A Pornographic Tale from the Halls of the West Wing
This story was originally performed live at Erotic Fan Fiction: The Game Show in May 2018. It contains sexually suggestive scenes and carefully curated cuss words, designed to entice and/or horrify audiences of all ages. Reader discretion is mandated by federal and state law.
It was a bright and sunny day in Washington, DC, USA, and everything was going extremely well. Many laws have been passed, no major international incidents have occurred, and American coal was being purchased by the armful all around the world. And while everything was going absolutely perfectly with not a single forced error, evil still lurked in the hearts of men, and conspired against our beautiful president, Donald J. Trump, to stop his poll numbers from rising above 45 percent.
“I need something big! Yuge! Something that will get me up! I don’t want it to be easy, it needs to be hard!” the muscular president screamed at his advisors with presidential declarations.
“We can pass another tax cut bill, that always gets a rise for me,” the moderately handsome Paul Ryan said with the spirit of Ayn Rand in his heart.
“We can destroy the entire Korean peninsula, just for fun,” said the incrementally more attractive John Bolton as he twirled his luxuriant mustache.
“Terrible! You’re all fired!” the president said as he flexed his many muscles and invoked his own intellectual property, all rights reserved.
“Wait, Mr. President, I have an idea,” said the extremely attractive but poorly endowed Stephen Miller, “What if we clone you? Then the people would have twice as many presidents to be proud of and to vote for, and your poll numbers will therefore double!”
“A clone…” our strong and sexually active president contemplated with his gigantic brain, “This is the best idea you have ever come up with, my sweet child. Send him in.”
Stephen Miller, happy that he had finally pleased sexual role model, pushed a button on the Resolute Desk, opening up the door to the Secret White House Laboratory. Fog poured out from the darkness, and a neon light show with Skynyrd playing in the background announced the entrance of the sexiest man that Donald J. Trump had ever seen: Donald J. Trump.
Donald looked at his clone up and down. He stood 7 feet tall, and had the square shoulders of a running back, if the NFL still existed anymore, which it did not. His hair was rich and full, and could clog a drain just by looking at it; his massive hands were large enough to crush a boulder without a thought, and he had a powerful tie that rolled all the way to the ground. His tight, well tailored suit hugged his perfect butt cheeks, and left no single muscle to the imagination, including the most important muscle of them all — his massive dong.
In other words, he was identical to Donald Trump in every way.
“Why… hello President Trump. You’re looking quite virile today,” Donald said to his clone, and smiled a sensual smile.
“Hello President Trump,” the clone said with a wink, as he walked up to Donald and stroked his numerous muscles, “I hope you’re ready to Make America Great Again.”
Donald shuddered. He had never felt this way before — excited, elated, but most notably, aroused. Only when looking in a mirror could he get as hard as he was at that moment, but now he was packing something the size and consistency of a Coca-Cola can in his pants, and he liked it. He grasped his doppelgänger on the shoulders, and looked deep in his own eyes.
“This may be sudden, Mr. President, but I think I love you,” The president said to his clone. The clone nodded knowingly, and knew it to be true. “I love you too, Mr. President.”
The two immediately collapsed in sexual embrace, kissing each other on their very well defined lips, and touching each other’s proportional butts with desire in their hearts. Both Trumps flexed their mighty muscles, and immediately exploded their clothes off their toned and naturally tanned bodies, like confetti at a 9/11 day parade.
The two Presidents Trump rolled around on the ground, naked and full of sexual energy, screaming out the names of states they won in the primaries, and describing the configuration of the 2016 electoral map with a bellowing sexual gusto.
Their forms melded together in sweet sexual symphony, and it was now impossible to tell the 72 year old man from the 3 week old clone. Did it matter? Perhaps legally . Did they care? Not at all. As Trump climbed atop Trump, Stephen Miller whipped out his own sad cock. It wasn’t as exquisite as the presidents’ cocks, and it pulled far to the right, but he furiously pounded his Ron Johnson all the same, as his strong and intelligent president penetrated his genetic duplicate.
“You deserve a Nobel Peace Prize!” President Trump said to President Trump as he pounded his coke can cock into the only human as cunning as him.
“There was no collusion with the Russians!” President Trump said to President Trump as he jacked himself off with his 12 inch wide hands, each finger the size of a kielbasa.
“Oh god, I’m coming!” President Trump screamed.
“Hnnnnnng!” Stephen Miller groaned.
And suddenly, the Oval Office was awash in a patriotic flood of red, white, and blue semen, covering the golden drapes, walls, desk and all in a thick film of the Donalds’ masculine man juice, while Stephen Miller was knocked backwards at the sheer force of the dual presidents’ tidal wave of cum, and flew out the windows, plummeting to his death.
President Trump leaned over to President Trump, and nodded.
“Now that’s what I call the Deep Prostate,” they both said to each other with a wink.
And it was a pretty okay line, so they immediately tweeted it, where it was liked and retweeted over a hundred thousand times, and got eight thousand replies.
The end…?
