682 words by Stanley Lieber
There is a ring of teeth around my stick and I can't pull it out. I ease back and forth, gently, but the mouth won't let go. A sliver of saliva escapes, spreading first around my stick's circumference, then down to its base. All at once the President's head starts to move again.
Textbook package delivery. Six calories of Turing gel forced into the digestive track of the mark. Freed from its carriage, some of the payload has already bonded firmly with the President's teeth. Presently, the liquid bootstraps itself into the machinery of surveillance. All logged in, phase one is complete. Other components of the payload make their way into the President's circulatory system, compensating for various biological ticks that would otherwise prove fatal to the Commander In Chief. Phase two, loaded, completed.
I imagine there is something of an alkaline flavor. I don't know how she can stand it.
Without warning, an additional teaspoon-dollop of nutrient-rich paste shoots between the President's lips. Slowly, it threads down her esophagus, coating her stomach's lining. I swish my stick around a bit, making sure that the gel, by now teaming with expensive hardware, gets a fair chance to take hold. She murmurs softly. I assume in pleasure.
I glance at my watch.
Over time, the rogue cells I've introduced will create new tissue. They'll get into the business of subverting dendrite structures, which in turn (I'm told) will lead to the President's conscious assent to our programs.
Caveat: the gel will need to be administered on a regular basis. I assume I will be selected as the agent of delivery (it's of no concern either way -- there are numerous agents who are up to the task). In any case, the process will continue. Before the President knows what is happening, she will begin to crave the injections, find herself inexplicably drawn to the blunt insertion of stick into mouth. Lacking awareness, she'll come to regard the process as a pleasure of her own devising. She may even develop an affinity for the taste.
But enough of my speculation, however well-informed. Her mouth is upon me now, showing no sign of loosening its grip. Not losing suction. Her eyes have rolled back into her head. She's become unresponsive. Even her gag reflex has gone dead.
As an initial response to insertion, this faux catatonic state is not unusual. In my field-work I've observed that women will often slip into semi-consciousness once they've worked the Turing gel past their back teeth. In truth, I was quite alarmed the first time it happened. Maybe I had dribbled psychoactive sedative onto the tip of my cock, I thought to myself. But no, this brief period of unconsciousness tends to be shallow, tends to pass quickly.
I decide to sneak a peek, to see how she's coming along. Her mouth glides smoothly on a thick lather of saliva, sealed by the walls of her throat. Her head bobs up and down, gently rotating, rhythmically advancing and retreating across the length of my equipment. She's quite awake now and seems to have swallowed her cares.
A strand of the President's hair has caught on my watchband, but I'm reluctant to interrupt her work.
I nudge her lovingly on the ear and her entire head shifts weight to the other side. Her eyes flick open and she smiles as she releases my stick, seemingly unaware of the considerable amount of time that has passed. I slide out, drawing a trail of spit between myself and her tongue, which she stares at quizzically before flashing a mischievous grin and then aggressively chewing it all back into her mouth. Ordinarily this would be fine, but a pool of spittle has coalesced around my scrotum, and now it traces the contour of my buttocks. It is cold.
A pink square blips in the lower-left of my vision, telling me that the Turing cells have gained purchase.
I engage the President verbally as she re-applies her lipstick and adjusts her coiffure.
I start making excuses, looking for a way out of the room.