“I’m Hope,” she tells you, grabbing your collar and lifting you from your chair. “Are you a virgin?”
“I-I-I…” you say. She slaps you.
“Don’t answer, don’t speak again, just do what I tell you,” she says, close to your face. Her breath smells like strawberries and cigarettes. She spins you around.
“On the desk, on the desk,” she orders. She pushes you back and you are sitting on the desk of Presidents. She begins to tear at your pants.
“Off! Get them off,” she roars. “What is this stupid belt? Did you win it in a moron contest?”
You struggle to get your pants unzipped as your erection strains at them. You lie back on the desk to get them pulled down to your thighs. She hooks your underwear and pulls them down as well. She eyes your penis warily.
“Nice package, Kyle,” she says, running a fingernail up from balls to tip. She spits into her hand twice and grabs you roughly. She squeezes the shaft hard, her thumb pressing down on the head of your penis like a detonator switch, and begins to move.
She pulls you forward with her free hand, up onto your elbows.
“Am I pretty, Kyle?” she asks, relentlessly pumping. “Am I pretty? Do I turn you on?” She pulls your right arm out from under you and places it on her breast under her suit jacket.
“You like my tits, Kyle?” she demands. “You want to come on my tits?” You nod. The pressure and movement are unbearable. You testicles huddle against you like frightened animals.
“Squeeze it, Kyle. Squeeze my tit!” You comply with moderate pressure.
“Harder, Kyle. Use your nails. Make me feel it!”
Your body begins to convulse, shaking and bucking. Her thumb is crushing the head of your penis, but the pain is far away like it is someone else’s pain.
“KYLE!” she screams as you dig into the flesh of her breast.
She takes her crushing thumb off your glans and you ejaculate forcefully, almost prone on the desk, your scrotum clenching like a fist. A long string of semen hangs in the air, freeze-framed, before splashing all over the hat beside you.
“Kyle!” she says, wiping her hand on your shirt. “Such volume! How much zinc do you take in a day?”
“BETRAYER!” the President screams as he waddles out of the bathroom with his pants down around his ankles. “I invite you into my home and you seduce my beloved Hope?!?”
“He wanted it, Daddy,” Hope says in a little girl voice. “He wanted it bad.”
“Mr. President, I meant no disrespect!” you say, trying to push your swiftly wilting penis into your pants.
“Disrespect?” the President roars, waddling closer. “You got a handjob on my desk! Only I get handjobs on that desk, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” you say, struggling to stand.
“And you jizzed on my hat?!?” the President says, pointing at his Make America Great Again hat, a thick line of ropy semen going liquid across it.
“Out!” the President says. “Out! I don’t care anymore! Get out!”
Two Secret Service men come in the Oval Office and escort you out. You are on a plane back to jail within the hour.
—–
With thousands of dubious ballots appearing at the last hour, President Trump loses the election. You keep quiet about your part in not stopping the massive wave of voter fraud, the ill-gotten handjob making your nethers tingle with shame.
In January, after blue state militias force Trump from the bunker under the White House, your lawyer passes you an unlabeled package at a motion to dismiss hearing. Inside is a MAGA hat, a faint stain across it like a brand.
You fidget with the hat on the car ride to the courthouse. It is a symbol of your weakness, of your failures but also of what could have been. Before you step out into the throng of media, and against the advice of counsel, you put on the hat. Blinded by flashbulbs and screamed insults, you stumble back. That’s when the hat begins to whisper to you. It whispers such awful and wonderful things
THE END
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