By Om Puri
02/17/18
A cool spring Friday afternoon where the grass and air in the rose garden was perfumed and the air hot enough but crisp enough to be perfect. It was a beautiful day. In the Oval Office the President sat at the old desk that was clear except three or four pages of a memoranda. He didn’t know what yet as he picked them up and tossed them in his hands into a single file. He began looking over the words and a few minutes passed before the door to his office opened and his secretary was there in her blue dress and pale stockings, an older woman who was in her seventies and her hair white. She was there with the reporter Sean Hannity who wanted the interview that day filmed with the Oval Office American flag and the U.S. stamp of the eagle in every shot in the background of Donald Trump. He was all smiles, his hair greased back, grey, black peppered and brown. He was stocky, in a bullish man-way, shoulders broad. He and the President shook hands and paused, looking at each other, then had a somewhat awkward hug thinking it was time.
They were alone with the camera crew with the naked windows and sunlight filling the room; and to keep it steady, the camera lights were above them on stands. The interview proceeded well enough. It was taped and would be edited into a half-hour wide-ranging discussion about politics. When it was over, the set was picked up and everyone left, except for Sean, who stayed by to have a drink with the President at his request. Whisky. From 1860. Carried through the wilderness and forest of the Kentucky hills back at the onset of the Civil War. Even the Union soldiers didn’t have the heart back then to burn it down.
Trump sat at the president’s desk with Hannity next to him, standing, and they drank and talked for a few minutes exchanging pleasantries about the show and the presidency. It was on the third drink after the two had moved to the couch that a silence came upon the two men that had been building sure enough with erotic vibrations. Another way to describe it? Chemistry.
Hannity came close to Trump first, their faces suspended from each other by a few infinitely small inches. When he reached in for the tender kiss, Trump was already coming at him with an open mouth and a tongue that playfully licked his lips. It was an Eskimo kiss with his tongue, a fuckmenow kiss.
They made out there with Hannity on the couch, Hannity leaning back under the surprisingly massive bulk of the man. Trump took charge, after a few minutes getting up, then silently and grimly grabbing Hannity at the back of his neck and lowering him to his pants, rubbing his mouth on his crotch. Trump unzipped his pants. A thick sausage circumcised and pudgy plopped out. When Hannity’s tongue touched it it became hard as a rock.
That first time in his old life that he had ever touched his mouth to dick, he was generous and eager to please. Thirty, forty minutes passed in simple ecstasy for Trump. Hannity’s inner monologue was more complex, in addition to his sexual arousal. What was happening? What comes next? Now? When? Who am I?
President Trump stood up after a time and came to a side-table with an old-time time telephone with a rotating dial. He picked up the receiver and dialed 420. A bookshelf swung around. A woman was there, brown hair, naked as sin itself, breasts perfect round melons, her body firm and strong, her lips curled into a smile. Her body was strapped to a wall in an X formation, suspended in the air, her pussy dripping wet like leaves after rain, the brown carpet hairs with drops of cum and pussy at their tips. Hannity was taken aback. Was that — he said aloud to Trump, Deauxma?
Trump had undone his pants and was standing behind Hannity with his hard dick poking him from behind. His hands were on his shoulders. “We go back.”
***
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/7ybsn3/the_oval_office_fuckfest_mmmfftrumphannity
I don’t know what the fuck I just read. But have an upvote for the chutzpah.