Donald Trump shuffled toward the entrance of his suite with considerable effort, swiping at his brow and rubbing his fingers together in vexation.
All he could think about was Joe Biden's clever, biting remarks about his person and his dress shirt, which has gotten too small for him over the course of a month and now chafed uncomfortably around his shoulders and his stomach.
Surely he had won the debate, he thought as he tightened himself around the plug that his wife had wedged inside of him; he was louder than good ol’ Sleepy Joe, and if that is not an indication of winning, then nothing is.
He stopped just outside of his room and attempted to fish out his key card from his breast pocket, resisting a strong urge to tear out his hair in vexation as he realized that he had forgotten the damned thing in the room.
His secret agents stopped a couple respectful feet behind him, the silence felt almost mocking.
He turned around.
"What is your name again, Demetri? Surely you have a copy?" He said, the strength in his words petered out as he scrutinized the expressionless faces of the men before him.
Though they were dressed impeccably, Don could not find Demetri – or whatever that secret fanfiction poster’s name was – among the men before him.
Odd.
Did they give him a memo regarding this change?
He almost stumbled when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
Startled, he spun around and found himself face to face with Joe Biden.
Oh, the bastard's followed him all the way up here.
Don began. “Listen, mister, I don’t know what you are doing following me to my room, and if you don’t stop my man will....”
Joe laughed.
"Men, stand down and stand by," Joe said with a drawl.
Don's tiny pig eyes widened with surprise, but he swallowed all insults and protests bubbling at the back of his throat as soon as he felt something resembling the muzzle of a handgun wedged under his collar and into the back of his neck.
Don dared not to yell and merely gasped as he felt Joe’s perspiring hand crept up his wrinkly auburn neck, tugging at his tie.
Speechless at the scene unfolding before him, he squeezed his eyes shut as his remaining braincell struggle to come up with something, anything that can make Joe stop.
Joe handed his gun to the nearest agent. "Keep your eyes on him, folks."
Don almost sagged in relief, but tensed at another hand tracing a careful line from his trembling chest to his half-awakened member and froze as he sensed Joe nuzzling into the top of Don’s head, burying his nose into Don’s flowing blonde curls.
Joe sighed and sniffed at his hair; it was a harsh, rattling sound that made Don quiver and whimper.
“Will you shut up, man?” Joe said, tilting his head up and crushing his lips into Don’s with such a passion that made Don’s knees weak with desire, a lust that crackles at the point of contact and shots down to his groin, a rippling pleasure unlike any he had felt before in his senile spine.
He moaned into the kiss and lifted a tiny orange hand, carding his sausage fingers in Joe’s hair as the kiss deepens, eagerly drinking in the taste of his biggest political rival— peppermint, moth balls, and something that is so deliciously and uniquely Joe that made him shudder at every flick and twirl of Joe’s tongue.
He let out a muffled keen as Joe began to suckle on his tongue, making vulgar, wet noises that seemed to reverberate in the hallway.
They separated, both dizzy in the heat of their exhalations.
Don bit down on his paper-thin bottom lip to suppress another moan, grasping at Joe’s dress shirt with his timid yet desperate little hands.
He managed to get his stubby fingers on the first button of Joe’s garment before Joe swatted his hands away, grasping his wrists and pinning it on the wall behind him.
“Get the f— fuck off of me, Sleepy Joe,” Don whined, straining against the restraint.
Affected by a myriad of permanent health consequences of COVID-19 and breathless from arousal, he huffed with parted lips as Joe leaned in, whose breath fanned hotly over his already churning face.
Joe chuckled.
“Riled up, aren’t you?” He said.
Joe sneaked two pale fingers under the sweat-drenched fabric of Don’s partially unbuttoned top and squeezed at one of his saggy man tits, rubbing and twisting his nipple until the bit of flesh between Joe’s fingers swell with interest.
The strange sensation made Don struggle against Joe’s hand once more, aching to lay his hands on his fully hardened member.
Yet Joe’s vise-like grip only tightened minutely in response, the other hand explored his squirming form, palming his thighs and cupping his ass, squeezing and touching anywhere but his cock.
"I – Let me –" Don said, panting with exertion and watching with desperation as Joe freed his erection from the confines of his own slacks instead, stroking it languidly.
Joe said with a chuckle, "What did I say about using your big boy words, eh Donnie? What's the magic word?"
Joe let the tip of his index finger graze the exposed patches of pale, wrinkly skin, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as Don arched into his touch.
Don gulped audibly, his cheeks burning with shame as he heard himself say, "let me touch myself."
"You forgot to say the magic word."
"Please," Don said, almost inaudible, and his whole body quaked at Joe's hand nimbly undoing his fly and grasping loosely around his inadequate length, giving it a few purposefully lackluster pumps before it slid down and under his wrinkly ball sack.
He felt Joe’s fingers pause as it touched the smooth, circular base of his plug, tracing around it inquisitively.
“Naughty, naughty boy, wearing his little toy to a presidential debate, huh?” Joe said, fingers digging between the base of the plug and Don’s skin and gave it a violent twist, shoving his index finger alongside the plug.
The sudden movement made Don clinch down on the newfound fullness that was almost painful, which sent a pang of humiliating ecstasy that churned hotly in Don’s stomach.
Joe hooked his fingers around the base and pulled the plug out completely, giving Don hardly any time to breathe before sending it back in with a cruel thrust; the lines deepened with a smirk on Joe’s wrinkly raisin face as Don moaned wantonly, bucking his hips back toward Joe’s hand impatiently as he began to fuck Don with the toy at a torturously slow pace.
Joe leaned in, nibbling Don’s earlobe after licking a smoldering stripe on the shell of Don’s ear.
“Your little cock is leaking, Donnie boy, so eager, so desperate for more,” he said in a rumbling, guttural whisper as he took out the plug, which parted with Don’s hole with a moist pop.
Don whined at the sudden vacancy inside him, his watery blue eyes filled with tears of yearning and humiliation, looking at the passionless face of his political rival through the haze of arousal, unsure if he wanted to plead or wanted to kill.
He tightened his hole again and felt the loss, the lack.
He knew what he had to do.
“Please,” Don rasped, tasting the word as it took form as if he was saying it for the first time.
Joe mercifully complied without further biting comments, spreading Don’s legs and without a warning, slid into Don’s slick, loosened hole with relative ease.
Don groaned at the intrusion, clenching around the familiar width and rutting his hips to the rhythm.
Joe cursed under his breath and finally let go of Don’s wrists, lifting Don’s thighs and spreading him out further before he snapped his hips and slammed his cock inside of Don at a relentless pace.
Don could do nothing but to hold onto Joe’s forearms as the latter used him, moaning and wailing at every reentry as he worked his tiny hand about his equally tiny dick with fervor.
Climax hit him at the rate of the increase in unemployment rate during his mishandling of a global pandemic and every subsequent plunge in his overstimulated hole made him see white, and Joe too came all over Don’s ruined suit after a few irregular thrusts.
Don yelped as Joe let go of him, his tub of lard body slammed into the ground with a painful thud.
He sat there dazed as Joe tucked himself back in and mumbled lowly.
“I am going to fire all of you, and I will sue you, I am suing every single one of you –“
Joe laughed mirthlessly. “Republitard seethe, Joe Mama 2020.”
Don’s unfocused gaze seemed to be locked on the floral pattern of the carpet beneath him as the men departed.
The door beside him creaked open and from which Mel emerged.
“Donald? A good fucking I hope?”
He didn’t look at her; he simply grunted in response.
Mel sighed with exasperation, tapping the wooden frame of the entrance impatiently.
“Can you at least clean up? I arranged a cuckholding session with the Mexican hooker and I want you as a part of it.”
“Okay,” Don said.
And when he finally looked up, the woman’s face was a stiff, strange marble form upon which a scowl was etched eternally, bearing nothing more than a semblance to the woman that he had briefly loved.
As the author I would normally delve deeper into the emotional landscape of our victim as it brings the story to life, but it is hard to imagine that such a two-faced, immoral, unintelligent animal like Don would have the heart and soul necessary for feelings beyond insatiable greed and rage.
In the song "Fireflies" by Owl City he states "I get a thousand hugs from 10,000 lightning bugs." Are we to assume each bug hugs him a thousand times? Or is he only getting hugged by 1/10th of the bugs? Or is each bug is giving him 1/10th of a hug?