Behind Closed Doors at Trump Towers

“Mr. Trump.” The young secretary adjusted her charcoal black power suit as she stood patiently outside the door. “They’re ready for you.”

Barely audible and wholly unintelligible, a series of garbled noises that must have been words issued from the other side of the door.

Knowing that the President-elect had but a few short minutes left before h was expected to appear before the press, the young secretary knocked again. “Mr. Trump?”

Again, an undecipherable response could be heard and, suddenly, a horrific thought entered her mind. At least, it should have been horrific and yet she found herself crossing her fingers in hopes that it would be true. How many disgruntled citizens and non-citizens alike had hung their head in disconsolate solemnity or shaken their fists apoplectically at the angry man’s victory?

Could it be that some holy and blessed individual had taken up the task of becoming the saviour of the free world?

Well, one could always dream.

Again, the young girl rapped her knuckles against the door, meanwhile fussing over the suit that she was still becoming accustomed to. Pressing her ear to the cold, solid wood, she strained to decipher the indistinct response from the megalomaniac ensconced within the room.

In truth, all of his words were less than legible. The fool did more talking from his ass than anything.

“No, no, no.” The girl chastised herself. It was just as her mother always said. ‘If you didn’t have anything nice to say, keep your damned mouth shut.’

The Donald could take a lesson.

Rather than knocking for a fourth time, the secretary turned the gold nob, carefully pushing open the door and peeking inside.

On his hands and knees, his stupidly-expensive, imported suit trousers down around his knees, the President-elect kneeled before the Amazon queen Melania Trump.

In her hand, the obscure model turned world-famous madam held a braided leather whip. Thin cattails slid up the crease of the future president’s pasty ass, an entirely separate shade from his orange-dyed face.

Stuffed into his mouth was the black leather belt that must have held his trousers in place before they’d been dropped to the floor and, tied across his eyes, a red silk tie.

Melania, regally poised above her partner-in-efficacy, drew the whip back and with a force belying her scrawny, bird-like physique, struck her submissive husband’s ass with such force that a gruesome red welt formed immediately on his sallow ass creating a crisscross pattern with dozens of other fresh wounds. A bead of billion-dollar blood oozed from the abrasion, sliding down his pallid skin. The crimson droplet trickled along the crack of his ass where a telltale electronic buzz was muffled from the toy stuffed up his tight, pink hole.

The sac of loose, saggy skin jumped at the whip’s contact and precum ebbed from the slit in the man’s miniscule, pencil dick that had been tied tightly with a band that killed the circulation of blood flowing through the erect shaft painting the pink skin a cruel shade of bluish-purple.

“Who’s your master?” Melania purred, laying the cattails into bare flesh again and again with the flourish of her bony arms and a seductive cock to her perfectly curved hips.

“You wouldn’t have won without me.” She informed him with another vicious thwak. “Without me standing beside you, you’re just a sad old man. A useless piece of shit.” She spat, her accent thick, her tone like honey.

Trump nodded his head vigorously, his mouth stuffed with the leather, his feathery hair flopping up and down on his square head.

“Who won America?” She asked, pausing only long enough for him to shout an obscured, “you!”

With a slight curve of the corners of her puckered mouth–her cheeks were sunken, her narrowed eyes alight with a devilish fire–Melania nodded approvingly.

Laying aside the whip, the future first lady took up a small remote in her slender hands. With a flick of one freshly-manicured finger, she turned the remote dial. The whir coming from Trump’s ass increased in intensity and his body jerked and spasmed. Beads of perspiration dripped from his deeply-lined face and puckered lips. His arms trembled as his baby-hands strained to support the weight of his quaking body.

America’s future first wife knelt before her prey like a practiced geisha–her shiny knees locked together–and drew the belt from her husband’s drooling mouth. With a frightening expression from her usually polished face and a cruel current in her thick accent, she whispered to her husband, her gaze unyielding.

Had the young secretary’s eavesdropping ears not been so strained, had she been any less focused, she would have missed the woman’s words.

“You are my bitch and so is this world. Now tighten that ass and go get my crown.”

She stood again, her movements fluid and godlike. Her balance on the six-inch heels adorned with her own namesake was like that of a feline’s.

Suddenly, the woman’s head turned, her cold narrowed eyes shifting towards the door.

Petrified by the venom in the woman’s gaze, the secretary pulled the door shut with a sudden jerk and prayed that the woman wouldn’t hear the raging thrum of her heart.

Chest throbbing from the fear choking her throat, the secretary stepped back to allow Mrs. Trump number three to walk through the door, her glossy stilettos click-clacking on the polished wood floor.

With her chin out looking down her Romanesque nose at the terrified young girl trembling more than the future leader of the free world had been, a beautiful smile crafted from years of faking it, lit the woman’s face but left her eyes cold and devoid.

“My husband will be out shortly. Just making a few adjustments.”

The secretary nodded dumbly. Unable to keep contact with the woman’s piercing glare, she averted her gaze to the beautiful shoes that so perfectly accentuated the woman’s smooth, bare legs. Clutched in Melania Trump’s unworked hands, the young secretary caught sight of the remote.

Without her consent, the secretary’s eyes drifted once again to the statuesque figure’s unnaturally angled face and, in that moment, she looked the epitome of her place. A queen ready to be handed her crown.

I Put Speaker Paul Ryan in a Chasity Device




6 Comments Add yours

  1. I love that this is a portrait of Melania’s seething inner bitch goddess and her shapeless, pathetic orange punching bag. I’m humiliating the shit out of Ted Cruz next. (mwhahahahaha…)

    Liked by 1 person

    1. caillenjames says:

      (devil) I can’t wait! ^_^


  2. Fucking excellent, CJ.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. caillenjames says:

      Your comments, Betina…I love them so much! 😀


  3. alaninlondon says:

    wow excellent – such an interesting story

    Liked by 1 person

    1. caillenjames says:

      Thank you. I’m so glad you enjoyed it


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