It had been a rough day.

They were all rough days, but today particularly so.

She took a drag from the Virginia Slims cigarette smoldering in the ashtray, taking care not to press her lips too hard and lose the lipstick she had so painstakingly applied.

The White House press corps was becoming troublesome. She expected that from Fox, of course, but even the tame lapdog media were starting to snap at her.

She knew Steven Nelson’s domme and was going to make sure he got caned most severely, and stayed locked in chastity for a very long time.

Today, for the first time since getting credentialed, Lynn Sweet had been wanded-down by Secret Service and had to remove her shoes to get into the West Wing. She replayed the security video.

“I’m Lynn Sweet, with the Chicago Sun-Times. I’m in here every day, Henry.”

She took another drag from her cigarette and held it in through the next delicious line.

“Take off your shoes, please, ma’am,” said Henry impassively.

“Anoki, get a twenty from my purse and buy Henry a bottle of of Old Grandad for that.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She finished putting on the last touches on her makeup and leaned back to check herself one last time in the mirror. Perfect.

 

 

“Don’t mind me, ladies,” said a drunken Hunter appearing behind her in the mirror holding a pair of deep green panties to his nose and making loud snorfling noises.

She hissed and started. He was wearing a jockstrap and necktie, and she could see the outline of his penis through the thin fabric of the pouch. Goddammit those were her favorite panties.

“Delicious,” he said, as he lurched out of view accompanied by a half-second of polite applause and laughter.

“I have a last-minute thing for you, ma’am,” said Anoki brandishing a bright yellow sheet of paper that meant it was from Image Management.

“What do the spin doctors say, Anoki?”

“Ma’am? They were before I was born.”

Jen stubbed out her cigarette and blew a lungful of smoke into Anoki’s face.

“The wonks down in Image Management, the real spin doctors.”

“Oh,” she said, her face brightening with the revelation, her small, perfect breasts bobbing ever so slightly in her tailored white blouse.

Jen lusted for the taste of her sweet plum, but there’d be time for that later.

 

“Jamarcus Purley, ma’am. They’ve heard chatter on the dark social media that hostile reporters are planning to ask if the administration is going to treat him the same as the January sixth insurrectionists.”

“And what’s their suggested response.”

“‘Be blunt. Dismiss this as a separation of powers issue. The matter is being investigated by the Capitol Police Board and they will make a recommendation to the DOJ once they finish.'”

“That should buy us a couple of weeks, at least. Mitch isn’t going to like this. What else?”

“That’s the only thing not on your tablet, ma’am. Good luck.”

Jen got up from her dressing table and strode down the corridor to the stage entrance of the James Brady Press Briefing room. Time to meet the press.

 

SugarFree is caught up in “Southern Gothic horror survival” LARPing, and was unable to do “Joemala” this week. He asked me to fill-in. I am honored, and hope I have done his series justice. SugarFree will return.