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Three Erotic Stories About A Terrible President

By Kristan X

Copyright © 2018 by Kristan X

Published by Lascivity.

This collection contains graphic descriptions of sexual activity. If that’s not your thing… maybe consider reading something else.

Each story takes place in its own parallel universe. While these universes may seem familiar, they are entirely unconnected to our own. Any resemblance between characters in the universes described and persons who exist in the real world is purely coincidental.

For kinky stories, snippets of filth, sex guides and more of you can check out my blog.

(Although I’m also on FetLife and Tumblr if that’s more your jam.)


A Masochist Speaks

Entertaining Him

I Could Give You Anything

A Masochist Speaks

The air conditioning is broken in our apartment, and Suzy and I are sitting sprawled on the beanbag chairs, down to our underwear, Suzy flicking idly from channel to channel. That’s when he pops up. I take a breath and hold it, because in that moment it feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. Suzy pauses, then drops the remote.

“Ugh,” she says. “Look at that face.”

I laugh vaguely. I’m aware of the droplets of sweat on my back and neck, and the rough fabric of the beanbag chair on the underside of my thighs. I’m aware of the heat beating against my skin. The absolute stillness of the air despite every window in the place being thrown wide open. On screen, he pounds the podium, and the crowd roars, a mass of waving signs and thronging arms. I feel something in my stomach unclench – a trickle of something bright and needful running from my lungs to the pit of my belly.

Sometimes I worry that Suzy will be able to tell. That she’ll be able to detect something in the way I sit or the huskiness of my voice when he’s on screen. Sometimes I think she might just be able to smell the arousal rolling off me in waves. Or perhaps she’s just picked up on how I don’t look away from the screen. Not even for a second. Not when he’s talking.

But, of course, I don’t need to worry. Suzy’s not looking at me. Suzy’s looking at him too, an expression of the utmost distaste written across her features. “What a tool,” she says. “I mean, who honestly believes this shit? Would ya listen to him?”

“Crazy,” I murmur. “Idiots don’t know what they’re cheering for.” Suzy glances sidelong at me, and I feel a lurch. Was that too much? Did I accidentally dip into sarcasm? But a second later she grins and takes a sip of her lemonade.

“World’s a fucking nuthouse,” she says. She jabs the remote and the volume rises a notch. His voice is one of my favorite things about him. All that contempt. All that dumb authority. Nothing he says could ever be a request – he was born demanding. It’s the sound of someone who’s never been compassionate. Or contrite. Who doesn’t even know those things. It’s kind of a mean voice, but it’s a voice that knows it can get away with anything it wants.

I wait ten minutes – until the news has moved on to other, smaller matters than the election. Then I get up and grab my glass like I’m just going for a refill. We’ve done nothing all day, me or Suzy, except sit and watch TV. It’s too hot to do anything – even to go outside or seek some shade. It’s the kind of day that seems to stall midway through, to hover like a mirage above the desert.

The heat, of course, doesn’t help. It lies against my skin like a body. Wrings sweat out of my pores. Heat like this makes me think of the moment after coming, when you return to your body and you realize that you’re hot and disheveled and tired and aching and it doesn’t matter one bit, because you’re also lying under a layer of pleasure as thick as a comforter. I set my glass on the counter and then creep across to my room and quietly lock the door behind me. I feel skittish, jittery. I can feel the pulse in my thigh.

The room’s a mess. Always is. I’ve been living with Suzy two months, but I still haven’t fully unpacked. Most of my clothes are still tucked neatly in a suitcase under my bed – and the bed itself is cluttered with papers and books and my faithful old laptop. I clear enough of it to make myself comfortable and then sprawl. Perfect. A sunbeam from the skylight falls across my stomach and breasts, almost unbearably hot. So perfect.

I reach down into the gap behind the headboard for my rabbit, then stop. Suzy’s no prude. That’s one of the great things about her – even if it does mean I have to listen to her wailing whenever she brings home one of her almost-weekly conquests. Normally I wouldn’t care if she heard a faint buzzing coming from the direction of my room. I trust her to stick on some music and ignore it until I’m done. But this is different. This is something stranger and altogether more furtive. I can’t risk it.

Reluctantly, I drop the rabbit back into the gap behind the bed. It’s fine. I don’t need it. I’m turned on enough right now that my hands should do just fine.

I hook a finger into my bikini bottoms and pull them to one side. Could remove them, but I quite like the pressure – the way they grip my ass, pull tight against my hips when my hand is in there. Beneath the fabric I’m wet. So wet that it’s almost too slick. I stir my fingers through the lips of my cunt and arch back against the bed. I feel like I’ve been waiting hours for this, not minutes.

But something’s not quite right. I’m lying here on my back, but whenever I imagine him fucking me he’s always behind me, hands on my hips to hold me in place. I bet he’s the kind of man who likes to be behind. That’s how cavemen did it. Maybe we’d fuck over a desk. Quickly, roughly, in between meetings. He’d refresh himself with me like a hurried snack. Maybe he would push me down and force his way into me just a little before I was ready. I imagine looking back over my shoulder and seeing not his face, but his straining shirt and tie.

I turn over, so that I’m on my knees with my face buried in the pillow, breathing hot into the fabric. Much better. I spread my legs. Tense my ass. I’m stroking around my clit and thinking of him. He would love to find me like this. He would approve. Fantastic, he would say, just fantastic. And then he would take me, because men like him can’t look and not take.

For as long as I can stand it I keep my fingers outside. Stroking and circling. There’s this tingling, rising sensation which builds up in my belly almost to the point where it burns. I don’t last long. He’s not a man for foreplay, for teasing, for waiting. He would want to fuck. To penetrate. I push my fingers inside of me and crook them. Something sweet surges through my bone marrow. Drip drop. Where would his hands be? On my back, pushing me down. Maybe holding my hair, pulling back on my hair just that bit too hard. Not because he knows I like that, but because he needs something to hold for leverage and he doesn’t care if it hurts because to him I’m just noisy meat.

The pictures in my head are coming of their own accord now: I see him standing at a podium, gesturing to the crowd. His face crumpling up in sudden dumb anger at a comment someone has made. Me and him standing in a room, him looking at me, bored but hungry. Entitled. Him grabbing me by the arms, turning me around, bending me over. I am like a doll in his hands.

It’s happening fast. I feel a little surge pass through me, and then another, and I’m on the edge. I drive my fingers in deep – so deep that it hurts a little. My knuckles inside of me. I squeeze, tight. Bite down on the pillow to be certain of not making the slightest sound. As I come I imagine him coming inside of me. How tight he would hold me. How he’d shiver and grunt, and pull out the moment he was done.

Afterwards I collapse onto the bed. Lie there with my hand between my legs for a minute or more. I could go again, I think – but it doesn’t seem right. When we were done he would leave straight away, while I was still fumbling to put back on my clothes. I breathe until my breath is normal. It’s so hot in the room, and I’ve only just noticed. The small of my back and the inside of my legs are slick with sweat. I wait, perfectly still, letting it dry.

It’ll be a while before I can go back into the lounge. If I went like this, Suzy would know. I’ll take a minute, blot my face and fix my hair. Change my now-sodden bikini bottoms. Dry myself. Fetch a pitcher of lemonade from the fridge and then return to the beanbags and the TV... and hope that he’s not still on screen when I do.


I haven’t told Gary about my little obsession with Trump. I came close, once, when he was talking about his childhood crushes. His was Rachel from Friends – the vanilla ice cream of celebrity infatuations. We both laughed about that one, and I asked him if he was ever jealous of Ross. If he got mad when she and Joey hooked up. Somehow though, if I admitted to Trump I don’t think it would be the same. I can imagine perfectly the look of disgust on his face, the way he’d wrinkle his nose and reach to touch me but stop before he did. More than likely, I think, it would mean the end of our relationship if I told him the truth.

I can imagine that. He’d go sobbing to his friends: “How can she be into him, of all people. Him!” And, of course, they’d all pat him on the back and call me a crazy bitch and tell him that of course he was right to ditch me. I know they would. An erotic fixation on Trump is as bad as being turned on by feet. People are – probably lots of them. But you don’t admit it. Nobody ever admits it.

The thing is, I don’t want to break up with Gary. His friends are fun, and he’s okay in bed. Matter of fact he’d probably blow the mind of most of my friends. He tries hard. Too hard for my tastes, sometimes. A bit like a puppy – so desperate to please and pleasure me when all I really want is to be fucked. He’ll go down on me literally until I ask him to stop. Which would be great, except I’ve never really liked being eaten out. It always felt too slick and slippery. No friction. Nothing to sink the teeth of your desire into. I’d rather just be fucked any day of the week.

You can’t say that to Gary though. He won’t hear. It’s like the time I told him I liked being bitten and he just pulled a face: “But I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “I care about you, Babe.”

We let that discussion drop. Typically how it goes is I put up with his tongue for a few minutes – long enough to get me wet with his spit – then I ask him breathlessly to fuck me, please. He always complies. I like sucking cock, but he never demands it, and I don’t want to have to offer it up to him like a slice of pie. It’s not the same when I have to pin him down, break away from his endless string of kisses, and help myself to his cock. What I want is for him to push me to my knees and unbuckle his belt. To grab my hair and force me down. Even just to rest his hand on the back of my head as I’m going to work on him. Not for him to lie there, gripping the bedsheets with both hands because he doesn’t dare to touch me.

All the same, today I’m in the kind of mood where I want my mouth filled. When I got home from work Trump was on the news again – his voice this time. A recording made in secret on a bus. I stood in the doorway of the lounge and listened, and as I listened I felt my insides melt. “When you’re a star they let you do it. You can do anything.” Anything. The sheer, dumb, trollish awfulness of it. I could have quite happily gone up to my room and made myself come right then and there, but I knew Gary was coming over and I wanted to save myself.

He’s late, of course. And by the time he arrives, I’m ready to devour him. Gary doesn’t look like Trump. Gary doesn’t wear suits or get angry when things don’t go his way. Gary wears loose-fitting t-shirts printed with the names of obscure bands, and has one gauged ear, and would grow a beard except that it never comes out even. But Gary has a big cock, and he’s toned despite his skinniness.

“Come upstairs,” I say, before he’s even got his coat off. And he does. In my room he has to break away from me to place the bottle of wine he brought safely on my desk... but then I’m pushing him backwards towards the bed. I want him standing, really, so that I can kneel at his feet. He sits on the edge of the bed. Fine. That’ll do. I unbuckle his belt.

“You don’t have to, you know,” says Gary. I opt, this time, to completely ignore him. He’s plenty hard already, which means he wants me even if he’d never get around to taking me. I wrap my hand around his shaft, which is beautifully thick, and then I take him as deep as I can without choking. My tongue presses up against him and I feel him pulse, and for a moment I think he might come right then and there, but he doesn’t.

I shut my eyes. I would suck Trump’s cock. He would be standing or sitting and I would be on my knees. He wouldn’t speak to me. Barely even look at me. I have this fantasy where I’m going down on him and he’s on the phone, or running a meeting, or even at a strip club watching some thinner, lither woman dance. I am a toy to him, an irrelevance. He’s so used to being pleasured that he expects it wherever he goes. I’d give my mouth to him the same way Gary offers me backrubs: eagerly, constantly, hoping he’d say yes.

Gary is moaning already, gripping the sheets, rolling his hips a little. I glance up to see that his head is thrown back, his expression uplifted. I hope that I am good. Trump would want the best. He would be used to the best – accustomed to women who could suck cock for a living. I would have to match up to them. I would have to give him everything.

Gary’s cock is all the way back, teasing at my throat. My tongue sloppy and tight against his shaft, my lips sealed, sucking gently while one hand cups his balls. Squeeze just a little. I can feel them heavy and full. Gary always tries not to shoot into my mouth because he thinks it’s demeaning, but I don’t plan on giving him a choice.

“Babe,” he moans. “I’m going to... I’m nearly...”

I close my mouth around him, squeeze my fist around his shaft like I’m wringing his orgasm out of him. He arches up from the bed and his hands clutch at the air. He shudders all over, whining thinly. I can feel his cock tensing a moment before he shoots his first spurt into my mouth. It’s a big one, salty and long. I swallow it down, and let him pulse again and again until he’s empty. At the taste of him coating my throat my pussy throbs.

“Oh... my... god...” he groans as I slowly draw back. I peer up at him from underneath eyelashes. He looks like he’s seen something holy. I am seeing him, but in my head there’s Trump, who would come with barely a shiver and a groan. Who would zip himself up, stand, straighten his tie, as though he’d just finished a meal.

She’s a fantastic lady, this one, he would say, before striding out of the room. And that would be enough.


The campaign wears on, and people stop talking about him like he’s a joke. Or maybe they’re still talking about him like a joke, but now he’s a joke that’s gone too far, that’s crossed a line. They want to laugh, but it’s just not funny anymore. Suzy looks perennially worried, forever chewing her lip and skimming the news on her cell. She keeps saying to me that if things get any worse then she’s going to volunteer for the democrats. Start posting flyers and knocking doors. I keep telling her she should – that it might make her feel better to be doing more than just watching.

The idea that he might win is intoxicating. It’s like the school bully being made king of the universe. It’s so bad. The worst, grossest, most obscene man. I picture him standing at the top of a skyscraper, in the glass prism of a penthouse – a huge space where nobody but him is allowed. Like he’s a god. Some kind of spoiled sultan. He is standing looking out of the window, his hands folded behind his back. He would fuck the world beyond recognition just because he could. Everything everyone has so carefully and so nicely and so goodly strived to build… he’d smash it to pieces in a year.

Everything about him. The wall. The economy. I want it to hurt. And for him to not care that it hurts. Care only that he’s on top. A spoiled, mean dictator, crowned, exulted, raised above the masses. I can see myself just folding to my knees in front of him.

It gets weird with Gary. He’s worried too, but for different reasons. There’s a time when he’s fucking me on my bed while the television is on loud downstairs and I can hear Trump’s voice, curt and commanding, even though I can’t quite hear what he’s saying. At each utterance the crowd roars approval. A switch flips inside of me.

“Gary,” I say. “I really want you to fuck me from behind.” He pauses only a moment, and then – miracle of miracles, he pulls out and I turn eagerly over. With his hands on my hips, he eases gently into me. Trump speaks and slams his fist into the podium. The crowd goes wild. I imagine that he is speaking to me – the two of us alone in his tower with the crowds roaring outside. I make believe that the crowd are cheering him as he fucks me. They are cheering him because he’s won. Because it’s all going to burn. They are screaming until their throats are hoarse for this man or because of this man, and this man’s cock is inside of me. I am being fucked by him. It’s like being fucked by a god. “Harder,” I moan. “Harder, please.”

Because Trump would be hard. And quick. He would observe the curves of my body and want them in the exact same way that a dog wants a bitch. Dumb, ugly want that’s been soaking in power for an entire lifetime.

The roars die. His voice again, too indistinct for words but definitely his. It makes me weak on the inside. Makes me feel like my knees are just going to fold right up – every time I hear that voice I just want to kneel. It melts my insides, the same way fear does. And the wrongness of it just makes it all the sweeter. He is bad. He is forbidden. He is the worst of the worst and he doesn’t care. I reach down between my legs and find my clit, pressing a finger into the soft lips of flesh on either side. I’m so wet I’m practically dripping. I can feel Gary sliding in and out of me. If only he knew all the parts of me he couldn’t reach.

“Oh, god. Mr President. Sir...” I whisper the words, because I need to hear myself say them. And then I bite down on the covers to keep myself from saying more. There is no more anyway – as the crowd roars again, I come, and as I come I am screaming. Long, loud screaming, as if I’m just a voice in a mass – a single figure waving a sign, hoping that he’ll notice me. I’m nothing. Nothing. Gary clutches my hips. He’s coming too. I feel him twitch, but – contained as he is by a condom – there’s no hot spill of seed inside me.

Trump would come inside me. Without a second thought. Fill me like I exist only to be filled, and then pull out. Slap my ass. Leave me, wrecked and shivering. The visions come quickly, a series of hard, startlingly real pictures in my head, arriving as the final throes of pleasure wash through me. I’m spent.

Then Gary is out of me. We collapse onto the bed together, both of us panting. I don’t know where I am. Gary is holding me, but loosely. He looks shocked, like he’s done something deeply wrong.

“What’s up, Babe?” I ask, when finally I can speak again. My voice is flat – I’m too used up to put any real concern in there.

“Nothing,” he says. “You were... um... just kind of loud.”

In the other room the television roars again – a mass of a thousand. They’re chanting his name, and I want to join them, but all I do is utter a quiet apology.


On the night of the debate, Suzy has some friends around. They sit together in the lounge, drinking cocktails, eating popcorn. It’s a party, but with an air of seriousness – like they’re at the movie theatre to watch a sad documentary. I join them, for once, and I message Gary to come over as well – he’s working late at the Amazon warehouse, but he says he’ll drop by once his shift is over. By then the debate will be too, and I’ll probably be horny. Scratch that: I’ll definitely be horny. I think he’s still a little shocked after last time, but I’ll bet I can make him take me from behind again.

Trump is on form. He doesn’t budge an inch, even when they’re all against him. Even the moderators. Even the crowd. He’s childish. Belligerent. A dirty fighter. Suzy’s friends groan, throw popcorn at the screen. I do too. It’s a show, though. Let him win, I think to myself. Let it all come crashing down. We don’t even know suffering yet.

“Can you imagine,” says Suzy, “like, finding out that your friend was gonna vote for him?”

We all laugh at that. It’s easy to – what she proposes is not a situation that’s likely to play out. “Some friend,” says Rachael. “Like, if they’re willing to fuck you over by protest-voting for a psychopath, they can hardly pretend they care about you, right?”

“That’s the thing,” says Suzy. “That’s all it is. It’s a protest vote. They’re sick of the political class, and so they’re throwing their toys out of the stroller and endorsing someone who’s as far from suitable as you can possibly get.”

I stay silent. Listening. Suzy and her friends always talk like this when they’re together – like they think they’re on a chat show. I’ve been at a low swell of arousal all night, and the hours watching the debate aren’t helping. I know that tonight I’m going to be rabid. Maybe enough to scare Gary off for good, but I need something, after this. I need something hard and long and which doesn’t care about my feelings. I need to be fucked, and I look at Suzy and wonder if she ever just really needs to be fucked, and who she turns to when she does.

“No point worrying about it anyway,” says Suzy, and takes a sip of her lemonade. “My friends aren’t stupid enough to vote for him.”


Gary stopped coming around after the night of the debates. It was a mess, of course. He wanted to sit on my bed and have a heart-to-heart chat, and I wanted him to grab me like he owned me and throw me down and fuck me. When he wouldn’t, I begged him for a while, and that didn’t work, and so – frustrated beyond words – I fished out my rabbit and fucked myself. Hard. Using spit instead of lube. Biting my lip as I did so. Gary just sat there watching, wide-eyed, as I came twice, shivering on hands and knees on the bed. When I was done he got up and left. I haven’t heard from him since.

I don’t tell Suzy why Gary and I broke up. There’s no point. It’s too complicated. We watch the gathering momentum of the campaign on a daily basis. She’s taken to leaving the TV on in the lounge while she cooks, coming in and out of the kitchen to update herself on what’s going on in the world. I try to remember if she was ever this political before, but I don’t know. I haven’t known her long enough.

Besides, I don’t mind the constant news. He’s on screen more often than he’s not – most of the time for some petty outrage that he’s perpetrated. Suited men sit in front of shelves loaded with leather-bound books and tell us why he cannot possibly win. Why he’s a joke. But for every talking head there’s at least a minute or two of him. It’s like he shares the apartment with us, in a way. Come home and Trump is there. I get to know the way he walks, the way he sits. I study him like a painter.

It’s frustrating, of course. Now that Gary’s not a feature of my life anymore I can’t even get an honest fuck. It’s not the same when I’m doing it to myself... but at least I can be rougher than he ever was. And I don’t have to pretend. When it’s just me alone in my room I can shut my eyes and murmur like I’m talking to him, “Yes, Sir. Yes, Mr President. Of course. Anything you say.”

As the election comes on like a fever, things ramp up. I can’t stand it anymore. It’s ripening, this fantasy of mine. I imagine, idly, what it would take to have an actual sexual encounter with him. I examine myself in the mirror, full-length, naked. I’m young – I have that going for me. Good hair. Good breasts. I know this because Gary said so, and because other men have said so too. But Trump wants more than that. He’s used to stacked, augmented women. He’s used to surgical perfection. Maybe with a push up bra and a ton of makeup...

Dolled up, I’d head to one of his rallies. He’s coming here for a flying visit toward the end of the month. I’d present myself to the secret service guys. Tell them I was here to see him. As if that would work. He probably has women queuing up to offer themselves to him. There’s something ancient in that – you give yourself to a warrior. To the tribal leader. Something about him brings out the dumb cavewoman in me.

It’s all ridiculous, of course. I don’t think I could even go near one of his rallies without Suzy finding out. It occurs to me that she might kick me out of the house, such is her slowly-building rage and indignation. So I watch, and I wait, and the election draws in slowly, slowly, slowly. Like gentle foreplay before the big event.

On the morning itself, Suzy wakes me up so that we can go together. I have to touch myself in the shower because I’m practically pulsing with arousal. I’m melting with it. Knowing that he’s out there, fighting for it. That tonight we could see him crowned the winner. It’s all too much. I put the shower head between my legs and the water rushes against my cunt, and I imagine that he has won, and that I’ve been summoned to the victory party. I am his prize. Here I am striding through the crowd, and the crowd pulses like a living thing and he is there ahead of me, waiting, glowing with victory, and as I approach him I drop to my knees and I crawl. I crawl at his heels like a dog, and I wait kneeling while he removes his clothes and then he comes to me and I raise my head and open my mouth in the same moment to receive him, and he is hard and full, and I can feel the pulse in his cock against my tongue and it’s so deep and I’m taking him...

I come, long and low like an airplane taking off. End up gasping with my back to the tiles, which are so cold they burn against my skin. I breathe. Swipe my hair from my eyes, and reach for the shower gel.

The polling place is a local school, and the queue is long. Suzy waits, po-faced, on guard perhaps for an attack that doesn’t come. I don’t speak to her. I don’t have the space in my head to. It’s all swirling now. I feel like I’m about to do something terrible, something like when – as a child – I tried to pinch out the candles on my birthday cake rather than blowing them, and I burned my fingertips bad and it hurt more than I could handle, and I could have known that would happen and I did it anyway.

We are nearing the front of the queue, but I’m not ready yet. I need more time to think – more time alone. I can still feel my climax from this morning in my skin, in the roots of my hair. I can feel it in my tongue. The lady is taking Suzy’s name and handing her a fold of papers. She is directing her to a voting booth, and Suzy – with a brief backward glance – is gone. My turn. I tell the lady my name, and I think about running away. Just turning and running. I don’t. As she presses the papers into my hand I have a brief flash of Trump shaking hands... of him touching the back of my neck.

In the voting booth, I pause only for a moment before making my mark. An X. A simple pencil scratch. Nobody will ever know. I will never tell. I raise the folded slip of paper to my mouth for a second, sealing it with my breath, then turn, slot it into the ballot box and leave.

Entertaining Him

Marlou calls me at ten o clock at night, which she never, ever, ever does. That’s how I know it’s going to be something big. I let it ring five, then ten, then fifteen times before I answer. I am on the sofa in my flat, the TV on mute, halfway through A Dance Of Dragons. I am in no mood to leave the house. Not tonight.

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