"The Department of Homeland Security just upgraded the Erotic-terror Alert to Purple. Do you think they know what we are planning?"

I pulled Keisha to me and pinched her nipple.

"Homeland Security doesn't have the imagination to know what we are doing. Did they predict the condom dump we did at the Republican Convention? Did they have any clue when we left a thousand dildoes in random mailboxes in Ohio? We’re the smart people in this war."

Keisha squeezed me tightly, and her breasts pressed wonderfully against my chest. She trembled in my arms. Was it because we were naked, or was it because she knew there would be a nationwide manhunt after our stunt? I liked to think it was both. Being an erotiterrorist was quite a turn-on.

"Are the cameras ready?" she asked.

"All set. Brian will control the cameras from a remote location. Sara will splice the feed into the Fox channel's broadcast of the President's speech. She says we'll have ten minutes to fuck the minds of America before the signal is cut. All bets are off on how long it'll take them to find us."

Keisha grabbed my ass. "I still say it would be safer to tape the message instead of doing it live."

I bit her ear before responding. "It has to be live, just like when Janet did it at the Super Bowl."

She growled at Janet’s name. Janet’s stunt might have been inappropriate, but it didn't warrant prison. The M.O.R.A.L.I.T.Y. Act, the National Guard search for her, the televised trial, and the imprisonment in Texas were a wake up call for all of us. Who knew that a black woman's breast could be so scary to the Right?

An Erotiterrorist is what they called Janet. They said she was inflicting sexual terror on America. Color codes were put in place to warn people. Parents were told to use duct tape on their children if they suspected erotiterrorism. Pundits began writing books on how erotiterrorism was used by gays, lesbians, communists, and the French. Before you knew it, those of us who were sane and sexual were surrounded by the insane. The only choice we had was to follow in Janet's footsteps.

"Let’s do it," Keisha said.

"For Janet," I said. as I lay back on the bed.

"For Janet’s tits," Keisha said.

She mounted me, and the revolution began. Keisha faced the camera, spreading her legs so America could see my white cock embedded in her black cunt. Keisha’s body blocked my identity, but that was okay. I wasn't the star. Tonight the stars were Keisha’s cunt, her heavy black breasts, and the look on her face as she fucked. All I needed to do was stay hard, and trust me, nothing could have been easier.

Well, I did have to make sure the television was on. The President’s goofy face was lying sincerely to the camera. Good. It took a lot of time to angle the set just right so the camera could catch the President’s speech while still putting Keisha in the center of the shot. People had to know it was live. They had to see that whatever a politician had to say was secondary to whatever gets you off. The only way we could have gotten the message across clearer was if we fucked on top of the podium while he was there.

That plan had been considered, but ruled out.

Keisha rode me fast, her hips sliding back and forth with the fury of the oppressed. My hands squeezed her dark buttocks and pushed with her. We fucked. Fucked for the teens who didn’t learn what a period was. Fucked for the men who were taught to date within their own race. Fucked for the abortion clinics that John Ashcroft closed down. Fucked for the dirty-minded, the porn buyers, and the horny who are taught to feel guilty.

We fucked for Janet Jackson's tits.

The bed creaked for a good long time. Keisha never knew if the signal was still going out, so she just kept riding. She got louder with each thrust of the hips, moaning especially for the folks at home. Her cunt was so wet and slick, lubricated by the knowledge of millions of people watching her performance. Maybe she was horny for the cause, or maybe she was horny because of her own selfish desires. In the end it was all the same, wasn't it?

The hotel door thundered with the fury of the righteously prudish. Angry FBI agents made demands for us to open the door, turn off the broadcast, and for God's sake, put some damn clothes on. They had found us, and soon Keisha and I would be sent off to Texas to whatever hellhole they had created for sinners like us. The smartest thing to do would be to jump out the window and hope we weren't surrounded.

"I'm so close," Keisha moaned.

Fuck escaping. My hips thrust upwards and Keisha moaned. She planted her arms behind her on my chest and I heard the remote camera zoom in. Was it focused on my cock buried in her cunt? Or was it focused on her face with her panting mouth and her bedroom eyes? I liked to think it was looking at her bouncing black breasts, the very symbol of our rebellion.

Keisha climaxed in a long sensuous moan that would haunt America's wet dreams for years to come.

The door collapsed as the FBI broke it down.

My lover was torn from my body, and a man threw a blanket over my cock.

"You asshole!" an agent screamed in my face. "How the fuck is the President supposed to explain to the country what you and that woman were doing?"

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