This is not a true story. But if it were, would you be surprised?
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THE FEELINGS BEGIN
Ann Coulter, political firebrand, stood in front of her bathroom mirror and dropped her shorts. Her nicely shaved, completely bare pussy gleamed in the light. She admired her pussy in the mirror, turning to different angles to see its smoothness. She lightly touched the crack in the middle, feeling the warm furrow that was now bereft of hair. She pushed her finger in and wiggled it around. Then she brought her finger to her nose and sniffed.
"Good," she said to her reflection. "No sign of odor." She looked at the can of Fem-B-Gone on her vanity. The words on the can read, "Leaves no trace of unwanted feminine odor." Indeed, it had done its job well, so well that her friends down at the Center for Traditional Womanhood jokingly called it Tuna-B-Gone.
There was no longer any sign that her cunt was that of a grownup woman. Ann knew that her can of Fem-B-Gone was produced en masse in China, where poverty-stricken people worked with dangerous fumes and bad working conditions just so that she could turn her pussy into a slick ad for the fashion-chemical business. She admired the economic efficiency and the profit that this product entailed.
She returned to admiring her bald cunt. Then she turned around and stuck out her bony rear end. She spread the cheeks and ran her fingers up and down her crack. It, too, was smooth. Then she imagined herself getting banged from behind by a man. Ann had never been taken in this way before, believing it to be something that only liberals and evolutionists did. Yet she often imagined herself arrayed in front of the mirror in just such a way, with a tall capitalist behind her, his long, thick cock ramming her tight hole as though they were both animals.
Worse yet, sometimes that imaginary man morphed into an imaginary woman, who then plunged a strapon dildo into Ann's tight hole. Ms. Coulter shuddered. "I wish I could get these thoughts out of my head," she said out loud. "I'm a good Christian woman who is attracted to godly right-wing ideologue men with big bank accounts. Why would I have such nasty fantasies? Like Falwell said, maybe there is a feminist somewhere who is casting a spell on me, urging me to kill my children, take up witchcraft, and become a lesbian, and then take a job in a vegetarian co-op?"
Ann put her clothes back on. She checked the time. She was having lunch with Condoleezza Rice in two hours. "I've got just enough time to pound out an article for my blog," she said to herself. She flicked back her long blonde hair, blew a kiss to the mirror, then left and sat down at her computer.
Ann proceeded to quickly write a diatribe against feminists who sought to introduce an element of femininity to the Judeo-Christian God. As she did so, she became aware of a warm tingling in her pussy. She squeezed her legs together. As she typed out her polemic urging women to admit that God was a man, the throbbing in her pussy only grew stronger. Finally, she got up, went to her freezer, took out an icecube, and stuck it down her panties. "There. That should do it."
And it did, for about an hour.
ANN AND CONDI EAT ... BUT NOT EACH OTHER
Ann had a fruitful lunch with her good friend Condoleezza Rice. Condi talked a lot about football as Ann devoured her factory-farm raised steak and a spinach salad that had been processed by cheap, illegal migrant farm labor in California. They ordered some German wine with their meal. "Normally, I'd have a good French red wine," said Condi. "But ..." and she looked around, "I don't want to get caught!"
Ann blurted out, "Damn those French for having pre-existing interests in Iraq. You know, it's fine that we looked the other way when China killed 1.2 million Tibetans, but the French -- who are they to act so high-horsy and all?"
"They're nothing but whores," said Condi. "Are you going to order the freedom fries with your steak? Ann? Ann?"
"Hunh? Oh, sorry. I was just admiring those nice freedom windows over there. Anyway ...."
Then they both discussed the war in Iraq and how they could argue a case for invading Iran, Syria, North Korea, and the Vatican. As they talked, Ann was again haunted by nasty sexual fantasies that came from someplace beyond herself. Just yesterday morning, she had worked out with Condi, and she couldn't help but admire her friend's muscular body. Her pussy throbbed as she rode the exercise bike. Then, in the shower, Ann was overwhelmed by lesbian fantasies. She was amazed at the fine, round shape of her friend's breasts. Condi caressed them with soap, which turned Ann on. And how hairy Condi's pussy was! The black hair was thick and spread out, but Condi's large, pink pussy lips were visible beneath them.
Condi had caught Ann staring.
"Oh ... I'm sorry," said Ann. "I was ... um ..."
"It's okay," said Condi. "I do that too. It's just a part of ourselves that we must beat back at every opportunity. Sometimes I get these fantasies about other women."
"What do you do about them?"
"I race down to the nearest evangelical church and pray like mad to have God deliver me of them."
"Does it work?"
"Oh, yes. It leaves me with a ton of guilt, and then I go running to burn off the nasty thoughts."
"What do you suppose lesbians do in bed?"
Condi shrugged. "Not sure, really."
"I'll bet they strap on dildos and act like men. That's what my pastor told us once. He was always talking about gay sex. He must have really been against it if he talked about it so much."
Condi smiled and turned around in the shower. Ann's eyes again bulged at the sight of the most shapely behind she had seen in years. Not since she had protested at the Nudist Women's League in Berkeley had she seen such a beautiful rump. It was shaped like a heart. Ann had come to the protest in hopes of invading it and converting the naked women to Christianity, but instead she found herself mesmerized. Just now, Condi ran a soaped-up hand into the crack and scrubbed the tight crack up and down. She bent down to wash her dark legs, showing Ann her heart-shaped ass with the pink hole exposed. The blonde woman couldn't help but imagine herself on her knees, licking Condi's tight, puckered asshole. The secretary of state turned to see Ann gawking.
"Ahem," she said to her naked skeleton of a friend. "Sin, sin, sin!"
Ann turned around and showered in silence. For a moment she considered buying a leather whip to scourge herself with to beat out these fantasies, but then she remembered that only a Catholic would do that, and Catholics were all going to hell, so she would have to find another way.
"Condi?" she suddenly asked.
Condi turned around, her brown breasts swaying lightly. "Yes?"
"Why are all men such assholes? Why can't I ever find one?"
"Because you're a complete asshole, Ann," said Condi, shocking her friend. "And stop looking at my ... my ... my least evangelical part. Look, I love you as a person, but you're obsessed with magnifying the faults of the male sex and then crying in your chardonnay about how worthless powerful men are. Get a life, Ann!"
Ann looked down and showered in silence. "Well, Bill Clinton and John Edwards are gay."