Castro was marched into the room by two marines. He glared defiantly at the President and Hoover. Johnson felt queasy. How could he spank this big burly Cuban? The thought was slightly revolting. He probably had a hairy arse, an ass as hairy as his hirsute chin.
"Listen here, Fidel," drawled the President. "This was what we were planning to do."
Castro was not really shocked at what Johnson had to say. He was just as shrewd as the Texan and knew that he would not have missed this opportunity if it had been given to him. But he had no intention of having his hairy behind whupped. It was not that he was averse to perverse _s_e_x_. There had been lonely evenings in the mountains, fighting against Batista, when thinking of the cute whores in Havana, Fidel had done unmentionable things to a goat. But bestiality was different from the unmentionable sickness of being beaten on one's bare arse.
"Mr. President," suggested Castro tentatively. "I have some of my loyal followers with me. What if you whip one of them? They are loyal enough to keep our secret. That way everyone will be happy. You will satisfy your voters: you whupped a commie as you had promised. I will satisfy my proletariat. I was tortured and humiliated by a Yankee imperialist. And we will both satisfy the soldier who will be proud to sacrifice his behind to the cause of the revolution."
"Let's see this soldier," said Johnson, his _c_o_c_k_ beginning to stir in his groin. He was a full blooded breeder, of course, but there had been that one time when Lady Bird, after one too many Bourbons had chased him around the ranch house, decked out in an outrageous black leather outfit, flailing at him rather ineffectually with a riding crop. And he had to admit that it had been both comic and a slight turn on. Maybe whipping this Cuban soldier wouldn't be such an onerous chore after all. The things one had to be willing to do to serve the good old U S of A.