Trump

By Kristan X

What kind of person would vote for a man like Donald Trump? A comitted masochist, perhaps... someone who - more than anything else - wants it to hurt. That's the basis for the first story in this weird, unsettling, sometimes-erotic three-piece collection. "Trump" is an anthology of tales about sex, bad presidents, rich men and the things which childish leaders get up to at night.

NB: Each story in this collection takes place in its own parallel universe. While these universes may seem familiar, they are entirely unconnected to our own. Any resemblance between characters in the universes described and persons who exist in the real world is purely coincidental.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kristan X
• Release date: Sep 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463603086

Kristan X

I'm Kristan X - writer, sex nerd and (somewhat twisted) mind behind the professionally-filthy sex blog Lascivity. I'm based in Edinburgh, but travel extensively. I read a lot. I'm obsessed with psychology, sociology, games of all kind, true crime and tech.I am also indescribably perverted.I write dirty stories about things that happened to me. I write fantasy erotica. I write things that verge on being serious literature and I write things that are undeniably farcical. I interview my friends about thier sex lives, and I write guides to everything from anal sex to insertable toy cleaning routines. My bibliography is a messy, strange, wonderful portfolio of filth.

Book preview

Trump

Three Erotic Stories About A Terrible President

By Kristan X

Copyright © 2018 by Kristan X

Published by Lascivity.

www.lascivity.co.uk

[e-mail]

This collection contains graphic descriptions of sexual activity. If that’s not your thing… maybe consider reading something else.

Each story takes place in its own parallel universe. While these universes may seem familiar, they are entirely unconnected to our own. Any resemblance between characters in the universes described and persons who exist in the real world is purely coincidental.

For kinky stories, snippets of filth, sex guides and more of you can check out my blog.

(Although I’m also on FetLife and Tumblr if that’s more your jam.)

Trump

A Masochist Speaks

Entertaining Him

I Could Give You Anything

A Masochist Speaks

The air conditioning is broken in our apartment, and Suzy and I are sitting sprawled on the beanbag chairs, down to our underwear, Suzy flicking idly from channel to channel. That’s when he pops up. I take a breath and hold it, because in that moment it feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. Suzy pauses, then drops the remote.

Ugh, she says. Look at that face.

I laugh vaguely. I’m aware of the droplets of sweat on my back and neck, and the rough fabric of the beanbag chair on the underside of my thighs. I’m aware of the heat beating against my skin. The absolute stillness of the air despite every window in the place being thrown wide open. On screen, he pounds the podium, and the crowd roars, a mass of waving signs and thronging arms. I feel something in my stomach unclench – a trickle of something bright and needful running from my lungs to the pit of my belly.

Sometimes I worry that Suzy will be able to tell. That she’ll be able to detect something in the way I sit or the huskiness of my voice when he’s on screen. Sometimes I think she might just be able to smell the arousal rolling off me in waves. Or perhaps she’s just picked up on how I don’t look away from the screen. Not even for a second. Not when he’s talking.

But, of course, I don’t need to worry. Suzy’s not looking at me. Suzy’s looking at him too, an expression of the utmost distaste written across her features. What a tool, she says. I mean, who honestly believes this shit? Would ya listen to him?

Crazy, I murmur. Idiots don’t know what they’re cheering for. Suzy glances sidelong at me, and I feel a lurch. Was that too much? Did I accidentally dip into sarcasm? But a second later she grins and takes a sip of her lemonade.

World’s a fucking nuthouse, she says. She jabs the remote and the volume rises a notch. His voice is one of my favorite things about him. All that contempt. All that dumb authority. Nothing he says could ever be a request – he was born demanding. It’s the sound of someone who’s never been compassionate. Or contrite. Who doesn’t even know those things. It’s kind of a mean voice, but it’s a voice that knows it can get away with anything it wants.

I wait ten minutes – until the news has moved on to other, smaller matters than the election. Then I get up and grab my glass like I’m just going for a refill. We’ve done nothing all day, me or Suzy, except sit and watch TV. It’s too hot to do anything – even to go outside or seek some shade. It’s the kind of day that seems to stall midway through, to hover like a mirage above the desert.

The heat, of course, doesn’t help. It lies against my skin like a body. Wrings sweat out of my pores. Heat like this makes me think of the moment after coming, when you return to your body and you realize that you’re hot and disheveled and tired and aching and it doesn’t matter one bit, because you’re also lying under a layer of pleasure as thick as a comforter. I set my glass on the counter and then creep across to my room and quietly lock the door behind me. I feel skittish, jittery. I can feel the pulse in my thigh.

The room’s a mess. Always is. I’ve been living with Suzy two months, but I still haven’t fully unpacked. Most of my clothes are still tucked neatly in a suitcase under my bed – and the bed itself is cluttered with papers and books and my faithful old laptop. I clear enough of it to make myself comfortable and then sprawl. Perfect. A sunbeam from the skylight falls across my stomach and breasts, almost unbearably hot. So perfect.

I reach down into the gap behind the headboard for my rabbit, then stop. Suzy’s no prude. That’s one of the great things about her – even if it does mean I have to listen to her wailing whenever she brings home one of her almost-weekly conquests. Normally I wouldn’t care if she heard a faint