This bizarre and brilliant Donald Trump erotica may just scar you for life

Donald Trump is a peculiar man. For someone so overtly sexual, someone who thinks nothing, even, of sexualising his own daughters, he seems curiously devoid of the faculties necessary to fuck.

For all his “I AM THE MOST HEALTHY PRESIDENT EVER” posturing, it’s hard to imagine Donald “The Donald” Trump ever getting down to it, ever slipping off his expensive Y-fronts, ever exposing the soft, translucent skin of his groin and ever untethering, with effort, his withered little Donald Trump-branded chorizo. “Oh god, this penis? A lovely penis. Wonderful. I love it. You’ll love it, too. You know what? I have the best penis in these United States,” he’d probably say. “See? Here’s a certificate from my doctor.” We are almost certain he’d say that, and yet… 

And yet, despite three marriages – to Ivana, to Marla, to Malania – he remains unknowable. Thankfully, some might add, but for those with the necessary intestinal fortitude, we’ve scoured the internet’s deepest (so deep) and darkest (oh god) corners to find some snack-size Trump fuck-fic action for you to feast on Election Day eve.

Best get a glass of water before we begin...

The one where Donald blows a robot

The Donald Meets His Match
By Toby Halligan

He walked through a narrow corridor into his “Trump relaxation room”. The room was large as most New York apartments, the room had padding on the ground, and benches on the side. And there it was, standing in the center.

The Donald stood still for a moment admiring it. Ivana had hated it and in revenge for him having it created it she had pressured him to have what one newspaper headline had described as “very painful and ultimately unsuccessful scalp surgery” when he began losing his hair. That’s totally true. But Donald didn’t regret a thing. Some men have blow up dolls but such a tacky, common thing was never going to be enough for a man like the Donald.

Before him stood a custom made pleasure robot that he’d secretly constructed in Germany. And Donald Trump's robot was a perfect replica of Donald Trump. “You handsome bastard” said Trump as he approached the pleasure bot and kissed it roughly on the lips and the Trumpinator as he called it, kissed him just a roughly back. “Yeah, you like it rough don’t you” both Trump and the Trumpinator said in perfect sync with one another. Their tongues locked and engaged in a titanic battle over the fallow ground of the two Trumps lips.

The Trumpinator’s lips were primarily silicon, and after years of plastic surgery the Donald’s weren’t that different.

Pulling away the Donald said to the Trumpinator “Initiate process four”. The supercomputer inside the Trumpinator whirred into action, while the Donald’s personality had been imprinted onto the super computer that had been developed in Silicon Valley. When blended with the cyborg components of the pleasure robot it was surprisingly adaptable and had a number of unique features. It could of course, give blow jobs, and given it was modeled on Donald Trump, it could blow hard, harder than virtually anyone else.

It also had a variety of other useful functions, such as hair dryer, radio, bar fridge, and drink holder. It did not do anal, of course, the Donald would never inflict something that demeaning on the Trumpinator. But process four was something special. It had taken the Germans months to program and build the feature in, but the Donald had been insistent.

The one where a bee gives Donald dirty talk

Beeautiful Love
By Pantypantypantypantypantypantyhoes

Donald Trump laughed gleefully at the last racist comment he made, earning the cheers of the white extremists of the crowd. He waddled off stage and accidentally wiped off some of his fake tan in an effort to remove his glistening, adrenaline caused sweat. “oh bother” he sighed, wiping the muck from his hand onto his cheep courderouy suit.

Barry flew passt his beear and whispster seductively in the future presidents ears “eye lil mama lemme whsisper in ur ear” he buzzed affectionately and donaldo gasped shockedfully. “Barrty-kun-san-sempai youreve returned” doandly murmured and brought his large, wrinkled hands to cover his carrot toned moufe in gleerfe.

“Yes, dornal, I’ve returned from the GREAT bee war, just toe see your sweaty pollantable orange face” barny led dormal tramp into his makeshift Ooval Orface and licked deeply between his plaible, sweaty neck blanketles.

mcdoggles groaned in surprise and let bary do as he wished. “O Barry please i crave sweet **bear beer bee emooji* syrup” he sang in the tune of the national anthem.

“Oh honey, you’ll get my pollen juice soon ;)” baery spoinked dornal shrimp’s shrivelded ass and grazed his sharp stinger along his thiccnnly clothed assybootyu

The one with ‘Ned Cruise’

Can't Stump the Drumpf: An Erotic Tale
By Sam Shiver

Drumpf smiled to himself, his orange skin shifting like wet plasticine. Oh, how the liberal media had laughed when he announced his candidacy, but he had crushed them, just like how he had crushed all those losers that had tried to run against him.

A vision of Gob Birch's teary face, his soul crushed, crying into his cardigan like the mama's boy he was, his weak and pale body beaten and bruised, floated before Drumpf's eyes. A low energy loser, no vitality - not like him. Drumpf was a winner. He finished his wine with a swig, a buxom young stewardess refilling his glass. Drumpf turned his attention back to his notes. He now only had one big obstacle in his path to total victory: Ned Cruise. 

Drumpf felt a surge of anger in his chest. Who did this little pissbaby think he was? The senator from Texas had stood in his way, stealing states that should be his, acting all holier than thou with his Bible-thumping bullshit. The thought of Cruise's melty face sent a shift of rage down Drumpf's legs. It wasn't enough for him to win, he had to make sure his enemies lost. He was going to make a deal with Cruise, one that he couldn't refuse…

The one where Donald is a sex hotel owner

Trump Temptation: The Billionaire & The Bellboy
by Elijah Daniel

"Y-yes sir?" I said nervously. "I need you to bring these bags up to my room." Donald said sternly, like a grandfather upset that a news broadcast interrupted Jeopardy. His voice wrapped around my body like queso around a smothered burrito. I was unable to speak. What is this feeling I'm having? I forced myself to speak, but only the word "what" would come out. "I don't have all fucking day, you loser" he said next. "I'm so sorry, sir" I whimpered as I grabbed his bags. "I'll get these up to you immediately."

He shook his head and trotted off towards the elevator. As he got further and further, my eyes continued to be glued to his rear end. His gorgeous ass flapped behind him like a mouthwatering stack of pancakes in his pants. My hunger for pancakes had never been stronger.

And that's when it happened. He looked back. He caught me staring at his donk. He could have me immediately had me fired for this, but he didn't. Instead, he smiled and continued to hop on the elevator. What is happening? Am I losing my mind? I didn't come here to find love, but did love find me? No. It couldn't be. I ran to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. "This is insane, I must crazy" I said to myself in the mirror as the cold water dripped down my face and uniform. I stood there for minutes, just looking into my reflection.

I gathered myself, dried off and went to the front desk. "I need to take a break" I demanded from Helen, the hotel manager. "That's fine, be back in 15" she growled to me. I hope 15 minutes is enough time for me to figure out what the fuck is going on. I was almost out the door before the phone rang. Helen stopped me "wait," she yelled to me as she hung up the phone. "Take those bags up to Mr. Trump's room before you go on break. He needs them now, and he asked specifically that you bring them." He did what? He asked for me specifically to bring them? Why me?

The one where Donald bangs Putin

Best Friends
By Metatron

The elevator doors slid open at the top floor and Donald stepped out into the darkened penthouse that looked out upon the Manhattan streets. He was about to clap to turn on the lights (of course he had a Clapper installed, it was only the best for the Donald) when from the darkness he heard a clap and the room filled with light.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Donald,” Vladimir Putin said, standing up from where he had been sat on one of Trump’s gilded chairs.

“Vlad? What are you doing here?” Donald said in shock. “How were you able to leave Russia and get here without anyone noticing?”

Vlad threw his head back in laughter.

“I was in the KGB once, remember? I can go unseen if I wish, lyubov moya.”

He pulled Donald into a passionate kiss, leaning up to account for their difference in height. Vlad playfully darted his tongue into Donald’s mouth and back out again, eliciting a small noise from Trump. Donald reached around Vlad, pulling their bodies closer together. Putin tangled his fingers through Donald’s toupee and then threw it aside.

“Hey,” Donald threatened. “Do you know how long that takes to put on? Like, a huge amount of time!”

Putin chuckled and then hefted himself up to drag his tongue across Trump’s now very obvious bald spot.

“I like this better,” Putin whispered.

Already Donald could feel himself hardening inside his pants.

“Vlad,” he mumbled, feeling a flash of self-hatred for how this man could turn him into a blushing virgin. He was supposed to be more dominating than this.

Putin hummed and dragged his teeth across Donald’s earlobe.

“Shall we take this to the bedroom, lyubov moya?”

Donald’s heart jumped and he hefted Putin up against him.

“Jesus Christ, yes.”

The one with the poetry (and the throbbing dick)

Cheetos Taste Like Styrofoam When You Eat Them Alone
By The Afterglow

He kissed her.

Wrong.

It was so sad.

He knew he had the biggest love for women. But was still sad. Why?

She wouldn't touch his throbbing dick.

She was probably one of those women who would tell the lying media later because she wanted fame. 

Wrong.

He had made so many friends, but yet, he was sad. So many friends in places like... Chicago, and Detroit. And the inner cities.

But no one wanted to touch his sad, throbbing dick.