Look at me! I have taken this land back from traitors, Bolsheviks, enemies of the state. They all snivel now, the cowards whom we’re not buried in the jungles, or the headlands; the deserters who survived the fighting on the beaches and in the streets of the capital. The dungeons below my palace are choked with the vile, insurgent dogs who have tucked their tails and surrendered. Had they known what I, Generalissima Porfiriana Manuela Dominguez-Cielo y Huerta, had planned for them I’m sure they would have sooner swallowed their mortars, but now I have all of this sweet revenge to savor.
My stately parade car prowls the route of the victory celebration. I stand proudly, saluting my adoring public as they fete me with confetti, wave the banners of the union neo-fascista, and cheer so loud they drown out the cathedral’s pealing bells. On their knees before me, using their tongues to pleasure both my viscid cunt and sweltering asshole are Borjez and Guran, chief financiers of the rebellion. My trusted adjutants have them bound by heavy cables and I have dressed them in the sexiest, daintiest most girly panties I could find in the nation. Their humiliation is absolute. From time to time on the route I piss in their traitorous faces, long bursts of acrid, golden water filling their audacious mouths and noses. My Adjuntants, if they’re feeling extra lusty have free reign to sodomize my captives roughly with either their meaty cocks or the standard issue clubs that their uniforms entail.
My pussy-hair glistens with spit and cum and it makes my people happy to see how gratified their Patrona is. My tits are full of pride so I open my uniform jacket to show the good men and women of this great land how full and round They are for them.
At the grand steps of my presidential palace, which I have already announced I will be occupying for life, for the good of the people of this nation, I descend from the open back of the parade car. I am clothed in nothing now, except my Generalissima’s peaked cap, the flowing cape and theatrical, golden eagle epaulets of the union and my plutonically black, spike-heeled, leather boots that shine so intensely the maggots at feet must avert their treacherous eyes.
I have the two apostates chained and leashed so that I may drag them up the steps to the purpose-built podium where I will make my speech. However, before I begin my ascent, I give the two socialist dogs a good stomping with my Stiller’s heels so that they will appear as bloody and bettered as their degenerate ideology.
Behind me and my microphone stand the stooges and sycophants that I have appointed to the ministerial positions of my regime, the sympathetic judges and legislators that will spin the hay of my desires into the gold of law, the complicit and ever in need of a handout cardinals and bishops in their ceremonial garb, and of course the brave colonels and majors and other high-ranking officers of my brutal yet beautiful army.
I mount the stairs and upon reaching my place behind the microphone I am sashed with the resplendent, golden linked chain of the union by the prime minister, that limp-dick, secret pederast, drunk. I approach the microphone with my arms raised and fists clenched in triumphant success. The crowd roars their approval, I beam at my own glorification.
“Ladies and Gentleman of my prosperous and immaculate nation. I am made so strong by your adulation, you will never know. We have driven out the perversions of our enemies, crushed them beneath our boots, made them out to be nothing more than pitiful servants to our much superior philosophy. It is nothing less than the hand of fate which guided the union to victory and in that same hand now resides the hard and terrible whip of vengeance!”
At their dramatic moment and adjutant places a massive bull whip in my hand and I set to mercilessly lashing my hostages with it. Their wretched sobs pour life into my veins and my clit begins to stir and poke forth from its hood, shiny and stiff.
“Many have asked me to show leniency and grace to these fiendish plotters, but I will do no such thing. To recover from the wounds of war our people must have the ghastly example that these conspirators will serve as; a dire warning to all would be traitors to my word. The price is steep, countrymen, so steep no one can bear it without surely going mad.”
With the two accursed whores in a shivering, hyperventilating pile at my feet I take another opportunity to unleash a torrent of hot piss on their scarred, blubbering carcasses. Before I’m done emptying my bladder I hear a strange sound, a whistling thud, and then another and another after that. A fat bishop in his broad Roman hat clutches his chest in a desperate fashion, then stumbles, then falls backwards,. everything’s shifted into slow motion, my perception heightens, I realize what’s happening. Several more of my governmental flunkies are shot and keel over from the unexpected shock of their wounds.
I duck, cursing. Subversive elements have infiltrated my party. I shield myself behind Guran’s wriggling husk.
“Give me a sidearm!” I shout at a petrified adjutant. A pistol is thrust into my hand and I fire aimlessly into the scattering crowd. I certainly hit some innocents, a pregnant woman maybe, a small boy? What does it matter through the lens of control? These unfortunates will be honored as heroes of the state, plus there is the famous saying regarding omelette preparation to consider.
Adjutants and secret police swarm the fleeing crowd. Soon enough these perpetrators will be brought to justice, or at least convincing facsimiles of the perpetrators will be.