Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Amy, what have I told you again and again?” President Underwood asks as she makes an example of her Deputy Chief of Staff.

As Amy rehearses the words in her head, she contemplates the wood grain on the desk beneath her sweaty hands. Her eyes slip closed as anticipates a strike from the implement in Claire’s iron grasp.

“Pain is pain. And you won’t tolerate excess suffering,” Amy breathes out, just as the president swings at her prone form with precision.

“Can you even begin to imagine the things I have done to survive? How I have tried to keep my hands clean, but they still come away dripping in blood?” In between the rhetorical questions comes a brief pause in the strapping. Amy’s sobs are rushing forth, bursting out of the gates between her chest and throat. 

Then, “Why are you being so silly?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Amy blubbers like a little bitch. Disgraceful. If Selena could see her now…she’d catch a tongue-lashing and a real lashing from both women, no doubt. Amy is almost sorry she ever took on powerful women as her mentors in politics. Almost.

Her lungs burn sharper than her ass as Claire brings the strap down. Nobody has ever whipped her this hard. Not Selena (of course not.) Not Dan, who is as vanilla as they come. Not the former president of the United States, for all his posturing, yelling, and power trips.

“We were going all the way up, Amy. All the way. But now, I have to mop up your mess before Doug - or, God forbid, Leann - discovers what you’ve done.”

Maybe Claire is looking for a retort, but now Amy is too preoccupied with her lower half and its bright, blazing shockwaves of pain to give Claire anything other than her cries.

“Will you stop sniveling?” Claire seethes. “To see a woman of your status whimpering and carrying on…” Amy can’t even open her eyes as the tears squeeze out between her lids, but she can see the exasperated shake of Claire’s head in her mind’s eye. She loses the image as another cut lands near Amy’s mid-thighs. She allows herself to shake from her torso down to her ankles, but she does not release the scream bubbling up through her chest cavity like lava.

“I’ll fix it!” she yells instead.

“No, I will fix it,” Claire decrees.

Amy is a punching bag. She knows this is her primary purpose in Claire’s life. Especially since Frank died.

For all the shifts in her job title, this one isn’t a new role for her. But after Frank’s demise, Amy stopped giving any fucks about being shot down again and again. Once you’re at rock bottom, the only way to go is up.

“Why aren’t you done yet?” Amy begs in a defeated huff.

“Restorative justice,” and three swift cuts are her only answer.

All filter gone, Amy responds, “Ma’am, please.” She pauses as another stripe lands. “Speak like a human being.”

The room goes still. Amy even hears the air conditioner fire up. The idleness makes the hair on the back of her neck stand straight up. God damn this motherfucking woman. Amy hasn’t been this scared or turned on in months. Maybe she should arrange a leak that triggers a National Security Council meeting again sometime.

Claire takes her precious time stalking up to Amy’s tense, soggy form bent over the desk.

“You will do your fucking job to minimize risks, or I will leave your for dead. Am I making myself clear?”

Amy feels molten to her core when Claire snatches her hair at the base of her neck, but she manages her answer.

“Yes, ma’am,” Amy whispers. This woman knows how to scratch every depraved itch Amy has ever had. It's why Amy sticks around in this thankless job, and they both know it.

“Go,” is the final word Amy hears before the hand and its welcome pressure disappear. Despite the directive, she stays still, hovering with her face inches above the Resolute Desk, until she hears the thick door slide open and closed over the carpet. Claire’s shoes make no sound, but Amy is certain Madam President has left the Oval Office.

She stands but almost buckles immediately as she comes down off the balls of her feet. She manages to shuffle towards the couches to find her own shoes. She doesn’t remember kicking them off. As she contemplates leaving them here to sow seeds of future chaos, Amy pulls her skirt down over her ass. She grits her teeth when she steps back into her underwear.

As she locates her heels, she’s hit with the realization that she has to face secret service when she emerges from the Oval looking like a just-fucked freshman intern. And she hadn't even been given a chance to come. Life is so fucking unfair.

“So what? She punches; I swing back. Punching bag,” she coaches herself as she fluffs her hair once and reaches for the door handle.

Blissfully, her cell phone rings as soon as she crosses the threshold to the hallway. A towering secret service member dips his head to avoid eye contact with Amy as she marches past, palming her pocket for her phone.

“Amy Brookheimer, at your service,” she answers, making sure her voice drips with the sarcasm and ire used to run the fortress surrounding this administration. As a junior staffer drones on in her ear, Amy plans fifteen different ways she could get off during her next visit to the Oval Office. Step one of every plan involves getting back into Claire’s good graces. It’s go time.