used by real men."

The President undid his pants, and fished out his hard cock.  Without preliminary, he shoved it into my mouth, and pressed my head into his groin.  I choked and gagged, and strained against his strong hands on my head, but to no avail.  I gasped for breath when he withdrew a little, but he quickly started brutally fucking my face.  I could feel my throat being bruised by the hammering, and my head was swimming with the lack of air getting into my lungs.  I was only partially with it when he withdrew completely.

"And now, I will fuck you," he said, staring into my face.

My eyes went wide again as this sunk in.  The President dragged me from the chair by my hair, and threw me stomach-first across his desk.  Pressing my cuffed hands painfully up toward my head with one hand, he yanked my trousers and underwear down with the other.  I struggled against what he planned to do, but his muscular physique wasn't just for show. Between his strength, the handcuffs, and my awkward position, my efforts were hopeless.

"Submit to me, whore.  Or I will hurt you."

He ran his hand over my arse, and roughly shoved several fingers into my hole.  I howled in pain and discomfort.  It didn't last long, as it was obviously not to prepare me to take him inside me, but simply for his sadistic pleasure.

He spat on his cock, and I felt the head at my opening.  Pulling my arms back by the cuffs to brace himself, he drove into me with one massive thrust.  I shrieked from the excruciating pain radiating from my arse to every part of my body.

The President didn't wait for me to get used to his cock, and simply started pummeling me against the edge of his desk.  The pain was incredible, and I realised I had to relax or it wouldn't get any better.  I concentrated on pushing out, and my sphincter let go.

"Yes, submit to me," the President said, sensing me relax around him.

Now that I wasn't in so much pain, I was surprised to realise it was becoming more pleasurable.  My moaning changed pitch, a tone of gratification entering it.

"Whore," he spat.

Keeping his cock inside me, the President turned me over onto my back, my legs slung over one shoulder.  I was uncomfortably resting on my cuffed hands, but this gave him better access to my hole.  He continued to fuck me, but less ferociously.  His hand explored my torso, roughly tweaking my nipples.  He alternated between this, slapping my face, and choking me, as he settled into a more languid rhythm.  I continued to moan like the whore the President had turned me into.

Time passed without being meaningful, and suddenly he returned to the pile-driving of earlier.  Apparently he was close, as he impaled me to the hilt, and held me firmly against him.  I felt him convulse and cum into my arse.  He exhaled and relaxed, and slowly withdrew from me.  I just slumped, sore and spent, without the strength to do anything but turn onto my side to take the pressure off my shackled wrists.

As my senses began to return, I wondered what happened now.  The President sat in one of the guest chairs, and yelled at the door, " Andre. Illich."  The goons answered the summons, and closed the door behind them.

The President jerked his chin at me, and simply said, "Yours."

Oh shit, I thought.  The stormtroopers marched over to me, undoing their flies and freeing their hardening cocks as they came.

One of them, let's say Andre - I never did find out which was which - effortlessly flipped me back onto my stomach like I weighed nothing at all.  He pressed down on the small of my back to turn my arse up, and ploughed in.  Strange to say I was glad the President had lubricated me with his cum before this onslaught.

Illich went round the desk, and smacked me across the face.  This got the desired result of my mouth dropping open.  He filled it quickly with his cock, and taking fistfuls of hair, rammed it deep.

The goons just pounded me relentlessly for however long it was.  I was oxygen deprived, slap happy, and in a sex haze, not to mention handcuffed and helpless, and so could do nothing as they mercilessly used me.  Eventually Andre came inside me, and there was a momentary reprieve as they swapped positions.  Illich took his turn at my arse, while Andre used my mouth to clean off his cock.  Illich didn't take long, prepared as he was by fucking my face, and also shot up my arse.

If I hadn't been spent after the President had his way with me, I certainly was done now.  My mouth and arse felt bruised and aching. I was stiff and sore, and I didn't have the strength to move.  What next?, I thought while Andre and Illich zipped up.

The President came over to me, and ran his hand over my body.  He smacked me hard one last time across the face, before saying to his guards, "Get rid of him."

Oh shit, I thought again.  Are they going to kill me?  What could I do about it?

The goons removed the handcuffs, and carried me between them like a rag doll to the door, my feet dragging behind me.  Outside, they dumped me on the floor, closed the doors to the President's office, and resumed their stations like nothing had happened.

No one came.  No one helped me.  I don't know how long it took me to recover sufficiently to pull my pants on, drag myself up, and stagger down the hall.  I found a lavatory and went in to clean up.

I couldn't believe what had just happened.  My mind was spinning. I was stunned, I was shocked, I was outraged.  The President had those handcuffs ready to go, and the guards seemed to know the drill.  How many journalists, or whoever, had been raped in that office?

The most mind-blowing part of all was that I was massively turned on.  I had to go into a stall and jack off.  I hadn't cum while they were abusing me, and now gushed everywhere, making a mess I didn't bother trying to clean up.

I stumbled out of the building, disheveled and dazed, no one paying any attention to me.  How did I enjoy that so much?, I wondered, trying to make sense of it.  And where can I find one, or two, or three guys to do that to me again?...