Spobamike
Wandering the lonely streets of Washington D.C., Spike was confused yet determined, lost in his train of thought, moving towards the White House. "Bloody hell," he thought, in his head. Questioning his judgement, he leaped over the walls surrounding the White House. It had long been his dream to suck the President of the United States, and he wondered why he hadn't done this before. Climbing in through the White House first floor window, he realised he had overstepped his usual limits, and hid within a broom closet when the Secret Service ran past his hiding place. He breathed heavily, his abstruse chest heaving with every breath like a ship at sea. A ship of abs. Gracefully, like a cat at sea, he stepped out of the closet, leaving it behind his wake. Climbing the stairs, dreaming of the moment when he would sink his fangs into Obama. He opened the door and there he was: Barack Obama, his mocha face disarming Spike's was completely lost within Obama's eyes. The big brown eyes were like that of a dog, and Spike could only utter one word. "Bloody Hell."
Obama sat up, startled by the sudden arrival of Spike, fearing for his life. "Calm down, love." Spike said, "I won't hurt you." There was a silence. "Unless you want me to, obviously." Obama looked confused, but a smile came across his face. "I'm sure I can think of something," Obama walked towards the doors of the Oval Office, closing them behind him. "Now, where were we?" Obama intoned, his face abstruse with tenor. Spike's calm candor was overset by his belief in true love. He revealed his fangs, and asked "I'll show you mine if you show me yours." Obama slowly took of his pants, and Spike gasped. "My word, it's huge," he said, aghast, "It's a goddamn python." "Anaconda," Obama corrected. "It's an anaconda." Spike could not stop staring. Obama's right leg was entirely covered by an artfully made anaconda tattoo. Spike revealed his cobra tattoo, throughout his well sculpted abs, sculpted like a marble statute, sculpted from a larger block of marble. Reaching into the secret cabinet on the presidential desk, Obama pulled out a vibrator. Spike's confused look was answered by Obama. "You're not the only one who gets lonely," he said, a single tear dropping from his eyes. Spike caressed Barack, wiping the tear from his eye. Barack looked happier, and wielding the vibrator, he said "Now, I hear they call you 'William the Bloody'. Why's that?" Barack's coquettish smile melted Spike's heart. "Well, love, it's short for 'Bloody good at sex'. People just never got that far, on account of me killing them."
Obama was clearly turned on, and ripped off Spike's shirt, reavealing his abs. Spike grasped Obama's turgid cock, which was pulsing with energy. "Don't, worry, I won't bite…" Spike moaned. "… at least, not on the throat." Screaming in ecstasy, the Commander in Chief became the Spike in Chief. Howling like a gibbon, he worked his turgid cock deep into Spike's well sculpted ass, grunting in between thrusts. Grunt, thrust. Grunt, thrust. Thrust, thrust, thrust,thrust. Grunt, sigh. It was silent in the Oval Office, until Spike revealed his true face. "I want a second go," he whispered, ever so silently. "I'll show you my 'spike', if you know what I mean." Obama did indeed know what he meant, and nodded to show so. Spike, never one to turn down the opportunity, lunged at the Barack. Ass in Chief, William howled like a monkey. Not the howler kind, ironically, more like a Bonobo. "Bonoboes are apes," Barack pointed out. "Great apes, actually." Questioning how Barack could hear the narrator, Spike suddenly came like a fountain, a fountain filled with man-juices. Which, practically, would not be very useful. Barack was like aghast with love, yet something was happening to William. His face was contorting, he ran outside to the window. It was raining, and he yelled a primordial scream at the heavens. "Curses," Spike thought. "It's my Jypsie curse. I had my moment of perfect happiness." Realising the danger he posed to his beloved, he leaped off the roof, whispering one word into Obama's ear. That word was one that Obama never forgot, and would take to his grave. Some rumor that every year, on the anniversary of that date, someone leaves a single white rose on his grave.