End of The Beginning

Brief note: Originally written in December 2008 for a kink meme over at the rahmbamarama LiveJournal community. I've used most of the prompt verbatim for the story's summary, but for clarity's sake, here's the complete version: "Barack/Rahm. Barack makes a serious mistake, and Rahm is going to punish him for it. Forced orgasm, orgasm denial, bondage."
 

This is not the way it was supposed to start.

The multiple televisions, tuned to different channels, all show the same images over and over. They were supposed to still be showing last week's inauguration and analyzing it and stupid shit like that, but instead it's screams and rioting and broken glass and fuck, the translators are stumbling over themselves in their efforts to relay the bile pouring out of that country.

Barack isn't in the Oval Office, where the reporters have jumped the fences and are banging on the windows, but in the study next door, hiding behind newspapers, phones, computers, anything that'll tell him about nothing.

He doesn't look up when Rahm comes in and slams the door, sending papers flying and cursing everything around him. Locking the door, Rahm hurls the key at his president, along with whatever else he can reach. Barack dodges easily until Rahm vaults the small desk and grabs his shirt, both hands gripping hard enough to tear off the first button.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Rahm's voice wavers between a growl and a high-pitched whisper. "You're the motherfucking President, Barack."

As Rahm's hold tightens, Barack shakes his head. "I—"

"You know what? Just shut up." Rahm shoves him, scowling. "Shut the fuck up. If you're not going to act, I'm going to fucking well make you act."

"But, Rahm, it's still too unstable to take any kind of real action over there," and suddenly Barack can't continue his sentence. Rahm's pushing him, pushing him down, and grinning at the sound Barack's head makes hitting the table.

Taking advantage of Barack's long, dangling legs, Rahm skillfully binds the President's ankles together and to the desk legs with the too-long tie he always wears. As he reaches to pull off Barack's tie, he makes an expression that says 'I hope you liked this tie, because fuck you.'

"Rahm," but Barack's cut off again, as Rahm grabs his trousers and unzips them with one hand, tying his wrists above his head with the other.

"I told you, stop talking. Fuck." Rahm mutters. He pulls out Barack's cock and starts pumping it furiously, yanking and fingering until it starts to swell and Barack's breathing turns ragged.

Barack tries to push himself up, but his wrists are also tied to a desk leg and all he manages to do is thrust into Rahm's rough hand. "Rahm," and the sudden increase in pace forces a whimper from him, "I don't want—"

"Too bad." Leaning more heavily across Barack's chest, Rahm brings down his other hand to tug on the President's balls. "It's your goddamn fucking mouth that got us into this." He starts pulling harder and squeezes Barack's cock, now fully erect and the darkest hue it's ever been.

Barack makes a guttural sound, squirming at every violent jerk of Rahm's hands. It's as though every touch burns, and he wasn't ready for any of this, and was that Rahm's tongue—

He cums abruptly and all over his clothes, his dark trousers now stained with white. Rahm uses a sticky hand to wipe off his face, but only succeeds in smearing cum across his cheeks and then through his graying hair. Barack is still panting, his body still twitching as though he were still being jerked off, and his eyes are almost closed.

"Hey!" Rahm barks out, "I'm not fucking finished with you." He grabs the President's wilting cock, making Barack yelp.

Biting back moans, Barack lifts his head up in an effort to meet Rahm's eyes. "P-please, Rahm, stop," and he does, for a moment, and then he starts angrily squeezing Barack's cock even harder than before.

Barack lets his head fall back with a thump. He can barely feel it, feel anything other than Rahm's hot fingers and stub wrapped around his aching cock and forcing it to rise again. He wants to hold onto Rahm, still wearing his pinstripe suit jacket, hold those shoulders and feel the cool wool against his own burning body, but his arms are pinned to the table. The most Barack can do is spread his thighs, and suddenly the scene strikes him as so lewd, so obscene, that his cock swells in Rahm's tight grip.

Rahm chuckles, but there's a mean edge to his smile. Giving Barack one last yank, he removes his hands and pushes off the desk with studied ease. He puts his hands on his hips and some still-wet cum darkens his khaki pants, but he doesn't notice because all his attention is on Barack's face.

"You ready now?" Rahm watches for Barack's nod, enjoying the involuntary groan that goes with it, and then picks the study's door key off the floor. "Because I don't think you are. This is your fucking fault—you promised me, you," and he trails off.

He quickly walks to the door, the only sound in the room Barack's hoarse breathing, and is about to leave when he whirls around with a stomp. "You had fucking better learn from this, because if you don't." Rahm's breath catches. "No, I, I'm going to leave you here, all tied up like a fucking whore."

Before Barack can say anything, Rahm barrels on. "Somebody get me Biden, and tell him to follow my lead," he yells through the door. There's a muffled response that Rahm translates for Barack as "Just you wait," and, hands on hips once more, he leans against the door.

The minutes are stretched as tight as the ties binding Barack. Each second makes his cock throb more strongly, makes Barack squirm and whimper for release. Rahm watches this without a word, his only concession a brief massage of the erection showing through his trousers.

"Mr. President," Rahm finally says with exaggerated courtesy, "If there is a next time, you will fucking regret it." Biden's voice can be heard on the other side of the door, his anger (with a hint of arousal) obvious to those within range, and Rahm smirks. "Okay, love you, bye."