‘Trump Tower’ – An Erotic Tale by Roland Taureau
By Isabella Cornell
President Trump eased into his Oval Office chair, his stubby fingers caressing the thin shaft of his Presidential pen. It had been a big day. Church, inauguration ceremony and then a swift jaunt to the White House to sign off on his first Executive Order: a vague directive to ensure American healthcare became cheap and ineffective.
With a sigh, he looked up at Kellyanne Conway, who was dressed like a patriotic piñata and parroting off the rest of the day’s itinerary. Scanning the room, he saw two Secret Service officers standing stoically by the door. They looked like they’d just come from a funeral.
He raised the pen and interrupted. “Kellyanne. Kellyanne! That sounds amazing. Fantastic. Now give me a moment. You too, boys. Great work! Fabulous work. And send in the Vice President”
Kellyanne immediately halted her speech and, with the slightest of sycophantic nods, gathered her things and departed, ushering the Secret Service out of the room in front of her.
Trump leaned back in his chair and swivelled around to survey the view from the Oval Office. A beautiful, big fence skirted the perimeter of the White House lawn. He sighed; the sight of those strong, erect bars gave him immense pleasure.
A moment later came a strong knock on the door.
“Come in” the President chimed, the residue of his Queens upbringing seeping into his raspy voice. The door swung open and Vice President Pence strode across the threshold, bringing with him an air of evangelical confidence that charged the atmosphere with sinful sexual tension.
“Mr President”, Pence announced.
Trump swung slowly around in his office chair like a 1970s Bond villain.
“Mike. Great work today. Amazing. Did you see the crowd? The biggest ever. Did you see that little boy crying? Did we get his parent’s licence plate? Find out where he lives.”
“I did, sir. And we’ve already tracked down the family.”
“Good. This is going to be an amazing administration Mike. The best ever. No one’s more administrative than me. And we’re going to make a great team. Fabulous.”
“I know sir.”
“It’s important to me that you’re behind me Mike.”
“I am sir.”
“So I can get behind you.”
“I’d like that sir.”
“I want to get behind you Mike. I want to get behind you 1000%”
The two held each other’s gaze a moment, Trump greedily sizing up Pence’s physique. For a few seconds, neither man moved. Then, suddenly, the Vice President shifted his stance, and began to slowly remove his suit jacket. He dropped it on the floor in front of him.
With a sultry look, he loosened his tie, slipped it over his neck and tossed it onto the President’s desk.
His shirt came next and, as Pence shed the delicate cotton from his torso, Trump let out a tiny gasp of erotic ecstasy. He had made a fine choice for running mate – Mike Pence was cut like a Republican tax policy.
The VP reached down to his belt, unbuckled and lowered his trousers, gingerly stepping out of the loose fabric, one foot at a time.
Seductively, he lowered his underwear down over his dick, past his chunky thighs, knees, ankles and feet. He stepped out of them, kicked them behind him and stood in front of the President, awaiting his next order.
Trump beckoned Pence forward, and he willingly responded, taking a couple of small steps towards the Presidential chair until his groin was directly in line with his boss’s face.
Wordlessly, Trump placed his forefinger to his thumb and looked up at his right-hand man as if to signal his approval. Then he leaned forward, wrapped his stubby, makeshift cock ring around Pence’s dick, and took it between his floppy lips. He began to suck, slurp and gurgle as if finishing a bowl of soup.
Pence sighed in obedient pleasure, rolled his eyes and looked up at the ceiling. He was enjoying the moment, more for the thrill of the situation than for any kind of physical reward.
After a few minutes Trump surfaced, and looked up at Pence, who seemed momentarily to have zoned out.
“How was that?” he demanded.
“WRONG!” Trump fumed, the VP’s lacklustre review striking at his fragile ego. “No one gives better head than me. NO ONE. That was amazing! You probably came already. Twice. Tantric. Inside. Inner peace. Like the Dalai Lama. Like STING.”
Pence stood above his boss. Unsure quite how to respond, he simply nodded in agreement.
Trump leaned back in his chair once more, his momentary irritation already dissipating at the thought of what was to come. He reached down and began to unzip his trousers.
As he did so, a strange thought flew into Mike Pence’s brain, “Would the carpet match the curtains?”
A few seconds later, he found out. Trump finished unzipping, unbuckled his black, leather belt, reached into his boxers and revealed a shrivelled, wrinkly appendage of diminutive size and dubious rigidity.
It was most definitely the penis of a septuagenarian. Its aged folds of skin were gathered tightly together, giving the appearance of a small, fleshy accordion. There seemed to be a ring of skin for each decade of Trump’s life; a kind of epidermal chronology that stood ready to betray the man’s age to anyone unconvinced by his sloppy dye job. And sure enough, crowning the soft folds of Trumps genitalia, were the wispy slivers of silky hair, grey at the roots, but dyed a gingery blonde for the remainder.
Pence had to admire the President’s attention to detail.
Wasting no time, Trump grubbily pulled a golden condom from his suit jacket pocket. He attempted to open the foil, with no success, before handing it to Pence, who was waiting patiently, at full attention.
As he took it, Pence glanced down at the condom, inspecting the wrapper. DJT was embossed in bold letters across the golden foil.
“Where did you get this?” He asked, smiling.
“Personal brand, they’re called Thin Skins” Trump replied. “But they never break. I mean never. You could detonate a nuclear weapon in one and it wouldn’t break. They’re indestructible. And I mean: I cum. I cum like a gun shot. Like a bullet. And my sperm is like diamonds. Hard. And if 100 million diamonds shot out of a gun can’t break it, nothing can. In fact, I have no idea how Melania got pregnant.”
Pence put the corner of the condom wrapper in his mouth and expertly ripped it open, before retrieving the rubber and rolling it down a few inches to cover the Presidential penis.
“Trump Tower!” Pence remarked, grinning eagerly.
“Don’t be a dickhead, Mike” replied Trump. Before gesturing for his running mate to climb aboard.
With a blushing leer, Pence obeyed. Turning around, he lowered himself down onto Trump’s groin, the Presidential cock rubbing up against his welcoming asshole.
“You want lube?”
Pence almost laughed out loud.
“I don’t think we’ll need it” he replied. “I was president of my fraternity, remember?
“I’M THE PRESIDENT, MIKE!’
“Of course you are. Sorry sir.”
Pence sank down an extra couple of inches until he could feel the rubbery, golden head of his boss’s dick slowly find its way into his sphincter. He steeled himself for the familiar sting of entry, although none was forthcoming. Exhaling slightly, he finally came to rest on Trump’s groin.
And just as he did so he heard the President let out a sigh of ecstasy. Trump shuddered slightly, farted, and then slumped back in his chair.
The Vice President sat for a moment, confused.
Was it over? Had the gun gone off? Would there be round two?
A few seconds passed before his questions were answered.
“Alright Mike, get off. We have work to do.”
“Yes sir.” Pence replied, still reeling from confusion.
The VP stood up, retrieved the indestructible, gold condom and set about getting dressed once more.
He didn’t know what had happened. He’d been waiting for this moment for months! Anticipating the build-up, fantasising about the excitement of finally being fucked by such a great man. He had expected an epic!
But all he got was a Tweet.
Straightening his tie, Pence began to walk towards the Oval Office door.
“Mike?” Trump called.
“Send in Jared and Ivanka”
“I will sir.”
It was going to be a weird 4 years.