Overlord Trump looked out the wide, arched window at his empire. Coal factories billowed smoke from the long spires that rose out of their inky depths. He could hear the distant screams of the poor as the rich beat them with gold bats impaled with diamond studded nails.
"You know I'm just the greatest. I'm greater than great. I was born into greatness, and greatness was born into me. I'm so great." The Great Orange One whispered to himself, tapping the fingers of his hand implants against the window pane. The contact left grease smudges tinted tangerine on the clear surface, and he desperately wiped them off with his suit sleeve. A door quietly opened and closed behind the Circle Office (Overlord Trump banned the concept of the oval years ago), and a timid voice sounded in his left ear.
"Mr. President," the voice began. "I have some business that I'd like you to attend to…" The voice trailed off, and Trump knew immediately who had called on him.
"Pence, you're weird. You're weirder than weird. Weirder than those weird circumstances that named me Dictator of Trumerica, but your little altar boy dick feels good in my bumbum hole, so I'll let it slide… Weirdo." Mike's breath was heavy against Donald's neck, his breath hitching and his pants tented against Donald's back.
"Oh Father, please. Take me, Father. For Jesus."
"Christ, man, I'm not your Catholic whore." Trump turned swiftly so that his fur cape swept behind him. Due to the differentiating size between the Gremlin and Mike, Pence had to bend down far in order to be face to face with his lover.
"I'm a gay boy. The queers deserve to burn in hell. But my sweet Lord is it worth it to be loved by you, Mr. President." Trump sighed deeply. Even the Overlord Trump was sick of Pence's obsession with burning the gays.
"Turn around, you undercooked clucker. I don't want to have to look at you when we touch ourselves to each other." Pence did as his master bade, the long, striped suit pants falling in a heap around his ankles. Donald buttered up his willy as much as he could, but Pence's little tight baby boy asshole just wasn't doing it for him. The Great Orange One decided to head to his favorite sexual fantasy. "Oh, Ivanka." Trump felt all 4 centimeters of his manhood harden, becoming like a pin tack of love. He was proud to say that of all the Trumps that had come thus far in life, he was the best endowed. "You know, a long time ago, I said if you weren't my daughter I'd have my way with you, Ivanka. But now, since I'm the god of this new world, you're my daughter and I'm still going to have my way with you, Ivanka." Trump thrust into Pence's tight asshole, both moaning in heated pleasure.
"Oh, Mr. President," Mike gasped, stroking his own hard weewee. Pence recalled what his mother would say to him as he was chained up in the basement, awaiting Father Giuseppe.
"Don't let anyone touch you except for the loving hand of the Lord Jesus Christ and his disciples, do you understand me, boy?!" Mike could still feel the warm hot blood of his boy lover dripping down his face as he stood crucifixed in the church basement, the tight heat of his flayed back, the guilt of being caught a homosexual. "Father Giuseppe will show you the path of God, and he will in his mercy resolve you of your sins. After that we'll be sending you to a special summer camp just for bad little boys to straighten you out." Tears dripped from Mike's hollow eye sockets, his sunken eyes blinking back more.
"Fuck me, Mr. Trump! Fuck me until I'm a woman, then we can finally be together!" Pence came hard into his own hand, perhaps a sixteenth of a teaspoon of hot semen for his Overlord. The most he had ever cum for anyone, even Father Giuseppe.
"Oh, Ivanka! You're so tight and wet, Ivanka! Did your mother teach you this or are you a natural, just like me?" Trump was a blur against Mike's anus, the wet slapping of skin so loud that it could be heard across the Trump House property. Trump came into Mike's eager asshole, unknowingly impregnating an egg that Pence had stolen from one of the now-dead breeders at the farms in the Midwest. Slaves were needed to work in their hometown's Trump Factory, and Trumericans just weren't having enough babies on their own. Trump fell to his knees on the Circle Office floor, his whole body quivering. Mike pulled out a syringe and stuck it into The Great Orange One's neck, enough bull tranquilizer to put the Overlord out for a few hours. Enough time for clingy Pence to snuggle and clean up their affair.
Behind the door, Melania sat crying. All she had asked for was a stable life and a green card. She could have never imagined this, any of this. She sat on the floor, her hushed cries reaching the ears of her son Baron. He tightened his fists around the map of rebel bases that he had planted around the country. Now was the time to strike, he didn't think his mother could take any more of this madness. Neither, in fact, could he. Plans in hand, his people geared up and ready to fight back, Baron was sure that he'd make the Bolshevik Revolution look like a game of hide and seek.