Trump - A collection of erotic short stories by Shadow.

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 lectern, 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 lectern, 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 a spacer in his 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.


So… I wrote some erotic stories about Donald Trump. This is the first half of the first one. Want to read the rest? You can buy the set for less than the cost of a coffee.

Of course, you can also just read my other stories online. Totally free. And filthy.

Oh, and join my mailing list so I can spam you when I write something new.

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