Deceit

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At approximately 3:30 AM, local time, on an outside terrace of a villa outside the Spanish provincial capital of Malaga, Cynthia Green lay on her left side on a lounger.

The night air was warm and humid. Green was sweating profusely, her breasts and belly arched outward, her cunt and ass pulled back and her right thigh held tightly up and pulled back over the hip of the large, beautiful Brazilian transsexual who was thrusting violently and noisily into her ass.

She looked quickly to the woman sitting in a lounger across from her. The woman looked to be in her 60's, her body heavy but still attractive, and naked. She too was sweating and, as she watched the couple, she was masturbating. She had an intense look of concentration on her face. Her attention seemed to be focused on Green's sweat slick breasts and belly and the beautiful contortions of Green's face as the transsexual fucked her.

With a grunt Green's partner came inside her and then he reached around her belly to frig Green's clit. Green took her time to come, her eyes locked with the woman's the entire time. When her partner felt Green's body tense and then sag from her orgasm he pulled out and roughly pushed her onto her belly.

The woman applauded. "That was very exciting you two! Bravo! Bravo!"

The transsexual smiled. "Thank you, mistress. She's an excellent fuck and she sucks good too." He picked up a towel and a bottle of water and casually sauntered inside the villa.

Green slowly sat up. She ran her fingers through her hair and wiped the sweat from her face with her palms. She smiled a smile at the woman meant to convey both absolute submission and burning lust.

The woman, Annette Masterson, reached out and roughly handled Green's breast, pulling her nipple then forcefully slapping Green's full breast. "Time to take care of me," she said in a matronly tone.

"I'd love to. Could we have a drink first though?"

"Certainly dear. There's some cold sangria on the bar."

"Hmmmm, could we have scotch? I like the taste on my lover's lips and tongue."

Masterson was wildly aroused and she could not wait to use Green. She just hoped she didn't use her so roughly she killed her - but then the idea of fucking her or torturing her to death sent a thrill through her body too.

"Interesting, my dear. Scotch it is then. Why don't you fix the drinks and we'll go to my bed. I like mine neat with a little water."

Masterson was admiring the whip marks on Green's back as Green slowly and seductively walked to the terrace bar. Masterson was imagining the brunette stretched out in her bed, Green's hands handcuffed to the eyehook in the wall above the headboard. In between lashes with her whip she would reach out and caress the sweat slick skin of her new toy. "Mmm, don't towel off. I want to enjoy you exactly as you are, including that load of spunk in your ass."

Green smiled a coy smile, almost imperceptibly wiggled her hips and reached for the Glennfiddich bottle on the bar. Green smiled inwardly, Commander Ivanova Stylichkov, Russian Confederation GRU, the Beirut Marriott, the summer of 2026. She liked Glennfiddich too, she thought.

Green sat on the side of the bed and with her submissive/desirous smile prominent on her face held Annette Masterson's glass to Masterson's lips. Masterson wrapped her hands around Green's, looked her in the eyes and tilted the lowball glass up, taking a big gulp of the liquor.

"I may have to figure out how to keep you around. Any chance of me getting you away from the President?" Masterson said as she caressed Green's face and received a slow, gentle probing kiss on the lips from Green.

Green sort of giggled, smiled with more desire, "Hmmmm. We'll have to see. By the way, the President of the United States sends his compliments."

Masterson froze inwardly. Something was not right. But as Green's lips sucked one of Masterson's large nipples and her fingers caressed Masterson's inner thigh inching toward her blood heavy sex, Masterson put her hands in Green's hair and forgot her sudden concern.

An hour later Green was picked up at the villa by a U.S. consular car and taken to a Spanish military airfield where she boarded an Air Force jet for Washington.

Before reaching the airfield Green made a call. "The trash is in the bag," was all she said to the party on the other end.

~~~~~~~~~~

The President's face was expressionless as he closed his cell phone and let it drop to the floor.

Nichols stood indignantly and alone in front of the President in his bedroom at Blair House. She was holding her blouse together so tightly that her knuckles were white. She released her blouse with one hand very quickly and nervously looped some hair behind her ear. The hand went back to holding her blouse closed and she looked at her shoes.

Suddenly and without warning her passport and the data keys to her biggest secret account in Cuba and her emergency cache in Columbia landed at her feet. She slowly looked up at the President.

Montrose sat in his robe in a chair in the middle of the bedroom. His face was passive but he was fighting to control the anger and hate for the woman who had betrayed him, who was the instrument used to facilitate the assassination of his family and who had plotted to kill him simply for as a personal political power play. Plus there was his huge self-loathing for what he was doing and what he had done - conflicting with his spiritual values that swirled inside as he looked at his National Security Adviser.

His voice was deathly quiet, "You can pick up your passport and your two bank accounts and run like hell. As long as I never see you ever again or find out you're plotting against me, or anyone I know, you'll live.

"Or," he hesitated as if wrestling with offering her the other option, "You can give me back your passport and one of the bank accounts and be my mistress - actually, think of it as being a slave; a sex slave. Betray me again and well...

"The choice is yours."

Nichols looked stunned. In a world of pragmatic power politics she had no concept of mercy, meekness or compassion. She had expected torture, maybe more rape and then to be killed.

"Uh, excuse me, Pe-ter - I'm sorry," she cringed at her familiarity, "Uh, Mr. President, one of us, I think, is insane and, uh, well, I don't think it's me. Are you offering to let me go?" Her face was a mask of confusion.

"Anabeth, my word is my word. It's an old fashioned concept, I know. You have your two choices, your only two choices to get out of this room alive. Chose. Quickly."

"But, for God's sake, why?!" she screamed at him in fury, "I don't understand! I need to understand! I HAVE to understand why you're offering me this!! Please!"

The President smiled sadly, cryptically, "I can't give you a reason right now. I chose the options. That's all you need to know now. That's all I know." he said softly.

She looked around the room and then down at her shoes again. He could barely hear her cry but he saw her shoulders shudder as she stepped out of her shoes, let her blouse fall open and let her pants fall to the floor. She picked up the passport and the data keys.

She looked at him, tears streaking her face and then slowly walked to him and knelt beside his chair. She held the passport and both her data keys to her secret accounts out in front of her body in open hands. He took them all without speaking. She hesitated. The President gave no indication as to what to do next. She slid her now empty hands around his chest and laid her head against his chest. He put his arm around her shoulders.

She had just abandoned everything to this man. She felt such relief, even peaceful, and she had absolutely no earthly idea why. Her desire to kill him for what he did to her in her office melted away and again she had no idea why. She just knew how she felt.

The President closed his eyes, luxuriating in the feel of her silken hair on his chest. She had given up everything and simultaneously had tilted the scales of power back in her favor - though he would not tell her. It would be a lesson she would someday learn.

Later, as they lay in bed, Anabeth Nichols' head was snuggled into his arm, her body pressed against his. She was sleeping peacefully.

The President's eyes stared up at the ceiling, a weary expression on his face. He was quietly whispering to himself, over and over:

Blessed are the merciful for they shall receive mercy. Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called sons of God. Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul and mind and love your neighbor as yourself.

Mitchell Cahill was sitting in the security room of the bedroom for the President's safety since Nichols' arrival. The President's whispers were loud and clear over the speaker in the room.

Cahill blew out a cloud of smoke, took a sip of his half cold coffee and shook his head. He was remembering all the treachery and carnage that had led to this point. Now he was watching and listening to the President whisper in his bed. It seemed to Cahill the President was wrestling with himself or maybe God. Wrestling between the visceral emotions of power and revenge and the transcendent emotions of mercy, grace and forgiveness.

Whatever was going on in the President's mind Cahill thought the President seemed to be seeking some sort of peace and testing God at the same time with Anabeth Nichols alive and in his bed. He shook his head again.

Cahill was not a religious man but as he watched and listened to the President whisper Scripture over and over, Cahill whispered to himself something his mother made him memorize from the Bible. It was a part of Psalm 63, a Psalm of David, the King:

On my bed I remember you;
I think of you through the watches of the night.
Because you are my help,
I sing in the shadow of your wings.
My soul clings to you;
Your right hand upholds me.
They who seek my life will be destroyed;
they will go down to the depths of the earth.
They will be given over to the sword
and become food for jackals.
But the King will rejoice in God;
all who swear by God's name will praise Him,
While the mouths of liars will be silenced.

Cahill starred through the two-way mirror at the President and at the dangerous woman lying like a trusted lover in his bed. Cahill didn't understand. But understanding wasn't in the job description.

"God save the King and perdition to all his enemies," Cahill said aloud and lit another cigarette.

~~~~~~~~~~

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Scripture from the New International Version of the Bible