“Hey, aren’t you G. Gordon Liddy?” a voice asked.  “I’m going to sue you, you lousy bastard.”

The bald man with his head between my legs lifted his eyes and glared at the interloper standing before us, as other partygoers elbowed their way past us.

 "Mmph, mphmphmmmph mmmphh!" said Liddy.

“Who the fuck wants to know?” I spat, irritated that this short, bespectacled little twit had interrupted some very fine pussy eating.  I had been splayed out on a table, naked, at a Washington bdsm party, while G. Gordon Liddy was eating my pussy.

I was Liddy’s personal dominatrix, and on that night in 1993, we were attending a very private, very exclusive kink party at the Camaroon Embassy on Massachusetts Avenue NW.  Down a dim, narrow staircase in the embassador's suite was a large wooden door, onto which someone had painted the word "Fuckatorium" in red spray paint.  The door opened up into what S/m enthusiasts refer to as a "play space."  This consisted of several rooms, the walls and ceilings of which were all painted black and dimly lit.  Each room was equipped with a variety of mideval torture devices that inspired terrified arousal in those who were granted access.

Liddy and I were in the largest of the rooms, which had eight "play stations" and a stage in the center.  We were waiting for a "scene" to end at the station that had a chain spider's web, to which I wanted to bind Liddy and go to work on his back and ass with my 10-foot David Morgan "Black Mamba" bullwhip.  While we waited, I decided to entertain myself by hopping up on a table and having Liddy give me a little oral pleasure, and in order to make sure I had his tongue positioned just right, I had attached a commercial suction cup to his bald head.  The suction  cup had a handle that I could use to guide him to where it felt best.

Liddy lifted his head from between my legs and wiped his mouth, the suction cup on his head making him look a little like a naked, mustachioed TeleTubby.

“He’s John Dean,” Liddy said, while picking something from between his teeth.

I looke again, and yes, it was John Dean of Watergate infamy.  Dean was furious; beet red and hopping up and down in the patent leather "fuck me" pumps and red lace teddy he was sporting.  “During his radio show last week," explained Dean, "Herr Funken Führer called my house on the air.  My machine answered, and gave out my home phone number to every goddamn radical conservative nutball in America.  And now I’m gonna sue his ass.”

A man in the corner of the room chortled at that.  I looked, and immediately wished I hadn’t.  There, in an overstuffed leather chair, sat a naked man calmly smearing chocolate pudding on his erect penis, and then eating it off with a spoon.  At least, I hoped it was chocolate pudding.  I did a double-take, then a triple-take.  Still couldn’t figure out why the fuck he was doing that.  But I did see that Hannity and Colmes were still sixty-nining on the floor, blocking the bathroom door.

I thought about swiping Dean's face with the metal claws I had donned to control Libby...

...but felt so sorry for the pathetic bastard, standing there in his lingerie and fuming over the thousands of crank calls he had received from listeners to Liddy's show, that I took pity on him.

 "Fuck off," I snarled, and brandished my claws at him.  He reluctantly withdrew.  Backing up and muttering insults under his breath, Dean got one of his stilleto heels caught on a giant, inflatable dildo, and fell backwards, landing in a pile of transsexuals all giving each other blowjobs in a big daisy chain, which appeared to me to be anchored by Ann Coulter.  Huh, it really is true, I mused, then returned my attentions to Liddy.

"Now c'mon, Gordo," I cooed.  "Gimme a good one and I'll let Alan Colmes fuck you in the ass again."

. . . to be continued . . .