Michele Bachmann Porn!

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"Darling, take off your nightie and put on that extra-special crucifix that looks so sexy on you."

"Oh, Marcus!"

Michele Bachmann simpered and smiled, her once-lined forehead strangely immobile, her perky Tea Party titties bouncing up and down… though only in the most sanctified Christian way.

Her hubby's jowls quivered with glee. "Aren't we happy to be heterosexuals, Mich?"

"Absotutely, Marky-Mark." A big grin crossed Michele's face as she crawled into the queen-sized bed. "Now are you going to nibble my down-there, or what?"

"Can't we discuss conversion therapy first, sweetie poots?"

"You mean how we became all bathed in the sperm of the Lamb?"

"Blood, honey," Marcus corrected. her. "You mean blood."

"But it's not that time of month, cuddle-bunny."

Dr. Marcus Bachmann ran a plump hand through his wavy hair. "Anyhoo, Mich, I meant how those homoboys will find their way to coochie through Christ."

Michele was naked now, squirming, one hand on her diamond-encrusted crucifix, the other on her crotch. "Can't we discuss that later, Docky-wocky? Right now, Jesus wants me for an orgasmic sunbeam."

"But those barbarian queers need discipline, darling."

Michele Bachmann made a funny little face. "Enough talk of those poor, deluded slaves to Satan. There's time for that discussion later, Marky-mark. Like tomorrow?" She spread her still-voluptuous legs. "Tonight I want you to do me like the true American you are."

"Um…just a minute, honey pot." Bachmann lifted his still-clothed bulk from the bed and sashayed off to the master bath, his pale butt swaying behind him.

"I want your thingie inside me," Michele Bachman called out, as the bathroom door clicked shut. She slid her well-manicured fingers between her damp labia and stroked.

A few long minutes later, Dr. Marcus Bachmann emerged from the bathroom. He was totally naked, and his short, plump hard-on bobbled above his equally plump thighs. His wife said a silent Thank you, Jesus! at the sight of her hubby's chubby erection.

"C'mere, stud!" she cooed, sounding almost convincing. There had been times, yes, when she'd wished she had another mate. She had even, to her eternal shame, several times had lustful thoughts of Wolf Blitzer in his underwear, and there was one unforgiveable instance when she'd masturbated to fantasies of Bill Maher. But the Almighty had destined Marcus to be her mate, and that was that. Just like caring for the gaggle of kids she was saddled—er, blessed with, she'd accept Marcus and his lusts, despite the time she'd found him frolicking wearing nothing but her secret Victoria's Secret scanties.

"I'm gonna ride you, baby," Dr. Bachmann said, "like Paul Revere rode to warn the sissy Brits they weren't going to take away our God-given guns."

OK, that was Sarah's schtick, not hers, but she didn't have the chutzpah to correct him. But she did promptly correct her mental pronunciation: she'd been told by some hoity-toity Jews that "chutzpah" had a hard "ch" sound, like you were clearing your throat, not the soft, pleasing sound at the beginning of "children." Anyway, the Jews, even the really conservative ones, would get theirs after the Rapture, so…bygones.

"Honey, what you thinking about? The campaign?" Marcus was standing by her bedside now, his hard little thing nearly in her face. Penises were really unlovely objects, Michele Bachmann thought. That was another black mark against those poor homosexual men—they actually seemed to like the male organ, a remarkable sign of bad taste. Lesbians, on the other hand…well, there was that night with Cissy Parkerburg, back at Oral Roberts University.but Cissy had been justifiably thrown out of school for her unnatural desires, and last Michele had heard, Cissy had cut off her breasts and changed her name to Frank. Michele gave a ladylike shudder at the very thought. Breasts were, after all, the Almighty's bait to lure men to lives of true hetero devotion. Two eyes, two titties, why it was God's plan! OK, one of those awful homosexual activists had cheekily pointed out that men also had a pair—those awful wobbly-wobblies…down there. But that….

"Michele, my dove?" Her hubby had climbed into bed with her. It was time, she guessed, to pay attention to his desires, as—oh, she could confess it to herself, she could—as disgusting as some of them were. Once, he'd even touched her poop chute. "Why play in the dump," she'd remonstrated, "when you can play in the playground instead?" And that had been that: he'd never tried it again, at least not while she was awake.

Marcus Bachmann had lowered his flabby bulk down on his wife's supine body.

"Michele?"

"Huh?"

"I know these are stressful time for you, honey pot…"

"Well, yes. How much more does our blessed Lord expect me to do to save our land? I've already come out and said that I don't think the Pope is the Antichrist. How much more liberal does the lamestream media want me to be?"

"Poor baby," Marcus Bachman said, angling his stiffy toward his wife's playground. "But Mich, look at what's happening with me and the clinic. I mean, just because I want to turn some slavering barbarian pervert into a normal, God-loving guy, the libtards get all down my throat. That snarky little Jew bastard Jon Stewart."

"Now, now, darling. You know that the Jews are our friends, at least temproarily, paving the way for Armageddon and all. And there are even some good Jews, like that wonderful Breitbart fellow. But mostly, we are under vicious attack," Michele said sadly, "and now poor Rupert has his hands too full to help out. They're even spreading slander about your sexual preference, accusing you of being a Sodomite. But you're not…" Her voice trailed off.

Dr. Marcus Bachmann, saying a little silent prayer, slipped his penis inside his wife.

"Oh yes, darling," Michele said, her mind mostly focusing in on sex at last.

A look of dogged determination on his jowly face, Marcus Bachmann started pounding away.

"Hump me, baby boy," his wife said, more out of habit, perhaps, than conviction. And Marcus soldiered on, doing his gender-determined duty.

"Oh yeah, Mich!" Pound pound pound. Duty duty duty.

"Oh, Marky-mark! You'll always be my Founding Father, right up there with John…Quincy,..Adams!"

"Ohhhh, Mitt!"

Michele Bachmann stopped short, her labia clamping shut.

"What did you say, Marcus?"

"I said, 'Oh, Mich'."

"No you didn't. You said 'Oh, Mitt!' I heard you, dang it. As in danged...Romney!"

There was a long, cold silence in the Bachmann's bedroom.

At last, Michele spoke. "What's that noise?"

"I don't hear anything."

"No, I distinctly do. Let me up." Michele Bachmann had that no-nonsense tone in her voice. Her husband rolled off her and lay on his back. Michele prowled around him like a hungry bloodhound. At last, her head was very near his crotch.

"That's it!" Michele Bachmann said. "Marcus, get up off the bed."

"Awww, honey…"

"Don't 'Honey' me!"

Dr. Marcus Bachmann knew when he was licked. He reluctantly raised himself from the mattress, and as he did, a big, buzzing vibrator slipped out of his well-lubricated butt.

"Oh Jesus!" Michele Bachmann exclaimed.

And her husband, looking like he might cry, moaned, "Jeusjesusjesus…"

"Jesus…" Michele repeated.

There was a long, long…long moment of awkward silence. Then Dr. Marcus Bachmann recovered his composure a bit. "Honey, we're all sinners. Can you forgive me? Can we have sex anyhow?"

"Not tonight," Michele Bachmann coldly said. "I have a headache."

And the vibrator just kept on humming.

                                                                             copyright 2011 by Simon Sheppard

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