The Presidential Election Erotic Novella

Alex Buscemi9 years ago

The doors of the oval office flung open to reveal a stout, frumpy woman standing in the entrance. Her pale green pantsuit the color of baby vomit. Her lovely, lumpy body the shape of bagged milk.

“You son of a bitch!” Hillary Clinton shouted.

The man behind the desk rose to his feet. His lips pouted like a sassy, wrinkly 14-year-old girl posing for a selfie. His golden strands of whispy hair were slicked up and down and side-to-side, as though he attempted to slick it back but couldn’t decide which part of his head was the back.

“Hillary, baby, what’s the matter?” Donald Trump cooed.

“What’s the matter? WHAT’S THE MATTER!?” droplets of spit flew out of Hillary’s mouth as she spoke. “We had a deal, Donald.”

“Hey, I wasn’t trying to win, but what can I say?” His fat, orange jowls spilled over his tightly-buttoned collar, jiggling as he spoke. “The people love Donald J. Trump.”

“You’ll pay for this you shmuck!”

“No I won’t. What are you gonna do, sue me? You paid me to win the Republican nomination. Not my fault you couldn’t lock down the general election. Sad!”

Hillary knew she had been backed into a corner, and the way The Don was talking to her, she was hoping he’d literally back her into the corner of the office. She wished she could erase her feelings with the push of a button, like a pesky email, but alas, she was a prisoner to his brash charm.

She approached his desk, rolled up a leg of her pantsuit, and propped a foot on the oak surface. Donald bit his lip as he eyed her thick, lumpy calves. Her hairy, painted toes.

“You know, maybe there is a way you can pay me back,” Hillary said.

Donald walked up to her and put his hand on her ass, his fingers sinking into the quicksand of cellulite. Hillary ran her fingers through his beautiful comb-over, which felt plastic and sticky, like the hair of a hand-me-down Barbie doll.

He kissed her hard on the mouth. Then pulled away.

“I can’t,” he said. “Donald J. Trump is a married man.”

“Oh please,” Hillary said. “Melania is riding your pool boy as we speak.”

With that, Donald pounced, tearing off her pantsuit. She smelled of dried parchment and medicine, an intoxicating aroma that grew stronger with each layer he removed, like a sex onion. Hillary grabbed Donald’s hands and placed them against her bosom. His soft, tiny palms were the perfect size for her triangular, geriatric tits.

Hillary tore open his shirt, her loins trembling at the sight of his saggy, orange chest. She pulled down his pants, pleasantly startled to see that even his member was coated in spray tan.

“Blow me, will ya?” Donald asked.

Hillary laughed. “You know I don’t do that.”

The pair collapsed to the floor of the oval office, “We are the Champions” blaring through the speakers. Hillary let out a nasally moan, gripping the edges of the rug as Donald entered her.

“Talk dirty to me, Don,” she breathed.

“I’m gonna bang you. I’m great at banging. Everybody says so. Seriously. Let me tell ya, I’m a real winner in the sack. Some people say I’m the best. The best. I don’t. Some people do though.”

As Donald pushed closer and closer to the point of climax, he held her tighter, their two flabby stomachs overlapping like a short stack of pancakes. The front of Hillary’s torso was now completely caked in orange dust. It was impossible to distinguish which jellyrolls belonged to him and which belonged to her. But it didn’t matter. They were their jellyrolls.

Suddenly, Hillary popped her finger inside Donald’s asshole, the first stealth invasion she’d conducted since Benghazi. The Don quivered, then threw his head back in ecstasy as he came.

“Ivaaankaaa!”

Hillary looked up at him, both perplexed and disgusted.

“Did you… did you just call out your daughter’s name?”.

Image via YouTube, YouTube