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<<if ndef $score>><<set $score = 0>><</if>><h2>Chapter 1: Trump's Tower</h2>"Melania!" yells your husband from the top floor of your penthouse suite in Trump Tower. "Melania, it's nine o'clock! Be a dear and bring up the Cialis, will you?"
You've been doing it for years now, but Sunday nights still throw you into an existential panic. Your husband, the President-Elect of the United States — //PETUS//, as he calls himself — is waiting for you in nothing but his silk leopard briefs.
"Melania! I can't wait for the Cialis. Can you put it in my doo-dee hole?" He slides his undies off and rolls onto his stomach. You can see the swollen red line around his torso where his tight man-panties have cut viciously into his 48” waistline.
He kicks his feet and makes a sound like a crying baby. "Put two in my doo-dee hole, will you, Melania? The most famous man in the history of the world is feeling //great//!"
You slide two Cialis tablets into his rectum, and he coos and bucks. When you look down at your hand, you are horrified to see a ring of orange tan spray on your index finger. Donald has been over-using the tanning spray, and you see large streaks of orange on the inside of his briefs and in the sheets. You catch a whiff of his ass and almost retch— it smells like the dumpster of a crowded Asian fish market.
"Put on the costume," he says, motioning to the Hillary Clinton outfit and wig he has laid out for you on the dresser.
"Please, Donald, not tonight," you implore.
Donald turns from playful to angry. He grabs a handful of hair and pulls your face to his. You shriek. You can smell the halitosis emanating from his rotten, chipmunk mouth — and the whitefish-and-cream-cheese sandwich he had for lunch. "Put on the costume," he says quietly.
You dread the royal-blue tunic ensemble, but you put it on. You tie your hair up, and you snap the sandy-gray bob onto the tiny metal rivets Trump had his plastic surgeon install on your scalp the night before your wedding. The Cialis has kicked in, because you see your husband's flaccid, freckled member balloon into a glistening deli pickle.
"Come here, you!" he says, grabbing you roughly by the back of your head and mashing your nose into his groin. Blood trickles from your left nostril and mixes with your tears and saliva as Donald grinds his semi-erect penis relentlessly up and down your face. "How do you like my Crooked Hillary!" he cries.
And there awaits the sight that has haunted you for years. On the bottom of your husband's left testicle is a ruddy, swollen melanoma, the size of a silver dollar pancake. Three pubic hairs protrude from the growth: one is curly and orange; one is auburn and straight; and one is blond and crimped, as if it has been stuck in a zipper.
What do you do?
[[Pull on the curly, orange hair->Orange Hair]]
[[Pull on the straight, auburn hair->Auburn Hair]]
[[Pull on the crimped, blond hair->Blond Hair]]You yank on the curly, orange hair with all your might. Trump howls like a bitch in heat and scratches at his face with his left foot.
[[Yank another hair.->Act I. Trump's Tower]]
<<if ndef $x1>><<set $score += 20>><</if>><<set $x1 = true>>You wrap the long, straight, auburn-colored pubic hair around your index finger and give it a good tug. You remember now this is his favorite thing. He shouts, "Whoa, Nelly!" and bucks up and down. He makes a very loud sucking sound and stares right into your eyes. This upsets you to the core. He's clearly feeling a combination of pleasure and pain. His orange and purple ding-dong grows to the size of a waterlogged Twinkie.
"I've got your socialized medicine right //here//!" he boasts. You have an out of body experience as he guides your head over his swollen member, up and down. You wipe the strange taste of zinc and mushrooms from your lips, orange tanning spray collecting on your fingers and at the corners of your mouth. You gag. Tears well up in your eyes and mascara runs down your cheeks. Finally, after three indescribable minutes, he is ready to orgasm.
“Where’s my win, where’s my win, where's my win, where's my win,” he exclaims, thrusting into your mouth in rhythm. “//There's// my win!!”
He ejaculates a foul, burning, yellowish custard onto your tonsils, which you promptly choke up and spit out. As he retracts his malignant genitalia, a hot yellow gob attaches itself to your nostrils and you almost swoon. You wait a few seconds as his whinnying dies down and he closes his eyes. Then you rush to the bathroom and lock the door. You wash your face with scalding hot water and soap. You know it's superstitious, but deep down, you’re afraid that his cancer will spread to your nose. You scrub and scrub and scrub for half an hour, but you can’t seem to get your face clean.
Exhausted, you dissolve into a puddle of tears and sorrow on the bathroom floor. You've survived another Sunday.
<<if ndef $x2>><<set $score += 30>><</if>><<set $x2 = true>>You examine the crimped, blond hair emerging from a swollen, infected follicle. You give it a good hard yank, and the follicle explodes with pus and blood. Trump hollers like a screaming goat and pounces on you like an enraged hippo bull.
"What are you trying to do, //kill me//?" he shouts. He inspects your face and breasts, like a collector might examine an old sports car. "You stupid, ugly, gold-digging //whore//!" he says. "You're not even an eight anymore." He grabs at loose skin on your neck and scowls disapprovingly. "Yuccch! I ought to choke you out, you old hag!"
"In fact," he says, his eyes suddenly lighting up. He wraps his powerful little fingers around your jugular and squeezes. The tears are streaming down your face, but you don't even fight back. You're already dead inside.
You're a loser!
<<back [["Rewind chapter."|Act I. Trump's Tower]]>>
<<if ndef $x3>><<set $score += 10>><</if>><<set $x3 = true>><<script>>$('#history-backward').attr('disabled', 'disabled');<</script>><h2>Chapter II: Power Grab</h2>Tonight is your night, Mr. Trump. The 2013 Miss Universe Pageant, Moscow. (Let’s face it — every night is your night, are you right?) You are the most powerful and handsome businessman in the world. You’re the champ.
You rinse the orange tanning spray down the drain, step out of the shower, and apply a new, generous coat with your custom, solid-gold aerosol applicator. The best. You lift your mottled twig and berries and spray your groin and rectum. Slight burn on the bunghole. Mental note: Russian toilet paper is as bad as Robin Williams said it was when he lived in Russia in that movie. Charmin is softer than Angel Soft. But not as soft as bunny rabbits.
You cup your balls up to let your nether regions dry. You snap your hairpiece onto the tiny rivets installed onto your scalp in 2005 by Dr. Wolfenberger, best goddamn hair guy on the Upper East Side, believe you! //Jews, gotta love ‘em,// you chuckle. Your hair fits tight. You look great. You’re a smart and well-spoken version of Arnold Schwarzenegger, you think. Or a masculine, gentile version of Jared Kushner. You like Jared — you think he's a quality person — but you wonder if he's enough man to satisfy your daughter. You're definitely enough man for any woman, and your daughter knows that.
Bookwise, you're a modern-day Andrew Jackson (that one book you read last year), but more accomplished, like Abraham Lincoln, but more of a stable genius and better-looking, and hotter wife and mistresses, believe you!
Your only regret is that you’re staying at the Moscow Hilton, not the Moscow Trump. Why won't Putin let you build that goddamn tower already? You love this man and respect him so much — he's so cool! That Paris Hilton, though, you’d grab that beaver, are you right? Not as hot as Ivanka, but close. Ivanka’s got a bigger, perkier rack, and that’s important to a guy like you -- you're not afraid to say so. Thanks, Dr. Wolfenberger. Man, you miss the locker-room talk.
[[Text Billy Bush.->Text Billy Bush]]
[[Tweet your followers.->Tweet Your Followers]]
[[Take your Cialis and head to the lobby.->Head to the Lobby]]
You grab your Blackberry and text Little Bushy, //These pageant sluts, if they want to win, they know what they need to do!//
Billy Bush responds immediately. //Shit, Mr. Trump, so jelly! Maybe Little Bushy can join you next year? Little Bushy likes hugs, too!//
//Make a few hundred mil and call me back!// you type, pleased with your rapist wit.
You wait for his happy-face emoji response. He’s like a puny version of yourself, but not rich or smart like you. Probably about equal in the looks department, you think, as you comb Dr. Wolfenberger’s bespoke, strawberry-blond pigment into your eyebrows. But then again, you have a #1 show and he doesn’t -- obviously you’re a little better-looking. You’re feeling great as you don your tux and head down to the lobby.
<<if ndef $x7>><<set $score += 20>><</if>><<set $x7 = true>>You fire up your trusty Blackberry and tweet out: //Miss Universe pageant tonight! These women are gorgeous, and they all love a billionaire like me!//
Within minutes, your Blackberry is inundated with love from your followers, and you feel a twitch in your left nut as the Cialis you took kicks in. You look in the mirror and say what you’ve been saying every day for the last fifty years: “You’re the champ!”
You put on your tux and make note of how much you look like Sean Connery — not old, balding Connery, but dashing Goldfinger Connery with a full head of hair.
[[Continue.->Elevator]]<<if ndef $x8>><<set $score += 30>><</if>><<set $x8 = true>>You take your Cialis, and a pang of sadness overcomes you as you realize you may not live forever after all. You peer out the window into the courtyard and see an elderly man, bundled in an impossibly large jacket and scarf, sitting alone on a bench. For a moment, you feel a twinge of pain and humility.
The next thing you know, you've stripped off your tuxedo and you're hyperventilating in the shower. These moods have been coming over you lately, and you feel defenseless against it.
You decide you won’t be attending the party tonight. People will be calling you and wondering if you're OK, but let them wonder. You’ll say you’re sick, order in some burgers and pizza, and rent that Tim Allen holiday movie you’ve been hearing about. And tomorrow, when you check out, you’ll pretend that you ordered the movie by accident and demand the $14.95 refund.
You're a loser!
<<back [["Rewind chapter."|Act II: Power Grab]]>><<if ndef $x6>><<set $score += 10>><</if>><<set $x6 = true>><<script>>$('#history-backward').attr('disabled', 'disabled');<</script>>As you leave your corner penthouse suite, you notice a gorgeous young blonde in a tiny black dress follow you down the hotel corridor and into the elevator. She is positively stunning, and you are feeling a bit frisky from the Cialis you took.
[[Grab her by the pussy.->Grab Her By the Pussy I]]
[[Make small talk.->Make Small Talk]]You step behind her and reach up between her legs and give a good full-handed pinch. It's a tight little twat. She's wearing a flimsy G-string, and she’s clean-shaven.
She is astonished at first, but then she moans softly as you run your fingers over clitoris. "I love Trump steak," she says in an adorable Russian accent.
As the elevator slows to a stop, you slip your business card under her dress and whisper, “Chip or no chip?”
She says, “Cheep!” and mewls like a cat in heat as you slide it in. You feel a wetness in your leopard skivvies.
The elevator opens on the third floor, and she limps out.
In walks a hotel employee, a plump middle-aged woman, carrying a tray of food. You can see the thick outline of baggy cotton bloomers beneath her black work slacks.
[[Grab her by the pussy.->Grab Her by the Pussy 2]]
[[Make small talk.->Make Small Talk 2]]<<if ndef $x9>><<set $score += 20>><</if>><<set $x9 = true>>You say, “I just want you to know, you’re very pretty, and -- believe me -- I would put you in my beauty pageant if it were up to me.”
She apparently does not speak English, and this annoys you. She obviously doesn’t recognize you, either, because she thinks you’re a creep. You take a step toward her and she spins around like a ninja and knees you hard in the nuts. You feel a sharp streak of pain course up through your core all the way to the tiny rivets on your scalp. You double over in pain, and tears tumble down your cheeks. Orange tanning spray drips off your chin onto your tuxedo shirt. The shirt is ruined!
As she flees out the front lobby, you’re left lying on the elevator floor clutching your gonads. You angrily shoo away the hotel security huddled around you and take the elevator back up.
Maybe you won’t go out tonight after all, you think. People will wonder what happened to you, but let them wonder. You can just stay in and order burgers and pizza and watch that new Tim Allen Christmas movie you’ve been hearing about, that one with Jamie Lee Curtis.
You remember hearing a story once that Jamie Lee Curtis has both a penis and vagina. You wonder if it's true, and if you would still do her if it was. You limp back to your suite and lock yourself in for the night, and more orange tears trickle off your jowls as you contemplate yourself in the mirror.
You're a loser!
<<back [["Rewind chapter."|Act II: Power Grab]]>>
<<if ndef $x10>><<set $score += 10>><</if>><<set $x10 = true>><<script>>$('#history-backward').attr('disabled', 'disabled');<</script>>“Where’s the //beef?//” you exclaim. You clamp your tiny hand through her thick trousers and baggy bloomers and give a good hearty tug on her substantial //labia majoris.// “Ooh, nice and thick,” you say, as she shrieks and drops the tray. The elevator door opens on the lobby and she tears herself from your tiny iron grip and runs away screaming.
A Russian security guard rushes over to see what the kerfuffle is. When he sees it is you, he gives you a wink and speaks into his walkie-talkie, “Never mind, it’s just Mr. Trump.”
[[Continue.->Moment with Manafort]]
<<if ndef $x11>><<set $score += 20>><</if>><<set $x11 = true>>“Mmm, smells wonderful,” you say. “What is that?”
The woman regards you for a moment, then lifts the tray cover to reveal a juicy T-bone steak and a small bottle of Heinz ketchup. Your mouth waters. You take a step toward her.
“I used to sell steaks like that,” you say, hoping she realizes who you are. It angers you that she doesn’t.
She recoils from you and turns away nervously. There is a long moment of silence as she waits impatiently for the door to open. As soon as it does, she races away, glancing over her shoulder back at you. You’re baffled and angered at the same time. Who does this peasant woman think she is?
Then you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror across the second-floor lobby. You catch sight of your orange, pill-induced erection sticking out of your unzipped tuxedo pants! Holy shit, how did that happen?! You quickly tweeze at your dappled, orange member with your index and middle fingers and place it back into your zebra-striped briefs, but you’ve lost faith in your grasp of reality.
How senile are you to let something like this happen? You’re getting old, you think, as you break out in a sweat. You beat a hasty retreat back to your luxury suite. You’re panting heavily as you take a shower. The freakouts are coming too often now.
After an hour or so, you start feeling OK again. You order in a pepperoni pizza, four double cheeseburgers, and a two-liter bottle of Diet Coke.
You heard that new Tim Allen Christmas movie is pretty good, but you can’t find it in the pay-per-view listings. You call down angrily to the front desk and demand they send up that cute front desk girl to find the movie for you. Instead, they send up a pimply bellhop who doesn’t speak a word of English.
You're a loser!
<<back [["Rewind chapter."|Act II: Power Grab]]>>
<<if ndef $x12>><<set $score += 10>><</if>><<set $x12 = true>><<script>>$('#history-backward').attr('disabled', 'disabled');<</script>>As you head out the hotel lobby, Paul Manafort rushes over to your side with a clipboard. “Sir, you’ll be riding over to the pageant with Emin Agalarov.”
“Who the fuck is that?” you say, grimacing. “You know I hate it when you say names I don’t know. Are you trying to make me look stupid? My IQ is high, believe me, and I'm a high-quality person. Never forget that.” You never liked Manafort. Neither good-looking nor rich nor famous nor hot wife you can grope.
Manafort cringes like a prison bitch and prostrates himself. “I’m sorry, sir. Emin Agalarov is the Russian pop star. Also riding over with you are three very nice young ladies from the Egoist Club. Compliments of Vlady.”
“Now you’re talking!” you say. You open your mouth, and Manafort gives you three squirts of cherry Binaca. He opens the limo door for you.
“Now that’s more like it!" you say. "Tell Vlady thank you.”
[[Continue.->Limo Ride]]You step into the stretch limo and are immediately caught off guard by the overpowering scent of cigarettes, champagne, and hooker perfume. Emin beams at you from the back seat. He is flanked by barely legal call girls in bright red wigs and matching red leather micro-dresses. They giggle and open their legs for you. They seem to have lost their panties. A third hooker, also in the same outfit, sidles up to you and sticks her tongue in your ear.
“Welcome, Donald,” says Emin, reaching over to shake your hand. Your powerful little grip surprises him, but he plays it off well. “Aren’t these girls //amazing//?” You regard him for a moment. Good-looking guy -- like a young version of you, but less regal and maybe not as rich. Your hair is better, you can tell you that much!
“This is Caterina,” he says, pointing to the large-breasted whore. She grins lustfully back at you.
“This is Bolodenka,” he says, pointing to the medium-sized whore with tattoos.
"And this delightful young lady with her tongue in your ear is little Anya.”
A slip of paper falls out of Anya's purse and you pick it up and examine the exotic Russian words. “What is this?” you ask.
She stuffs it back in her purse and resumes cleaning your ear drum with the tip of her tongue. “Learner’s permit,” she whispers.
You’re starting to feel really randy as you down a glass of Diet Coke and pop another Cialis.
[[Grab Caterina by the pussy.->Grab Caterina]]
[[Grab Bolodenka by the pussy.->Grab Bolodenka]]
[[Grab Anya by the pussy.->Grab Anya]]
[[Stay faithful to your wife.->Call Your Wife]]
As the girls laugh and sing along to Emin’s songs on the stereo, you move to Caterina, the big-breasted girl, and you slide your hand up between her legs. You say, “May I?” She says, “You may.” You crimp down hard on her sizable //mons pubis// and yank her up out of her seat. She is horrified at first and gives out a mighty squawk. The other girls look concerned. But she quickly recovers and pretends she likes it.
“Ooh, Mr. Trump, such a powerful little grip you have!”
You feel your little orange meat balloon expand in your zebra-striped skivvies.
[[More grabbin'!->Limo Ride]]<<if ndef $x13>><<set $score += 10>><</if>><<set $x13 = true>>You decide you like the medium-sized package. Sensing your eyes on her, Bolodenka crawls on her knees across the limo floor and slinks onto your lap. She grinds on your thigh, and it drives you mad. “Pinchy-pinchy!” you say, making a robotic gesture with your miniscule left hand.
Before she can even react, you grab a hot handful of pussy right through the front of her tiny red dress. She yelps and hops out of your lap in surprise. Everyone looks at you for a moment, and you see fear in their eyes. This makes your pill-induced erection leak something — urine or cum, you’re not sure. Emin smooths it over deftly by saying something funny in Russian. Bolodenka sits back on your lap, but she locks one arm down over her smarting crotch.
[[More grabbin'!->Limo Ride]]<<if ndef $x14>><<set $score += 20>><</if>><<set $x14 = true>>Anya's teenage fingers on your bloated mini-pumpkin makes you delirious with desire. “Clampy-clampy!” you exclaim, reaching under her dress and grabbing her clitoris with your tiny, rock-hard digits. You give a good hard pinch and twist, and she gives out a blood-curdling screech. You laugh and pull her left and right, to and fro. Each direction comes with a new, agonizing yawlp.
Emin and the girls are shocked, and the driver almost loses control of the limo. “She’s just a girl,” exclaims Emin, trying to break your steely grip. This just makes you pinch harder. She gives a sharp squeal.
Then you feel something hot and moist on your hand.
You withdraw your arm and realize that she has shit all over your hand! You can’t believe it! A brown, creamy shit runs up your sleeve, and you’re overtaken with the stench of warm feces. Just then, you feel your freckled member stand at attention. You jam your shit-covered hand down your zebra skivvies and beat off in front of everyone. You shout, "Sputnik sputnik sputnik sputnik sputnik sputnik, yesssssss!" You release a load of sticky hot semen into your underpants. Emin grabs the champagne towel out of the bucket and hands it to you. You wipe the shit off your hand and your tux and chuck the towel out the window.
Anya is crying and scampers off to the other end of the limo. The other girls help her clean up, and they try in vain to console her. For the rest of the ride, they glance over at you fearfully, but you don’t care. After several months of chronic erectile dysfunction, you've finally gotten off.
[[Continue.->Blue Dress]]<<if ndef $x15>><<set $score += 30>><</if>><<set $x15 = true>>“You girls are wonderful," you say. "Just give me a few minutes, I need to check in with my wife.”
The prostitutes give you a strange look and mutter a few things under their breath. You nervously dial Melania, who appears to be at a party of her own. You can hear the voices of several men laughing in the background.
“I love you, Melania. You have no need to worry.”
You hear people snigger after you say this.
You say, “Wait, Melania, am I on speakerphone?” You hear a roomful of male voices erupt in laughter as Melania says no and hastily hangs up.
Worse, you notice Emin and the girls now seem to be making jokes in Russian at your expense. You feel your little, orange meat balloon shrivel in your zebra briefs. A dribble of urine escapes from your bladder and rolls off the bottom of your tumor-infested ball sack — a momentary feeling of relief from the painful testicular cancer that will soon end your life.
You’re a loser!
<<back [["Rewind chapter."|Act II: Power Grab]]>>
<<if ndef $x16>><<set $score += 10>><</if>><<set $x16 = true>>
<<script>>$('#history-backward').attr('disabled', 'disabled');<</script>>As you exit the limo and enter the building, you see a gorgeous debutante in a blue dress with breasts the size and shape of Ivanka’s. “Hello, Mr. Trump," she says in an Australian — or is it Austrian? — accent.
[[Grab her by the pussy.->Grab Her by the Pussy 3]]
[[Make small talk.->Make Small Talk 3]]You grab her by the pussy — a nice, full bush — and she murmurs something exotic in your ear. You barely break stride as you continue on into the lobby.
<<if ndef $x17>><<set $score += 20>><</if>><<set $x17 = true>>“Hello, beautiful,” you say. “Are you competing tonight?”
She and her party think this is a terribly corny thing to say, and her imposing male companion looks down at you with dagger eyes.
“Keep walking, fat man,” he whispers in an Aussie accent.
Does //Aussie// mean Austrian or Australian? you wonder. You're not sure.
“Keep walking, or I’ll break your fucking nose.” He grins, and you realize he’s telling you the truth. As you hurry off, the members of their party erupt in laughter, and you can’t shake that bad feeling the rest of the night.
You're a loser!
<<back [["Rewind chapter."|Act II: Power Grab]]>><<if ndef $x18>><<set $score += 10>><</if>><<set $x18 = true>><<script>>$('#history-backward').attr('disabled', 'disabled');<</script>>
Jared Kushner greets you in the green room, where they're throwing a pre-party before the pageant. Beautiful contestants float past in various states of undress. Russian and European dignitaries sip out of martini glasses and laugh raucously. A lively jazz ensemble plays Sinatra from a corner of the room.
“Hi Daddy,” says Jared. He flits on over to you and tries to kiss you on the cheek but you pull away. “I hear you had an interesting limo ride," he says, giving you a wink. You hate this pale little douchebag who gets to fuck Ivanka every night, but you still believe he’s a high-quality person.
“You must meet these men!” he says. “The richest men in Russia!” You shake hands with a large circle of politicians and oligarchs. At the end of the circle, you are shocked to see Angela Merkel.
Jared says, “Chancellor Merkel, may I introduce you to my father-in-law, Donald Trump.""
“Mr. Trump,” she says, “I am honored to meet you.” She extends her hand and smiles at you warmly.
[[Shake her hand.->Shake Merkel's Hand]]
[[Grab her by the pussy.->Grab Merkel's Pussy]]
She gives you a clammy handshake that sends a shiver up your spine. “Blech!” you think.
As you try to withdraw your hand, she suddenly grasps it like an alligator on a catfish. “Your hand,” she says, grinning curiously. “So… compact. You know what they say about… compact hands.”
She turns your hand over and marvels at your stubby digits from different angles. You are finally able to rip your hand free, and she smirks ever so subtly. Jared sees this and tries to rescue you from the situation, but it’s too late.
You force grins to people and rush out a side door of the green room, and suddenly find yourself having a panic attack in a musty storage closet full of stage costumes and wigs. You lock yourself in and plug your ears. The tears come streaming down your face uncontrollably for twenty minutes, maybe longer.
Jared won’t stop knocking on the door. He quietly implores you to pull yourself together and return to the pre-party. After a full hour of coaxing and flattery, you unlock the door and come back out, but your eyes are puffy, and streaks of orange spray tan run down your cheeks and onto your tuxedo shirt.
Manafort quickly surrenders his shirt, but it fits you poorly and itches your neck. Angrily you look at the tag in the mirror, and you’re horrified to realize it reads //TRUMP//. Your confidence is shot, and the night is ruined.
You're a loser!
<<back [["Rewind chapter."|Act II: Power Grab]]>><<if ndef $x19>><<set $score += 10>><</if>><<set $x19 = true>><<script>>$('#history-backward').attr('disabled', 'disabled');<</script>>Your hand sneaks past Merkel's and slips down between her legs. You realize she's wearing an adult diaper, and it would seem she has a gigantic European-style bush as well. It's like getting your hand stuck in a cotton candy machine. You grab a big handful of pussy, and she locks eyes with you.
You rotate your hand a quarter turn clockwise, and her head rotates a quarter-turn in unison. You rotate your hand in the other direction, and her head twists in that direction as well. You pinch a little harder, and you feel her pussy quiver. She lets out a low, subdued groan, and looks tenderly into your eyes. You rub her floppy labia in your fingertips, and she cums silently. "Your discretion is greatly appreciated," she whispers.
[[Continue.->Dressing Rooms]]<<if ndef $x20>><<set $score += 30>><</if>><<set $x20 = true>>The competition is about to begin! You head up toward the main stage. You see Miss Mexico, Miss Syria, Miss North Korea, and Miss Puerto Rico milling about in the hallway.
[[Grab a bunch of pussy.->Grab a Bunch of Pussy]]
[[Chit chat with the ladies.->Chit Chat]]You grab a bunch of top-shelf pussy, and you run off before they can coalesce their shock and outrage.
You prefer Eastern European pussy over ethnic pussy, but pageant-grade Puerto Rican pussy will do in a pinch.
<<if ndef $x21>><<set $score += 20>><</if>><<set $x21 = true>>These girls think you're a beta male, and they snicker behind your back. They think you're a disgusting old man.
You're a loser!
<<back [["Rewind chapter."|Act II: Power Grab]]>><<if ndef $x22>><<set $score += 10>><</if>><<set $x22 = true>><<script>>$('#history-backward').attr('disabled', 'disabled');<</script>>What a show! What a spectacle! The competition begins. You're so proud of yourself and what you've achieved. Miss Universe is yours, and these beautiful sluts belong to you.
You hang out behind the scenes for most of the show. You enjoy watching the girls get in and out of their bikinis in the wings, and at one point you get so horny you grab Miss Croatia and rub one out on her backside. She freaks out and runs away, and nobody ever sees her again.
After the show, the Agalarovs come backstage to congratulate you. You are shocked to see they have brought Putin and his mistress with them. Alina greets you warmly. She's a stunning young woman, an ex-Olympic gymnast.
[[Grab her by the pussy.->Grab Her by the Pussy 4]]
[[Make small talk.->Make Small Talk 4]] You believe you are on a mission from God. You smile back at Alina and give her a polite squeeze between the legs. Her muscle-bound gymnast's crotch is exquisite. Delicate yet powerful.
"Very nice," you say, smiling at Alina, then at Vlady.
<<if ndef $x23>><<set $score += 30>><</if>><<set $x23 = true>>You try to strike up a little conversation with Alina, but her English is quite poor and your conversation becomes awkward. She seems unimpressed by your quick wit. Your jokes fall flat, and you come off as a loud-mouthed American.
Putin shakes your hand and says he is happy to finally meet you. But you're a little nervous now, and you come on too bluntly that you want to build a Trump Tower in Moscow. Putin says he'll rubberstamp the project, but his office never gets back to you. In your future conversations with Vlady, you can sense a distance — he doesn't seem to like you on a personal level. Which is shocking to you, because everyone loves Donald Trump, are you right?
You're a loser!
<<back [["Rewind chapter."|Act II: Power Grab]]>><<if ndef $x24>><<set $score += 10>><</if>><<set $x24 = true>><<script>>$('#history-backward').attr('disabled', 'disabled');<</script>>Putin is a compact, slender man. He smells a little bit like Play-Doh, and also talcum powder. You are not that impressed by his physical presence. You believe yourself to be much more of a sexual specimen.
"An honor to meet you at last," he says.
"It is truly a special occasion," you say, "when great men like us come together."
He extends his hand.
You feel very nervous about what you might be about to do.
[[Grab him by the man-pussy.->Grab Him by the Man-Pussy]]
[[Shake his hand.->Putin Chit Chat]]You go straight for Putin's cock-and-balls. You grab his little blini, and you're shocked to discover he has a full-on chubby.
He looks at you with wild astonishment. His left brow arches in a most peculiar manner as he slowly regards your little hand wrapped around his genitals. Your heart races as you fear his bodyguard is about to murder you. Then the corner of Vlady's lips rise ever so slowly, and he breaks out into hearty laughter. You feel relieved. He grabs your erect member, too, and steps in and whispers, "Cialis?"
"Yes," you whisper back.
He nods and steps in even closer. "Later, Alina will suck both our cocks!"
You laugh outrageously loud, but you can't tell if he's kidding or not. As it turns out, he wasn't.
[[Continue.->Act III: Nutcracker Suite]]
<<if ndef $x26>><<set $score += 40>><</if>><<set $x26 = true>>You give Putin one of your patented dealmaker handshakes. It's a long, awkward gesture, and the more he tries to pull away, the harder you hold on to him. Finally, his bodyguard steps in and tears your hand off Putin. You and Vlady try to chit-chat, but it feels awkward and forced after the bungled handshake. Vlady and his gymnast mistress leave after a few minutes, and you never see him again.
You're a loser!
<<back [["Rewind chapter."|Act II: Power Grab]]>><<if ndef $x25>><<set $score += 10>><</if>><<set $x25 = true>><<script>>$('#history-backward').attr('disabled', 'disabled');<</script>><h2>Chapter III: Nutcracker Suite</h2>It’s June 2016, and you’ve just gotten home from your meeting with the Russian lawyer-cougar Natalia Veselnitskaya. Talking about Russian teenage orphans gave you such a raging boner — or was it the two Cialis pills you dropped into your Diet Coke after lunch? Doesn’t matter!
The first Thursday night of every month is S&M Night in the Trump household. You put on your strappy leather harness and studded bit-and-bridle and admire yourself in the mirror. The straps are much tighter than they were last month, and you hope you don’t burst out of the harness like you have in the past. You pull on your knee-high Luftwaffe 1941-issue shitkickers polished to a glossy shine, and slip into your baby-seal fur codpiece. Ooh yeah, that feels nice. You admire yourself in the full-length mirror. You look like a skinny William Shatner, or like a fat Channing Tatum. Which is OK because Ivanka says Channing Tatum is hot, which made you a little angry until you realized you have the same raw magnetism as Channing Tatum, except you’re richer and a stable genius.
You take the fireman’s pole two floors down into the Trump Tower penthouse dungeon. Your dungeon is stocked with all sorts of machines and devices, both modern and medieval. There is a rack and a trojan horse and a waterbed covered with a plastic sheet. One wall holds an assorted collection of gnarled ropes and chains and whips and barbed wire. A wooden crate overflows with pliers and pincers and clamps and needles and gags and ball stretchers. Another crate contains gynecological tools for prodding, probing, and poking. A third crate is filled to the brim with various plugs and eggs and sleeves and pumps and dongs.
You sit down on your leather chaise-lounge with heated cushions and ring your solid-gold service bell. Nobody responds. You ring it again. Again, no response. This enrages you! “Luis!” you shout. “Where the fuck are you?”
[[Continue.->I Heart Huckabee]]There is a knock on the hatch door in the corner of the room. Silence, then another knock. “Do I have to get the door myself?” you shout. You walk to the hatch and open it. A homely, big-boned woman in a cheap floral dress looks nervously at you. She looks like an abandoned mutt, and this makes you chuckle.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir, but they told me to ask what you want for dinner,” she said. Her eyes are black and beady and it sends a chill down the excrutiatingly tight ribs of your leather body harness.
“Yucko!” you say. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m the new intern,” she says, “Sarah Huckabee Sanders.” She gives a moment for it to register with you, but it doesn’t. You're too distracted by her appearance. “You know,” she says, “Mike Huckabee’s daughter?”
“Ohh, right,” you say, looking her up and down disapprovingly. “I //don't// heart Huckabee!” you exclaim, unable to control yourself. She’s like a really chubby Tiffany Trump, but with brown hair and fat face and crazy eyebrows and no money and ugly clothes. “Disgusting,” you murmur.
She winces, but within a moment her eyes turn vacant and black once again.
[[Order the usual.->Order the Usual]]
[[Who has time for dinner?->Skip Dinner]]
“OK,” you say, pulling $100 from the heel of your official-issue Nazi SS knee-high boots. You think for a moment. “Let’s see. Jack in the Box. Two Classic Buttery Jacks. Two Spicy Sriracha Jacks. Extra ketchup, extra onions on all of them. Don’t //fucking// forget the onions and ketchup! Large curly fries. Diet Dr. Pepper. No ice.”
She types it quickly into her phone and says, “Got it.” She starts to walk away when you call her back.
“Wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait,” you say, scrunching your eyes in deep thought. “Two Chick Fil-A Deluxes, eight-piece fried nuggets, four chicken biscuits.”
Again she finishes recording your order and starts toward the elevator door.
“Wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait,” you say. “Krispy Kreme. Half-dozen plain, half-dozen frosted. Make sure they're //hot//. Believe me, I'll know.”
She types it down and waits for you to continue.
“Well, what the fuck are you doing just standing there? Go get my fucking food!! And don’t get caught by my wife, she’ll fire you on the spot, I’m not kidding. If I don’t get my food, I’ll strangle you to death, I swear to God.”
Her black eyes register the danger for a moment but then return to their beady, empty state. You slam the hatch door shut on her face and laugh to yourself. "Ugly //and// dumb,” you mutter, cackling aloud.
<<if ndef $x29>><<set $score += 40>><</if>><<set $x29 = true>>“Get the fuck out of here,” you say, slamming the hatch door on her. Just then, your stomach gurgles, but she’s gone before you can change your mind. “Goddammit,” you say, “where the fucking hell is Luis?”
You ring your solid-gold service bell again and again, but no one arrives. Now you’re hungry. Starving. All you can think about is eating a nice double-thick steak, well-done, with Heinz ketchup. So you take the elevator back upstairs, change into your baby-seal smoking jacket and get Huckabee’s disgusting daughter to fetch you a 32-ounce filet from Morton’s with baked potato and creamed spinach and eat yourself to sleep. You shit yourself again in the middle of the night. This pisses you off. You fly into a rage that causes your aneurysm to explode. You die sitting on your solid-gold toilet, and //The Enquirer// somehow gets a hold of your death-scene photos. You're a laughingstock!
You're a loser!
<<back [["Rewind chapter."|Act III: Nutcracker Suite]]>><<if ndef $x30>><<set $score += 20>><</if>><<set $x30 = true>><<script>>$('#history-backward').attr('disabled', 'disabled');<</script>>Luis, your hunchbacked dungeon master, has arrived through a hidden door in the back of the room. He hobbles over to you and looks at you with his clear eye. “//Buenas noches,// Meester Trump,” he says, in a raspy baritone. You love Luis. He makes you laugh.
“//Bue-nas no-ches, Señ-or Lu-is!//” you say in a very staccato voice. You love that you can speak other languages like Spanish and Spanglish. “What’s on the docket tonight?” You sit back down on your heated sofa, and your studded leather harness digs into your sides painfully. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the wall mirror, and rolls of muscle spill over the leather straps that wrap around your abdomen. You're like a very powerful Michelin Man, except you're better because you're rich and suave and good at bondage.
Luis looks at his clipboard. “Oh, Meester Trump, we have some of your favorites tonight!” He claps twice and the lights dim and the music comes on — the soundtrack to //Silence of the Lambs//. The Cialis is starting to kick in. A considerable amount of heat builds beneath your fur-lined, baby-seal codpiece. Your left testicle, the good one, is sweating and sticks to your left thigh. As it usually does, your right testicle retreated into your nether region long ago.
Luis makes one of those hilarious Mexican whistling noises, and two men in white robes and hoods appear through the hidden door. They drag in Stephen Miller on a chain attached to a choke collar around his pencil-thin neck. He’s dressed as a nutcracker soldier from the Russian ballet, with full whiteface makeup and big red circles on his cheeks. They bend him over the wooden horse and tie his arms and legs apart. He looks terrified.
“You know why you’re here, don’t you?” you say, kneeling down in front of Miller and stroking his balding head. He’s breathing frantically, and tears and snot drip off his nose onto the floor.
“You look like a young, skinny Putin,” you say, “except you’re poor and pathetic. People think I love Vlady, and I do. But the pee tape... “ You tug on his ear and walk over to your toy chest. “The pee tape angers me," you continue. "Vlady angers me. //You// anger me.”
“P-p-please, sir!” Miller says with wide eyes. “You don’t have to do this! I’ll do anything you want. Anything!” Miller is such a sniveling coward, you think. You hate sniveling cowards.
"You //are// doing anything I want," you reply.
[[Crack a walnut in Stephen Miller’s mouth.->Nutcracker Boy]]
[[Kick Stephen Miller in the nuts.->Roshambo Stephen Miller]]
[[Whip Stephen Miller.->Whip Stephen Miller]]
[[Let Stephen Miller go.->Release Stephen Miller]]
Luis brings over a crystal goblet filled with enormous walnuts. You pry Stephen Miller’s mouth open with a leather riding crop and jam three walnuts into his mouth. Before he can spit them Luis wraps duct tape over Miller’s mouth and around his head.
“Get crackin’, Vlady!” you exclaim. Miller tries to break the walnuts but his jaw won’t close.
“Harder, Vlady, harder!” you exclaim, feeling a twinge in your sweat-soaked codpiece. “What’s the matter, Vlady? No time to blackmail me anymore?? Sad!!”
Just then, a walnut slips into Miller’s throat and he chokes to death in the most violent manner imaginable. Luis tries to perform the Heimlich maneuver, but by the time he cuts Miller’s hands free, Miller is already dead.
Luis and your personal attorney Michael Cohen get rid of the corpse, but the press is onto you, and the FBI investigates you for the murder of Stephen Miller. You drop out of the race and Vlady releases your pee tape on YouTube. You’re ruined.
You're a loser!
<<back [["Rewind chapter."|Act III: Nutcracker Suite]]>>
<<if ndef $x33>><<set $score += 30>><</if>><<set $x33 = true>><<script>>$('#history-backward').attr('disabled', 'disabled');<</script>>You square yourself like an NFL kicker behind Miller, who can’t see what you’re doing and is freaking out. You pull down his flame-red Nutcracker soldier tights to reveal a pimply ass and deformed little ball sack. It looks like a heirloom tomato that died on the vine.
“Vlady, where I grew up in Queens, we had a game we used to play. It’s called Ro-Sham-//Bo//!” As you utter the final syllable, you give a swift hard kick with your Nazi knee-high boot, the toe of which sinks right into Miller’s testicles. Miller lets out a deplorable yawp and convulses in anguish.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me the first time,” you say, “so I’ll repeat it for you.” Then more loudly and slowly: “It’s called Ro-Sham-//Bo//!” This time, your boot connects with his taint, and he cries out miserably and vomits on the floor.
“Did you hear what I said??” you ask, getting really close to Miller’s face. He is hyperventilating and can’t even respond. You walk over to your crate of toys and pull out a metal plate that attaches to the toe of your boot. Sharp, two-inch studs protrude from the plate.
“I guess you didn’t,” you say. “So I’ll repeat it for you.” You step back twenty feet and Luis clears a path for you. “It’s called Ro-Sham—” You run toward his backside like you are about to take a penalty kick. “//Bo!!//” you cry, kicking the sharp studs right into his shrunken ball sack and the bottom of his withering glowworm of a penis. He only musters a feeble gasp as the studs tear through skin and flesh and lodge themselves deep within his sexual organs. Your boot is stuck inside his testicles, and it takes all of your strength to pull your boot out.
Luis rushes up and surveys the mess with some alarm. “A little too hard, sir!” he says, clapping his hands twice. The white-hooded men free Miller from the wooden horse and lay him on a stretcher.
“Is he dead?” you ask.
Luis checks for a pulse and says, “I think he’ll be OK.” They whisk him away, and you feel a great sense of satisfaction.
<<if ndef $x31>><<set $score += 50>><</if>><<set $x31 = true>>You select a baby bamboo switch out of one of the crates. Miller lets out a pathetic yip when he sees it. You pull Miller’s flame-red Nutcracker tights down around his scrawny thighs, and it reminds you of a Japanese girl you diddled once in a hostess club in Tokyo.
Then you catch sight of a tattoo above Miller’s ass -- a tramp stamp. It reads “Blood and Soil” in block letters. “What the fuck is this?” you say. You find it oddly attractive.
You regard yourself in the wall mirror for a moment. You feel powerful holding your bamboo switch. Luis looks on with an amused little smirk as tears flow off of Miller’s face into a little pool on the floor.
You wind up good and slow. “You know what to say,” you tell Miller, whipping him hard on his left buttock. A broken blood vessel immediately blooms into a big, bloody welt. Miller screeches like a cat on fire, and you feel your sweet potato-shaped penis inflating beneath the seal-fur codpiece.
You reach between Miller’s legs and crumple his misshapen testicles in your tiny fist. “You know what to say!” you repeat.
“Thank you, sir, may I have another?” he cries.
“Good, Vlady, good” you whisper in his ear. “Good!” You let go of his nut sack and he lets out a pitiful whimper.
You wind up again, and the switch whirs through the air and hard across the other cheek. You break skin this time, and he lurches forwrad, screaming like a dying hyena.
“Thank you, sir, may I have another?”
You whip him again. Blood splatters to the floor.
“Thank you, sir, may I have another?"
You continue a dozen more times until his ass is covered in bloody bruises. His sweat-soaked face is contorted in agony, and this makes you horny as all hell. Excitedly, you pull off your codpiece and sodomize Miller. No lube, just three angry thrusts into his bloody backside. “Fuck! You! Putin!” you exclaim. Then you let out a climactic, “Uuunhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” You withdraw your tuber-shaped pecker and a substance resembling day-old cottage cheese drops out of Miller’s torn, shit-covered anus.
Luis looks at you with astonishment. You’ve never fucked another man before. Stephen Miller’s ass just looked good to you. Can anyone blame you? You call it an early night and rush upstairs to your bedroom. You remove the black leather harness and bit-and-bridle and scrub yourself in the shower. All you can think about is Miller's beautiful tramp stamp. You stare in the mirror for several minutes. “I’m gay!” you say. “I’m gay!”
This destroys everything you think you know about yourself. It takes you many years to process the information. You drop out of the race for the Republican nomination, and over the next few months you buy all of Deepak Chopra’s audiobooks and scented candles and oils.
You're a loser!
<<back [["Rewind chapter."|Act III: Nutcracker Suite]]>>
<<if ndef $x32>><<set $score += 40>><</if>><<set $x32 = true>><<script>>$('#history-backward').attr('disabled', 'disabled');<</script>>Stephen Miller lets out a pathetic wail and shits himself, some kind of diarrhea that runs down his leg and onto the floor.
“Oh my god, look what you’ve done!” you whine. “You’ve ruined the costume! And now my dungeon smells like shit! Sad!”
You’re not in the mood to torture anymore. You motion to Luis and say, “Get him out of here!”
Just then, Miller has a heart attack. Right before he falls dead, he exclaims, “Oh, sweet Hitler, //mein Führer//! Finally we shall meet!”
Luis and your personal lawyer Ty Cobb take care of the body, but after some time it becomes very clear to the public that Miller came into Trump Tower that evening to meet with you and never left.
It’s a scandal you can’t seem to shake, and you’re forced to drop out of the race.
You're a loser!
<<back [["Rewind chapter."|Act III: Nutcracker Suite]]>>
<<if ndef $x33>><<set $score += 10>><</if>><<set $x33 = true>><<script>>$('#history-backward').attr('disabled', 'disabled');<</script>>
“//Que sera, sera!//” you say to Luis. You’ve got a full-on erection now, and your seal-skin codpiece is hot and slick with sweat. You sit down on your heated chaise-lounge, but your leather harness digs into your hips and ribcage, and you quickly hop back to your feet. “What do you got next for me?”
Luis eyes light up as he looks up from his clipboard. “Oh, Meester Trump, I have a feeling you are really going to enjoy these two.” He claps his hands, and hooded men bring out two metal carts on wheels. On top of each cart is a hollow cocoon made of rubber — similar in size to a large yoga ball — wrapped in strips of flesh-tinted translucent latex. They look like reptilian eggs from an //Aliens// movie. Something is wriggling inside each of them.
“Ooh,” you titter, tapping the tips of your fingers together excitedly. “Good work, Luis! You’ve really outdone yourself this week!”
You regard each cocoon with childlike glee as Luis hands you a giant pair of scissors. “Meester Trump, please do the honor.”
[[Cut open the left cocoon.->Ann Coulter]]
[[Cut open the right cocoon.->Kellyanne Conway]]
You cut into the left cocoon, through a thick, moist latex membrane. It makes a whistling sound, like air escaping from a punctured tire. You cut a circle out of the top. Out wiggles Ann Coulter! She is wearing a white, crotchless lycra catsuit, with holes cut out of the chest. Her small, saggy breasts fight gravity like tiny burlap sacks hanging from a fence post, and an inch-long nipple droops down from the bottom of each breast. Her nipples are pierced with giant, rusty steel rings. Luis snaps his fingers, and the hooded assistants place her wrists into the rusty iron cuffs of an ancient wooden cross.
“Ann Coulter,” you say. “Yuck, you are truly disgusting. Your face is gross, and you look like an albino horse. Sad!” She looks at you with the dead eyes of a broken sex slave. She opens her mouth and you spit into it. She swishes it around before swallowing it. This makes your orange sea cucumber leak a little something into your filthy codpiece. “You’re blond like Ivanka,” you continue, “but old and too skinny and weird face. Also, you don’t have any money. And your tits are all used up and worn out.”
You pull her roughly by the nipple rings, which makes her perk up. But her eyes remain distant and dead. You inspect the dozens of scars that have accumulated on her breasts from years of abuse. “But we’ll see if we can get a little more mileage out of them.” You snap a handful of tiny elastics around each breast. They quickly turn blue and veiny, and the left tit looks like it might just die and fall off her body. Sweat streaks down her temples, and she breathes rapidly. You spit in her mouth again and she swallows it. Luis wheels over a table with a variety of weights.
[[Hang 8-ounce weights on her nipple rings.->8-ounce weights]]
[[Hang 1-pound weights on her nipple rings.->1-pound weights]]
[[Hang 25-pound circular free weights on her nipple rings.->25-pound weights]]
<<if ndef $x34>><<set $score += 20>><</if>><<set $x34 = true>>“You’re an ugly, little whore,” you say, “and you need to learn a lesson.” You hook a half-pound spherical fishing weight to each nipple ring, and she moans quietly. Her long, broken nipples droop downward like caterpillars frying under a magnifying glass.
<<if ndef $x37>><<set $score += 10>><</if>><<set $x37 = true>>“Yuchhh, you’re so pathetic,” you say. “I’m gonna teach you a lesson you won’t forget.” You add a one-pound iron fishing weight to each metal ring, and she lets out a guttural groan that makes you excrete something into your filthy codpiece.
<<if ndef $x38>><<set $score += 30>><</if>><<set $x38 = true>>“Now this is a night to remember!” you say, picking up a 25-pound free weight. Luis fixes a chain to the weight with a carabiner. Coulter looks at you with something resembling dread in her resigned eyes. Her breasts, cut off from circulation by the rubber bands, are swollen and purple. You attach the carabiner to the right nipple and gently let go of the heavy weight. She moans gently at first, but it quickly becomes a shrill scream, ever increasing in volume. You swing the weight from side to side like a pendulum and watch her face contort with each change of direction. Her right nipple is pulled down so low that you can see through the hole between the ring and the inside of her nipple. This arouses you.
You grab the second 25-pound circular weight, and Luis fastens a chain around it. She screams a muffled “Nooooo!” as you hook the carabiner to the left nipple ring and drop the plate. Instead of swinging like a pendulum, the ring tears through her nipple, and the plate crashes to the floor. Hot blood spurts in all directions, all over your orange gut and orange thighs. You immediately cum in your codpiece. Coulter passes out, and Luis jumps in and applies pressure to her ripped nipple, half of which hangs down like a discarded fish skin in the dumpster of a seafood restaurant.
“Take her away!” you say, and they carry her off in a stretcher, a streak of blood running all the way down the right side of her white cat suit to her foot.
You feel extremely powerful and in control, and you pop another Cialis to keep the party going.
[[Continue.->Huckabee Food]]<<if ndef $x39>><<set $score += 50>><</if>><<set $x39 = true>>You cut into the right cocoon, through a thick, moist, latex membrane. The thing wriggling inside worms its way out. It’s Kellyanne Conway! She's covered in a goopy, purple ooze. She’s wearing a black lycra catsuit and cat mask.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” she says to you, trying to bite you. Luis snaps his fingers and the hooded men restrain her.
You smile. “Kellyanne Conway, you’re old and wrinkly and disgusting. You say a lot of stupid things, too. You’re like Ivanka, but 40 years older and no tits and no money and old face and saggy ass. Yucccch!” The hooded men force her to her knees as she snarls at you.
“Well what are you gonna do about it, you fat fuck?” she says. You catch a glimpse of yourself in your tight leather harness, the straps of which cut deep into your muscular pectorals.
You slap her hard, which seems to shut her up for the moment, and you remove your codpiece. You turn it inside out and stuff the damp fur deep into her mouth. She gags on this for a full minute, but when you take it out she laughs and says, “That’s all you got?”
[[Burn her with a cigar.->Burn Conway]]
[[Make her vomit.->Make Conway Vomit]]
<<if ndef $x35>><<set $score += 20>><</if>><<set $x35 = true>>You snap your fingers at Luis. He lights a Cuban cigar and gives it several puffs to get it really going before handing it to you.
You hold the red tip close to Kellyanne’s face. “See,” you say. “I don’t like to smoke cigars, but I do like to put them out!” You stick the cigar right into her clavicle, and it makes a sizzling sound as the glowing ember fuses with her skin. She squeals and bucks around like an angry animal and tries to bite you. It smells like burnt hot dog.
She gives you a crazy look and spits on your face. “That’s all you got??”
“I guess you’re a slow learner,” you say, stuffing the saliva-drenched codpiece back into her mouth. You hand the smoldering cigar back to Luis, who puffs at it ferociously to get it burning again.
"Dr. Wolfenberger will be working overtime this weekend," you say. "Maybe he can fix your face!" This time you put the cigar out right on her cheek, as she thrashes about wildly. You burn a black spot the size of a quarter onto her cheekbone right below the left eye. Tears run down her face as she chokes mightily on the smoke.
[[Cleveland Steamer.->Cleveland Steamer]]
[[Donkey Punch.->Donkey Punch]]
[[Dirty Sanchez.->Dirty Sanchez]]
<<if ndef $x40>><<set $score += 50>><</if>><<set $x40 = true>>You force your leather riding crop into her mouth and pry her jaw apart. Then you stick your index and middle fingers into the back of her mouth to try to make her vomit. But your fingers are so stubby and undersized that you can’t even make her gag. She cackles at you. “Little hands, little cock!” she exclaims. This makes you more determined.
This is when you make a critical mistake. As you try to reach in deeper, the crop pops out of her mouth, and she bites with all her strength on four of your fingers. You hear a crunching sound and experience an indescribably intense pain as she gnashes through the orange skin and bones of your fingers. She tears her head backward and smiles to reveal four severed fingers in her mouth! She spits them out and says, "What's the matter, all thumbs??"
Unfortunately for you, you have a massive stroke at that moment, and Luis and his crew aren’t able to save your life. Death scene photos of you in your ridiculous bondage attire are leaked to the press within weeks, and these photos stay within the American consciousness for decades to come.
You're a loser!
<<back [["Rewind chapter."|Act III: Nutcracker Suite]]>>
<<if ndef $x41>><<set $score += 20>><</if>><<set $x41 = true>><<script>>$('#history-backward').attr('disabled', 'disabled');<</script>>You feel your lunch, a whitefish-and-cream-cheese sandwich and a quart of hot borscht, rumbling in your intestinal tract. “Tie her down,” you command. “I’m feeling heartland tonight. I'm feeling... mid-West.” You let a test fart fly in Kellyanne’s direction, a tight whistle that devolves into a series of wet flaps. The odor is exotic and potent, and she gives you an incredulous look. Luis secures a plastic sheet over a king-size recessed waterbed installed into the floor. The hooded assistants tie her arms and legs to the corners of the bed.
“Let me go, let me go!” she screams. You squat down over her and almost lose your balance on the waterbed. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she shouts, trying to bite your ankles.
You unzip her black lycra bodysuit all the down to her taint. “The artist’s canvas,” you say, stroking her milky-white abdomen and stomach. Just then your stomach rumbles loudly. “Oh gawd,” you say, “here it comes! Here it comes! The 6:20 from Cleveland! On time!!” You unleash a torrent of purple borscht diarrhea all over her 60-year-old A-cups, and you fire some clumps of whitefish into her belly button and over her crotch and inner thighs.
“Oh, god!” she cries, retching and dry-heaving.
You squat over her face now and reach deep for more poo. You clench and clench. “Don’t… forget… dessert!” You squeeze hard, and a long, black turd -- possibly that double-slice of chocolate cheesecake you had for lunch, emerges from your anus. The turd hangs a whole foot down, tantalizingly close to Kellyanne’s lips. A fetid stench makes her scream and writhe, as drops of fecal juice drip off the log and accumulate between her eyes, carving a black river down her nose to the corners of her lips. You gently lay the foot-long steamer from her chin up to her scalp. It drops squarely between her eyes. She doesn't dare move. She closes her eyes and lips to try to prevent the anal gravy from entering all the orifices on her face. Poo clogs her nostrils, and she breathes brown bubbles in and out of her nose. The more she fidgets, the more the log just falls apart on her face.
Luis takes a Polaroid and admires your masterpiece. “//Muy bueno//, Meester Trump! Perfect consistency!”
Kellyanne passes out from the horror and stench. “Take her away!” commands Luis.
<<if ndef $x42>><<set $score += 60>><</if>><<set $x42 = true>>
You motion toward the barre rail, and the hooded helpers bend her over the railing and cuff her wrists to her feet. As they secure her to the floor, you walk over to your crate of toys and retrieve a pair of gold-plated brass knuckles given to you as a gift from Mike Tyson. You slide them on your chubby little digits and sidle up to Kellyanne’s rump, sticking up in the air. You unzip the crotch of her lycra bodysuit and detect the scent of mothballs, which makes your stomach turn. Her gaunt, ghost-white ass and vagina protrude out over the rail. The Cialis is definitely taking hold. You jam your spicy worm into her bleached-white shithole, and she cackles at you. “Fuck, is it in yet,” she says. This angers you, so you give her a little punch with the brass knuckle to the side of her head.
Her face scrunches in pain, and her anus tightens around your cock. You feel a little fluid trickle out of your meatstick. You thrust a few times and it feels amazingly tight. “Kellyanne,” you say, “you’re so old and disgusting. Fucking you is making me sick, I might just throw up.”
You give her another little pop on the other side of the head and she cries in pain. Again, her rectum tightens around the base of your freckled member. You thrust in and out madly and your cock swells in pleasure. This time you punch her hard in the temple with your brass knuckles, and her anal cavity clenches down on your penis. “You’re such a revolting kiss-ass!” you say, giving her a brass-knuckle combination on the back of the head. She’s clenching so hard now that you can barely thrust into her. You dish out several blows to the back of her head, and her ass is so tight you feel like your dick is about to break off.
You reach around her, wind up, and give her a nasty blow to her chin that knocks her out cold. A pint of cum, as thick as yellow matter custard, gushes out into her anal cavity. “Eeyore! Eeyore! Eeyore!” you call out like a donkey. You gyrate on her ass like an entranced voodoo witch as the last gobs of cottage cheese dribble out of your penis. Your body is slick with your musty sweat, and as you pluck your cancer-stricken member out of her asshole, you leave streaks of orange-colored sweat on her backside.
Luis helps you to your feet, and the the hooded assistants carry Kellyanne away in a stretcher.
[[Continue.->Huckabee Food]]<<if ndef $x53>><<set $score += 40>><</if>><<set $x53 = true>>“Face down,” you tell Luis. The hooded aides drag her kicking and screaming to a wooden rack, and they attach her wrists and feet to the device. Luis turns a crank, which pulls her hands upward until it stretches her gaunt frame tightly, ass up. She thrashes around like a lobotomized ape on acid.
“Feisty,” you say. “I like it.” You peel her bony buttocks apart to reveal a bleach-white anus.
“Fluff, Meester Trump,” asks Luis, looking at your semi-erect freckled turnip-like member.
“Gracias, Luis,” you say.
He pours some lube on his hands and works your penis and balls in a rhythmic circular motion. After a couple of minutes of this, it looks a little less droopy than before. He takes two Cialis pills and sticks them into your anus.
You flop down on top of Kellyanne Conway who is stretched out tightly on the wooden rack. Your 350-pound frame on hers causes her to moan in a dull pain, and you can feel her lower ribs bend under your weight. She gasps for breath. You thrust your yam into her shithole, and she screams, “That’s all you got? Hahahaha!”
This angers you tremendously, so you withdraw your pecker, now covered in her feces. “What did you eat today?” you ask in disgust. “Mongolian chicken?” You pick off a chunk of poo, and smear it on her upper lip.
She kicks and retches and curses as Luis rushes over to take a photo of her shit mustache. “Very good work, Meester Trump!” he says, flapping the Polaroid excitedly.
<<if ndef $x54>><<set $score += 30>><</if>><<set $x54 = true>>Just then, there is a knock on the hatch door. It's dinner time!
Huckabee has arrived with your burgers, chicken, and donuts. You tear right into the food. Extra onions, extra ketchup on everything. Just right! You notice Sarah trying to sneak away, so you call her back. “Not so fast!” you say, as you wash down a handful of fries with a 32-ounce cup of soda. “Good job!” you tell Sanders. “I’d like to give you a little bonus.”
She smiles, expecting you to hand her a tip. Instead, you tell her to close her eyes. She pauses for a moment and looks at Luis nervously. “Go on,” you say. “Close your eyes.” She begins to tremble and closes them slowly. “Now open your mouth,” you say. She pauses again and quivers. “Open your fucking mouth!” you yell.
As soon as she complies, you cram an entire glazed donut into her nasty piehole. She screams and runs away, and you and Luis bust out laughing.
“She love Krispy Kreme, Meester Trump,” says Luis.
Your tear through the rest of your food like a Tasmanian bitch in heat. After the fourth chicken biscuit, you breathe in deeply and one of the buckles on your leather harness breaks. “Not again!” you whine, upset at the leather strap dangling down from the harness. ”This damn harness keeps shrinking!” you say, wiping the chipotle ketchup from your chin.
[[Continue.->Jeffy]]“And now the headliner,” says Luis, retrieving his clipboard. “Bring out the gimp!” he exclaims. His assistant moves a throw rug to reveal a secret door beneath. He opens the panel and tugs on a leather leash. “Here, Jeffy Jeffy!” says the assistant. Out emerges an incredibly emaciated male slave in a leather vest and boy shorts. He is wearing a black spandex hood with closed zippers over the eyes and mouth. He has a tattoo of Ronald Reagan’s face on his upper thigh. He looks extraordinarily frail, and he is shivering like a hummingbird. You unzip the three holes on the hood. It’s your good buddy, Jeff Sessions!
He immediately falls to his knees and licks your Nazi shitkickers clean. He makes a strange panting sound as his tongue travels over the laces of your boots. He seems to get off on this, and you let him finish.
“Jeffy, Jeffy, Jeffy,” you say. “You pathetic, stupid, weak, ugly, poor little man. Why did you recuse yourself? //Why//?”
[[Jumper cables.->Jumper Cables]]
[[Declawed gerbil.->Declawed Gerbil]]You pull out jumper cables and attach them to terminals sticking out of the wall — something Luis rigged up for you a while back. A little dial next to the terminals reads, “6 Amps / 12 Amps / 48 Amps.” You switch it to 48 Amps, and Luis says, “//Dios mio!//,” and takes a few steps back.
“Stand straight,” you tell Sessions, who quietly complies like a broken little bitch. “This might pinch a little.”
You attach the black terminal to his floppity, gray nutsack. “Ayeee,” he says woefully, as the clamp breaks skin and blood trickles down the teeth of the clamp. You give the cable a little yank to make sure it’s on good and tight, and this makes him cringe. You hold the red terminal up to his nose.
“Why did you recuse yourself?” you say. He begins to shake and his teeth chatter.
“Why would you do something so //stupid//?” you exclaim. With that, you attach the red claw to the tip of his penis. The surge of electricity makes a crackling sound and blows you several feet back. Sessions convulses frenetically. His eyes pop open, and he says, “Uh-guh-guh-guh-guh-guh-guh-guh-guh!” as the alternating current courses through his body.
“Sometheeng is wrong!” yells Luis, fumbling frantically with the dial. “Too much amp!” His accent always makes you chuckle, even now.
Smoke rises off of Jeffy’s scalp. His testicles catch on fire, and blood runs out of the corners of his eyes.
“No bueno!” says Luis. When he rips the cables off the terminals, the lights go out, and the room is completely dark and quiet, except for Jeffy’s cock and balls, which have caught fire. After several seconds, the emergency flood lights come on to reveal Jeff Session’s lifeless face. His body begins to spasm in rigor mortis. Luis puts out Jeffy's burning crotch with an extinguisher. You peek your head out of the velvet curtains, out the penthouse windows that look out over the city. You notice the entire city block has lost power.
“Oh shit,” you say. Oh shit is right. You just killed a senator. Just Louisiana, but still. Security cameras show Sessions entering your building and taking the elevator up to your penthouse suite the night of his disappearance. The FBI raids Trump Tower and finds DNA evidence convicting you of murder. They make an extensive catalog of all your sexual proclivities, which they eventually leak to the ///New York Times//. You become an international laughingstock, and even your own daughter won’t talk to you anymore — the hot one with the big tomatoes, not the ugly one who looks like you.
One night, not even a month into your sentence, alone in your cell, you hang yourself with a pair of shoelaces.
You're a loser!
<<back [["Rewind chapter."|Act III: Nutcracker Suite]]>>
<<if ndef $x55>><<set $score += 50>><</if>><<set $x55 = true>><<script>>$('#history-backward').attr('disabled', 'disabled');<</script>>Luis wheels in a cage full of fluffy little gerbils. “Jeffy, come here!” you say. Sessions crawls over and hugs you around the leg. You scratch him behind the ear and stroke his balding pate, and he looks up at you with grateful eyes. “Jeffy, choose one! Any one!”
Sessions can’t believe his ears. He points at himself in disbelief. He stammers, “M-m-m-m-me?”
“That’s right, Jeffy, pick your favorite.”
His eyes light up. He puts his nose up to the cage and sniffs each hamster. Luis looks at you approvingly, as if you two were Jeffy’s parents.
Finally, Sessions selects an albino female gerbil. “Ah!” says Luis, “Pocahontas! Splendid choice, Meester Jeffy!”
Just then, a different gerbil appears from under a mound of wood shavings. It’s twice as large as the others and snaps at anything that stumbles into its radius. Sessions is excited to see this gerbil and points at it. “Th- th- th- th- this!”
Luis shakes his head. “No, Meester Jeffy. Christie too big. Pocahontas better.”
Hopping up and down, Sessions chirps and gestures spasmodically toward Christie. “Th- th- th- th- this!”
“Let him have it,” you say, feeling magnanimous of spirit.
Obeying your command, Luis captures Christie. As Luis lifts him out of the cage, Christie bites him hard on the hand and draws blood. “//Ay caramba//!” cries Luis. Sessions pulls down his leather boy shorts, gets on all fours, and arches his back in anticipation. Luis takes a length of PVC pipe the size of a paper towel tube and jams it an inch into Jeffy’s rectum. “Oooooh!” says Jeffy.
Holding the obese gerbil at arm’s length, Luis tries to appeal to your better senses. “Es too fat, Meester Trump. Not good idea.”
“Look at Jeffy,” you say with a chuckle. “He wants it, he’s dying for it. Do it!”
Luis crosses himself and places the gerbil into the PVC pipe. “Ready, Meester Jeffy?” asks Luis.
Sessions nods his head repeatedly and appears on the verge of having a seizure. You bend down to one knee, take a deep breath, and blow as hard as you can into the tube. Christie races into Sessions’s large intestine. Luis yanks the pipe out of his rectum and Sessions looks up wildly. He jumps up to his feet and yells, “Oh gerd oh gerd oh gerd oh gerd oh gerd oh gerd oh gerd!” He hops to and fro, with a crazed look in his eyes. You and Luis and the assistant break out into loud laughter. Sessions gallops around the room now, one hand on his ass and the other over his mouth, his leather boy shorts still wrapped around his ankles. Suddenly he stops and his eyes dart from side to side. “I-i-i-i-it’s moving!” he cries. “I-i-i-i-it’s moving!” You see a bulge move across Jeffy's abdomen as the rodent makes its way through Jeffy's intestinal tract.
You laugh so hard you puke Jack in the Box out your nose. Luis can’t even breathe and reaches for his inhaler. Just then, Sessions lets out a horrid, piercing scream, like a demented banshee. He screams again, and you stop laughing. “G-g-g-get it out!” he exclaims. “G-g-g-get it out!” He goes into a seizure and bites down on his tongue and falls on his face. He wriggles on the floor as blood gushes out of his mouth and his anus. After a few seconds, Christie, covered in blood and feces scratches and squirms out of Jeffy’s rectum and escapes through a gap between the wall mirror and the floor.
You look at Luis. “Did you forget to declaw him?” you ask.
Luis slaps his head. “//Ay caramba//!” There is an awkward moment of silence, then you howl in laughter.
“I love this guy!” you say, putting your arm around Luis and walking with him toward the elevator.
Luis hands you the box of donuts. “Your Krispy Kreme, Meester Trump.”
You tell Luis, “I’m going to make you the Prime Minister of Meh-hee-co. I can do that, you know.”
Luis’s good eye overflows with joyous tears, and he holds his clubbed hand over his heart. “//Gracias//, Meester Trump! //Gracias//!”
The elevator doors swish open and you step in. You’re ready to take off your painfully tight harness and relax with a nice hot shower. (You like to set the adjustable shower head to //Percussive// and aim it at the painful tumor on your undercarriage.) As you enter the elevator, Luis claps his hands, and his assistants pry Jeffy’s teeth out of his tongue.
“Jeffy, you’re fired!” you say, and the elevator doors swish shut.
[[Continue.->Act IV: Blood Diamond]]<<if ndef $x56>><<set $score += 60>><</if>><<set $x56 = true>><h2>Chapter IV: Blood Diamond</h2> It’s December 24th, 2017, Palm Beach, Florida. You’re in the Presidential Suite at Mar-A-Lago. It’s absolutely gorgeous here — much nicer than that shithole White House they make you sleep in. It’s so gorgeous it makes Steve Wynn jealous whenever he comes to visit. Freaky Steve — that’s what you call him when he’s not around. Are you good with nicknames, or what? Like you, he’s rich and sophisticated, but unlike you, he’s terrible at golf and strikes out with the ladies. You just kiss ‘em, and they can’t say no because you’re famous. You buy them furniture, and then they pretty much have to, right? Man, you miss Little Bushy.
The best thing about this time of year is being around family, and by far the best thing about your family is Her. She’s your Everything. Your pleasure, your pain. Your sweetness, your sorrow. She’s your little California girl, your Viagra in a bikini. Not only does she have an amazing, perfectly-balanced rack, but people don’t realize how tight her ass is, too. And her mouth and lips are luscious and red, even before injections. She’s a goddess, a perfect “10,” and she’s your creation.
[[Continue->Secret Time]]Christmas Eve is a secret time together, a sweet little daddy-daughter tradition. Stepmothers and milquetoast husbands just don’t get it. It really started after you paid to get Ivanka’s knockers balanced in 2002, during a holiday trip to Dr. Wolfenberger's Malibu office. (Dr. Wolfenberger throws in the nipple lift for free.) You killed two birds with one stone that day, you used to joke. What an amazing little getaway, just you and your gorgeous daughter, who was becoming more tantalizing with every operation. Things just “clicked” between the two of you that Christmas Eve, and you two made a pact to make things click every Christmas Eve.
Your rendezvous is now, and you’ve been as horny as Stormy Daniels on cocaine. You have a three-hour private window before Melania and Barron arrive. God, you hate Melania, that gold-digging wife of yours, constantly slapping your hand away. Who laughs at you every time you unsnap your hair. (She calls it Fido.) How you’d love to choke her out one of these days and get a better wife, but you’re stuck with her for now. And what the hell is wrong with the boy? Melania is what’s wrong. Coddling him, whispering to him all the time, treating him like a faggoty little girl, you think. But nothing military academy can't fix, right? You went to military academy, and it toughened you up all right. It made you a man! Wait, did you go to military academy? You can’t remember for sure, but it feels right to think you did.
There’s a knock at the door and you start out of your easy chair. You smooth your hair and adjust your tie — she insists you dress in your holiday best — and you give your breath a few squirts of cherry Binaca. You open the door with an enormous smile on your face, only to realize it’s Carlos from the lobby, with a large crate from Dr. Wolfenberger.
“Señor, your tanning spray has arrived,” says Carlos.
“Not now!” you say angrily, looking up and down the hall. “OK, quickly! Just leave it in the master bath. Chop chop!”
He hurries in and drops off the crate.
“Mooch-ass grassy-ass, Carlos!” you joke as he walks past.
He pauses and looks hurt. “I am not Carlos, sir. There is no Carlos at Mar-A-Lago. My name is Timothy.”
“//Timothy//?” you say. “You’re joking, right?”
“No, sir, I’ve been working for you for eight years, Señor.”
You laugh again. “Well, keep up the good work… Carlos.” You slam the door on him.
After a moment he knocks again. //The nerve of these Puerto Ricans!// you think, throwing the door open. “Carlos, I am going to send you to Guantanamo!!”
But it’s not Carlos, it’s Her. You stand there, amazed. She is radiant in an Ivanka white dress shirt and Ivanka plaid miniskirt and white Ivanka thigh-high stockings and Ivanka mary janes. She has a hot pink Ivanka angora cardigan tied over her shoulder. She is wearing hot pink Ivanka lipstick on her luscious lips and Ivanka mascara on her doe-like eyes. You catch a tantalizing whiff of Ivanka Trump Eau de Parfum, your favorite.
“Daddy!” she says in a child-like voice, wrapping her arms around you in a long, warm embrace. You feel her enormous jugs pressed hard against your man-breasts. “I missed you, Daddy! Did you miss me?”
You’re careful to close the door before responding. “Yes, I missed you very much! Let me get a look at you!”
She spins playfully and pulls you onto the couch. “Daddy, I made Dean’s List again,” she says, dropping to her knees and removing your shoes. She lets you get a peek up her skirt -- a cute white Ivanka thong. “Like what you see, Daddy?” she asks, putting her index finger to her lips.
Your cock unfurls in your leopard-spotted briefs like a ruddy rock lizard stretching in the desert sun. “I’ve got a little gift for you,” you say, motioning to your pant pocket.
Her fingers graze your stiff groin as she fishes through your pocket, and she looks at you coyly. "Naughty daddy!"
She pulls out a Tiffany ring box and her eyes light up. She opens it and her eyes well up as she puts it on her finger. “Diamond ring? It’s huge, Daddy!” she says.
"Ten karats," you say. “Flawless. Platinum. A real winner. Just like my little girl. A perfect 10.”
“Thank you, Daddy!” she says. She looks you right in the eyes, then grinds her pussy up the length of your shin. “I love it, Daddy! I love it so much.”
[[Continue.->Flawless]]She saunters to the bar, swinging her hips slowly, and retrieves the Louis 17th. She straddles you, finds your bottle of Cialis and pours the pills onto your face and into your mouth. “You’re gonna need all of these,” she says in a bratty voice. “And some of this, too.” She pours the cognac from the bottle directly into your mouth. “What are we studying today, Daddy?”
[[Lap it up.]]
[[Doggy style.->Vaginal intercourse.]]
“I can see you’re hungry,” she says, heading to the kitchen. She comes back with a 2-pound tin of Beluga caviar — a gift from Vlady. As you lay back, she jumps up on the couch above you and hikes up her skirt. You admire her tiny schoolgirl pussy (“vaginal rejuvenation” by Dr. Wolfenberger) through her sheer Ivanka panties, and you inhale deeply as she presses her twat up against your face. “Women’s studies,” she says, pouring the entire contents of the tin into her underwear. “Eat up, Daddy, you’re weak.”
The cold caviar disintegrates and drops in big clumps out of her panties onto your face as she grinds her clitoris on your mouth. She drops the skirt over your head, and holds your face tight against her. In a frenzy, you lap up the salty black mash oozing out the sides of her pristine crotch, streaks of black juice running down her inner thighs into her stockings and down your neck and chest into your pants. “Keep eating, Daddy! Keep eating!” You get salty eggs in your nose, in your eyes, in your hair, in your ears. She moans and grinds faster and harder and faster and harder, until finally she climaxes on your chin. This is too much for you to contain. You groan like a dying elephant and shoot a big custardy yellow load into your leopard briefs.
[[More daddy-daughter time.->Flawless]]<<if ndef $x60>><<set $score += 20>><</if>><<set $x60 = true>>“What a long day you must have had at the office! You must be so stressed out,” she says, unzipping your pants and pulling out your stiff little chorizo. She puts on her fuzzy Angora cardigan and pulls the sleeves down over her nimble little fingers. You can barely sit still. She grasps your penis through her sweater and jerks it slowly and softly. She strokes your balls with her other hand, and her pinkie roams up into your anus. After just a minute of this, it’s already too much for you to handle, and you shoot an enormous load of sticky yellow cum all over the sleeve of her sweater.
“Yuck, Daddy!” she protests.
[[More daddy-daughter time.->Flawless]]<<if ndef $x61>><<set $score += 30>><</if>><<set $x61 = true>>“Oral exams,” you say, whipping out your little red pepper penis. She smiles and looks deep into your eyes as she licks your wrinkly flesh balloon from base to tip. Then she downs all three inches and works her tongue over the giant mole on your ball sack. “I love that fucking mole,” she says, french-kissing it and sucking on it hard. This is too much for you to handle. You shoot a load that resembles a small bowl of clotted cream. It lands on her forehead and in her eyes. She forces a smile even as her eyes burn and tears run down her cheeks.
“A-plus!” you exclaim.
[[More daddy-daughter time.->Flawless]]<<if ndef $x62>><<set $score += 40>><</if>><<set $x62 = true>>“I want to make love to you,” you say.
Suddenly upset, she smacks you hard across the face. “No, Daddy! I told you, I’m saving myself for Jared!”
“Yeah, Daddy,” says Jared, stumbling out of the foyer closet. His clown-white johnson dangles out of his suitpants like the sweaty tongue of a dying albino bullfrog. “She’s saving herself for our wedding night.”
You’re so shocked to see Jared you jump to your feet. “Jared! What the fuck are you doing here?!” you say. You push him away as he tries to peck you on the cheek. “And don’t call me Daddy,” you say.
“Daddy, don’t talk to Poopiedoodles like that!” cries Ivanka. “Poopiedoodles, are you OK? Did big bad Daddy try to hurt you?” She gives Jared a sweet little french kiss that enrages you.
“Poopiedoodles, back in, OK?” she says, leading him back to the closet and gently shutting the door.
“What the fuck?” you exclaim.
Ivanka looks at you sternly. “Poopiedoodles watches, or I leave.”
[[More daddy-daughter time.->Flawless]]
<<if ndef $x64>><<set $score += 10>><</if>><<set $x64 = true>>You run your finger over her bleached anus, and she looks at you with a glint in her eye.
“Good idea, Daddy,” she says. “I’m saving myself for my wedding night, but you can use my dirty hole.”
She unzips your trousers and tweezes your orange mini-yam out of your zebra briefs with her pinky and ring fingers.
“All that dirty dealing you do all day at the office,” she says playfully, licking the giant red mole under your testicles. “Dirty deals and dirty dicks.” She spits a loogie on your cock and moistens her button hole, recently “rejuvenated” by Dr. Wolfenberger, best goddamn plastic surgeon on the Upper East Side.
She mounts your pill-induced erection, and it’s tight and rough in her little schoolgirl anus. “Dirty old daddy!” she moans, her anus gripping your wrinkly sweet potato. “Dirty! Old! Daddy!” You splooge in her rectum, and she squirts hot liquid all over your belly. She lifts herself off of you and shits a yellowish curd back onto your dick. “Oh Daddy! What a dirty, dirty mess!” she says.
Suddenly you hear a male voice from the closet. “Way to go, Dad!”
You jump up in shock. “Who the fuck is that?” you yell.
“That’s just Jared,” she says, “He likes to watch, never mind him.”
[[More daddy-daughter time.->Flawless]]
<<if ndef $x65>><<set $score += 50>><</if>><<set $x65 = true>>You raise your pinkie finger and wiggle it, and Ivanka smiles. “I thought you’d never ask,” she says, pulling a pair of nail clippers and a file from Ivanka purse. “And I just got a French manicure,” she protests, clipping the nails of her right hand and filing them down carefully. She puts on a black Ivanka latex glove and squeezes out a big swirl of K-Y jelly onto her pinky finger like soft serve ice cream. This makes your stiff sweet potato snap to attention.
You slide off your leopard-spotted briefs and lay back on the couch as she slinks toward you with her lube-covered pinky. “Remember the safe word?” she says.
“Yes,” you whisper, your mouth dry in anticipation.
She grasps the base of your cock tightly with her left hand. “Ready?” she says, holding her pinky close to your eyes.
“Yes,” you stammer.
She positions her pinky on the top of your penis, and in one smooth motion, she wedges her pinky two inches //into// your urethra. You scream, “Uuunghhhhh!” as pain shoots from inside your penis straight to your asshole. You can hear a ripping sound inside your urethra as she jams her pinkie all the way in, pulls it all the way out, and jams it back down to the hilt. She bends her fingers, and you scream in pain and pleasure. After a few more strokes, she starts speed-fucking the inside your penis, all the way in and all the way out. “Ohhhhhhhh!” you groan. It feels like you’re pissing razors out of your dick. After a couple of minutes of furious finger-banging, you scream out in an exquisite pain. You can barely stand it.
[[Yell the safe word.->Safe Word 1]]
[[Let her continue.->Urethra 1]]<<if ndef $x66>><<set $score += 60>><</if>><<set $x66 = true>>“Benghazi!” you scream, your body slick with sweat and orange spray tan running off you onto the couch and the carpet. “Benghazi Benghazi Benghazi!”
Ivanka looks at you with disappointment. She withdraws her pinky, covered in a yellow slime. She wipes her fingers clean on your leopard briefs. “Very disappointing, Daddy,” she says. “I think I should get going.”
“No!” you cry. “Please don’t go!” You clutch at her ankles as she fixes herself and heads toward the front door.
“Really, Daddy, give it a rest!” she says, kicking you away. You break down into tears as she leaves.
Jared suddenly pops out of the closet and zips up his pants. “Sorry, Dad,” he says, giving you a peck on the cheek. “Ivanka, wait!” he yells, chasing after her.
You blubber like a baby for half an hour and fall into a deep depression which you can’t seem to shake.
You're a loser!
<<back [["Rewind chapter."|Act IV: Blood Diamond]]>><<if ndef $x70>><<set $score += 20>><</if>><<set $x70 = true>><<script>>$('#history-backward').attr('disabled', 'disabled');<</script>>After a few minutes of intense pain, she withdraws her finger from your penis. A yellowish cream cheese oozes out of the tip of your penis. She takes her Tiffany ring and places it on her middle finger. It only goes down to the second knuckle. Then she coats the ring and her entire finger in K-Y jelly. She wiggles it in your face.
"Daddy, this ring is going in your dick."
Sweat already streams down your face and your breath is short in anticipation.
She wraps her left hand around the base of your cock and spits on the head of your prick. “Ready, Daddy?” she chimes.
“N-n-n-nooooooooooo!!!!” you scream. She wedges her middle finger into your urethra down to the ring, and you hear a popping sound accompanied by the sharpest pain you’ve ever felt in your life. It feels like a firecracker has exploded inside the head of your penis. As she retracts her middle finger half an inch, blood and other fluids come spurting out of your penis like a science fair volcano.
In a nearby closet, you can hear Jared spanking it furiously.
[[Yell the safe word.->Safe Word 2]]
[[Let her continue.->Urethra 2]]<<if ndef $x71>><<set $score += 50>><</if>><<set $x71 = true>>"//Benghazi//!" you shout, and Ivanka withdraws her middle finger from your urethra.
She looks disgusted in you. “Really, Daddy? You’re such a fucking pussy.” She takes off the ring and whips it at your head. You’re doubled over in pain and unable to respond. As she fixes herself in the mirror, you can hear Jared spanking it in the closet. “Aaaooooonghhhh!” he cries, finally getting off.
“Come on, Jared,” she says, “let’s get out of here.”
“Please,” you say. “Don’t go! Not yet!” You grasp at her ankles, but she stomps on your fingers and you howl in pain. Jared zips up and pecks you on the cheek before chasing her down the hall.
You blubber like a baby for half an hour and fall into a deep depression which you can’t seem to shake.
You're a loser!
<<back [["Rewind chapter."|Act IV: Blood Diamond]]>>
<<if ndef $x72>><<set $score += 30>><</if>><<set $x72 = true>>
<<script>>$('#history-backward').attr('disabled', 'disabled');<</script>>Her middle finger is jammed into the head of your throbbing penis down to the second knuckle, and her ten-karat diamond is pressed hard against the sensitive glans of your rock-hard yam. Different fluids ooze out of the tip of your penis and it hurts so bad you can’t even breathe. She squeezes a big gob of K-Y Jelly onto her diamond ring and says, “One.” She takes a breath. “Two.” She stands over you now and locks her arms.
[[Yell the safe word.->Safe Word 3]]
[[Let her continue.->Urethra 3]]<<if ndef $x73>><<set $score += 50>><</if>><<set $x73 = true>>“Benghazi Benghazi Benghazi! Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it!"
She looks at you with some disappointment. But she leaves her finger where it is and jerks you off with her other hand. It takes just a few strokes, and you squeal in delight. She quickly withdraws her finger, like King Arther pulling the sword from the stone. You shoot a gigantic sticky yellow load all over her arms and face. Cum drips from her hair, and she looks surprised. “Wow, Daddy!” she says. “Wow!"
You collapse on the couch in exhaustion.
Jared, who has been spanking it non-stop in the closet, sticks his head out. “What about me?” he says.
Ivanka fixes herself in the mirror and smiles. “What about you?” she says playfully.
“Don’t I get something?” he complains.
She walks over to the closet, spreads her legs in front of his face, and queafs loudly. It sounds like helium escaping an overinflated balloon. “There you go,” she says. “A nothing burger.”
This gets him off immediately. She gives him a minute to pull himself together and tuck his shirt in. "Ready, Poopiedoodles?" she asks him. "Let's go." She stops to give you a long, deep kiss. "See you at dinner, Daddy."
You flop back down on your couch and smile deliriously for hours. ~The End~
[[Continue.->theEnd]]<<if ndef $x74>><<set $score += 60>><</if>><<set $x74 = true>>“//Three!!//” She uses all her weight to force her middle finger deep into your urethra. Somehow the ring slips into your penis, along with her finger. You’re in such blinding pain you can’t even see. It feels like your cock has been turned inside out. Her middle finger sinks into your fleshy sheath, down to the third knuckle. You feel more ripping and popping sounds.
Ivanka's eyes widen. “There’s a diamond in your dick, Daddy,” she says. “My diamond is in your dick!”
This makes you cum immediately, but the inside of your penis burns, as there is no place for the massive load to go.
“My finger is in your bladder, Daddy,” she says excitedly. She looks right in your eyes. “I’m finger-fucking your bladder!” This makes you cum again, but again, a burning sensation deep inside your sexual organs.
She tries to pull her finger out, but she can't. “Daddy, it's stuck,” she cries, alarm suddenly overtaking her face. She flicks her finger several times, but the head of your penis is wrapped tightly around it.
“Get it out!” you cry. “Get it out!”
She pulls hard, but her finger won’t move. You almost pass out from the pain. “Daddy, I don’t know what to do. It won’t come out!”
Tears run down your face, and you’re drooling all over yourself in sheer agony. “Get it out!” you stammer.
She puts one foot against your thigh and another against your stomach for leverage. Jared comes out of the closet and looks on in horror. “I'm gonna pull really hard," she says. “Ready? On three.” Your eyes widen. “One,” she says. “Two. //Three//!”
She tears her finger out of your cock, You hear a distinct slicing sound, like the meat-cutter at a supermarket deli. The diamond ring on her finger slices your penis in half, like a spicy bratwurst on a seering-hot grill. You look on in horror at your little butterflied shrimp, torrents of blood and sperm and piss flying off in different directions.
“It’s OK!” she cries, "It's OK!" She admires the ring in the light. "Thank God, it's OK!" She rushes off to the kitchen to rinse it off. As you lay bleeding all over the couch and the carpet, she makes a call on your phone. “Dr. Wolfenberger? Yes, this is Ivanka. Yes, as soon as you can. What services do you offer?" There's a pause. "Yes, that's the one. Penile rejuvenation.” ~The End~
[[Continue.->theEnd]]<<if ndef $x73>><<set $score += 30>><</if>><<set $x73 = true>>You soak in the tub for a good long hour. You can hear Donald puttering around the penthouse, cursing at the television. You turn up the stereo. You love Enya, even though Donald calls her a snowflake. As you emerge, you hear the sound of shattered glass from the living room, followed by a loud cry.
You put on your bathrobe and rush out into the living room. Donald is lying on the polar bear carpet, clutching his heart. "Call 911! Call 911!"
You freeze for a moment.
"What're you doing?" he gasps. "Call 911!!"
[[Let him die.->letHimDie]]
[[Call 911.->ambulance]]You come to your senses and rush to your purse to retrieve your iPhone. You call downstairs, and security sends up a team of EMTs within minutes. They decide to air-lift Trump to a hospital cross-town. They place him on a gurney and bring him up a floor to the roof of Trump Tower. As the helicopter approaches the pad, Donald clutches your arm warmly. "You //do// love me," he says.
"Of course I do, Donald," you say. "I will always love you, no matter what."
This brings tears to his eyes, and he blows you a kiss as they wheel him into the helicopter. "Looks like a late night at the office," he says. "Don't wait up."
[[Continue->Act II: Power Grab]]<<if ndef $x5>><<set $score += 20>><</if>><<set $x5 = true>>You sit down on the couch and stare at your husband writhing on the floor. "Melania!" he pleads, unable to breathe. "I'm dying! Help me!"
You're expressionless as his eyes cross and he goes into convulsions. After flailing around for a good minute, he lets out a deep, melodramatic croak and falls dead. You sit there frozen and silent for several minutes.
Finally, you pull out your iPhone and call Hank, your secret lover. He works as a security guard in the building.
"Hello?" he says.
"He's dead," you say. You can't believe it. Could it actually be true? It's some kind of miracle from God. You start to feel alive for the first time in years. You picture yourself sunning in Coco Prive with Hank. And you can take Hank to see the wild horses of Slovenia — the wild horses of your childhood! Your heart flutters in your chest. "Hank, Donald is dead! He's dead! We can be together now! Come up now, I want you to make love to me!" There is only silence on the other end. "Hank? Do you hear me?"
Just then, you hear a rustling in the guest bedroom, and the door opens. In walks Hank holding his phone, with a dreadful look on his face. Behind him is Don Junior and Eric. Junior is holding a pistol to the back of Hank's head. Junior looks at you with those psychotic eyes that frighten you so much.
"Wh-wh-what you doing here?" you ask, your English suddenly worsening again.
Your husband suddenly pops to his feet and lets out a maniacal belly laugh. You're stunned, and your stomach sinks. You've been tricked!
"I didn't want to believe it," says Donald. "But you were right, Junior. You were right!"
"Of course I was right," says Junior, prodding Hank toward you and directing you both against the wall.
"I've been taking acting lessons with Mel Gibson," Donald says. "Not bad, huh?"
"Great job, Dad!" says Eric.
"Shut up, Eric," says Donald.
Sensing he's about to die, Hank suddenly turns toward you and looks you deep in the eyes. "I love you," he whispers. Just then, Don Junior fires a bullet into Hank's temple, and your face is immediately coated in hot blood.
"Nooooooo!" you scream, as Hank's body collapses at your feet. You fall to your knees and weep loudly.
"I'm hurt, Melania," says Trump. "I'm really hurt." He walks over to the bar and opens a can of Diet Coke. "But to be completely frank, I //have// been looking to trade up. The only question is... what to do about you."
You're so upset you can barely breathe, and you're choking on your own tears.
"Give her to the gimp!" says Eric.
"Terrible idea, Eric," says Trump. "Keep your mouth shut."
Eric looks wounded for a moment, and he retreats to the corner of the room.
Junior kneels down close to you and slowly brushes your hair back with the barrel of his gun. You keep your eyes straight ahead but you shake uncontrollably. "I say you let me have her for a few days," says Junior, blowing gently into your ear.
"What about me?" Eric whines.
"Fuck off, Eric," says Junior, smelling your neck and behind your ear. "Mmm," he murmurs. You can feel Hank's blood coagulating on the tip of your nose and collecting in the small of your neck.
"Now now," Donald says, downing the entire can of soda. "Brothers should share."
Just then, you feel the sharp prick of a needle in your arm. Junior has just injected you with something! You feel sleepy, and your head drops ever so slowly to the floor. As you lie on the floor unable to move, Junior unbuttons your blouse. In the moments before you lose consciousness, you wonder if this is it, or if you will soon awaken to a more terrifying nightmare. You hope for the former, but you sense it will be the latter.
You're a loser!
<<back [["Rewind chapter."|Act I. Trump's Tower]]>>
<<if ndef $x4>><<set $score += 10>><</if>><<set $x4 = true>><<script>>$('#history-backward').attr('disabled', 'disabled');<</script>><h2>Postscript</h2>Thanks for stopping by! If you enjoyed this story and would like to see more, please consider a small donation to help me complete Book Two and keep it all ad-free.
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And just as important, please share on social media!
Ideas for Book Two:
<ul><li>Stormy Daniels and tighty-whities.</li>
<li>Cruising the malls with Roy Moore.</li>
<li>Pee tape.</li><li>More sophisticated game mechanics.</li></ul>Your support is greatly appreciated!
Jame Gumb Jr.
<<if ndef $x75>><<set $score += 10>><</if>><<set $x75 = true>><h2>Before You Begin...</h2>Welcome! //A Cockwork Orange// is a hyperactive fiction game, similar to the //Choose Your Own Adventure// books of the 80s. The characters are Donald Trump, his family, and his cronies. Other world leaders make cameo appearances.
The game is sexual in nature. As you can probably tell from the cursor, it is "Not Safe For Work." It is extremely graphic, violent, sadistic, obscene, and offensive. The images are PG-13, but the text is X-rated. You've been warned.
The story is 100% fictitious. Any similarity to real events is coincidental.
If you enjoy it, please consider making a donation (PayPal, Venmo, and Patreon icons at the bottom of the screen) to help cover web hosting costs. Your support will allow me to keep the site ad-free and focus my attention on Book Two in the series, which I hope to release Fall 2018.
<div style="float: left; width: 50%; margin-top: 25px">Jame Gumb Jr.
[[Start the Game->Act I. Trump's Tower]]