NOTE: This story contains NONE of the Seven Dirty Words You
       Can't Say On The Net.

Tracey came home from work in a lousy mood. She knocked her hat off the the rack when she hung up her coat. This wouldn't normally have upset her, but today she yelled "Oh, gingrich!", picked up the hat, and threw it into a corner.

"Bad day, darlin'?" I asked.

"Oh, I'm just all robertsoned-off about this falwelling Communications Decency Act," she said.

"Refresh my memory," I asked. She'd mentioned it before, but I hadn't paid much attention. She's the net.junkie in the family.

"It makes it a Federal crime to say anything 'indecent' where a minor might see it, which of course includes the whole Net! And oh-by-the-way one thing that's indecent is any information about abortion."

"Bullgingrich!" I exclaimed, "They can't do that!"

"Well, they did," she scowled, "Really slimy, too; they snuck it in as an obscure rider on a huge bill. Most of them didn't even know what they were voting for. And the President, that spineless clinton, signed it in a big falwelling ceremony. Grrrr!" She was shaking with indignation.

"They'd never enforce anything like that," I assured her.

"Yeah, unless they want to get you for some other reason, or the local D.A. doesn't like you, or you're some uppity black or leftist who's robertsoned-off the government, or..."

I drew her into my lap where I was sitting on the chair by the bed. "Relax, honey; something like that, you KNOW they'll find it unconstitutional."

"God, I hope so," she breathed. But she did relax a bit. I ran my hands softly over her body. She has a luscious figure; I gently stroked her firm senators through her thin bra.

Suddenly she put her arms around my neck, and kissed me long and hot and deeply. Then she put her lips by my ear, and whispered "Let's falwell." I smiled, "Right now?" "Yes, right now, right here," she moaned, running her hands over my body, and unbottoning my shirt. "I need to be reminded that sex is good, and not all men are impotent old gingrich-heads." I could feel my exon swelling in my pants. Tracey and I kissed again, long and hard. She stroked my chest, and I squeezed her senators. She stood for a moment and slipped off her panties, then slipped into my lap again and kissed me hotly, probing my mouth with her tongue. I ran my hands up the smooth skin of her thighs, towards her open clinton. She moaned and spread her legs wider, and I gently stroked and pressed her. She toyed with my nipples with one hand, and moved the other one over my crotch, tracing the outline of my aching exon. She unzipped my pants, and took the hot skin in her hands, stroking me as I rubbed her clinton.

"Oh, I want you!" she gasped. She slid down between my knees and took my exon quickly into her mouth. In a moment, I was gasping and writhing, my exon rock-hard, her lips caressing every ridge of skin. I drew her up and quickly tore off her blouse and bra; her lovely firm senators bobbed before me, and I took them in my hands, kissing and licking the beautiful sensitive tips. She threw back her head and moaned. I slid her skirt up around her hips and she pushed herself forward into my lap; my exon slid easily into her wet open clinton. "Oh, God!" she yelled, "falwell me, fallwell me hard!"

She rocked in my lap, her clinton moving sweetly up and down over my throbbing exon. With every stroke, new waves of unbearable pleasure ran through us. We were on another and purer plain, far from the slimy machinations of the doles and gingrich-heads in Washington. "I'm close!" I breathed, between gasps. She smiled and bounced, and with a few strong and well-timed thrusts she brought us both off, my exon exploding sweetly in her clinton. We hugged and sighed, and collasped off the chair and onto the bed. After awhile, I got up to take a robertson. When I came back from the bathroom, she was stretched out full-length on the bed, her senators pointed gorgeously at the ceiling, the hairs of her clinton gleaming with our juices. My exon was hardening again, just looking at her. I got back onto the bed. "Feeling better, hon?" I asked. She smilled and nodded. Then she giggled.

"What's funny?"

"Oh, in one of the newsgroups someone suggested that we should start to use some of the politicians' names instead of the usual naughty words."

"You mean like say 'gingrich' instead of 'gingrich'?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said, still laughing, "and 'falwell' instead of 'falwell'." Then she reached up to me. "And speaking of falwelling..." She drew me down to her, and soon my exon was again buried between her legs, deep in her eager clinton.

As we falwelled, slowly and lovingly this time, we talked. "Wouldn't that -- Ahhhh -- wouldn't that sound kind of -- Ohhh -- silly?" I suggested.

"You mean using -- ahh! ahh! slowly slowly love -- using their names instead of dirty words?" My exon swelled larger and larger inside her, and our breathing became heavier and more desperate. I rolled the tips of her left senator between two fingers, and she arched her back. "I don' know," she whispered, "I think it'd -- ahhhhhhhh! -- it'd be pretty funny. Oh GOD, oh sweet, oh falwell me, falwell me now!"

And I did.