Actions

Work Header

Eat the Rich

Work Text:

Donald didn’t want to go to the farm. He’d heard all about filthy, immigrant-infested places like these from the news. In fact, Fox News’s very own Steve Doocy had given a tremendous speech about the pigs living in rural places like these... there were a lot of actual pigs too. Donald really didn’t like pigs of any variety, human or animal. They were muddy and would probably ruin his leather shoes. But, apparently his PR team had decided that it would be good for Donald to get his tiny hands dirty, or at least appear that way in the photo ops for publicity. It would show his empathy for the American people, and might even help convince them to vote for him in the upcoming election. Donald was starting to feel a little shaky about his so-called guaranteed win after the devastating economic crisis and nationwide rioting of 2020. So, to the farm he went.
After arriving at the farm's living facilities, where a welcome feast had been arranged for the presidential team, Donald was already itching to get back to the comforts of the White House. There was indeed mud on his presidential boots from the pig pen’s surrounding area, and the unbridled country winds had already almost swept his silken toupee from his head. He hoped there would be a large number of McDonald’s hamburgers awaiting him at the dinner- enough for a football team, between 300 and 1,000 at least.
Entering the farmhouse alleviated all of Donald’s worries, however. He was met by the sight of a tall, ginger man with an orange beard and normal-sized hands (oh, how Donald yearned for normal-sized hands). Greg- for this was the man's name- had the body of a stereotypical outdoorsman: a barrel chest barely contained by a flannel shirt rolled up to expose his hairy, throbbing arms, and a huge bulge that was prominent even through his well-worn pair of pants.
“Hello, Mr. President,” rumbled Greg. Donald looked into his eyes and felt a jolt of something electric. A strange and arousing sensation traveled through his clogged arteries and veins into his 1 cm micropenis. With a faint sense of horror, Donald realized that just one look into Greg’s bedroom eyes had left him with a throbbing boner.
“H-hello Greg,” answered Donald antsily. He saw Greg smirk at the tremble in his voice. He was sure this man knew what effect his presence had on him.
Donald and Greg couldn’t keep their eyes off each other throughout the entire meal (that unfortunately was not McDonald’s). It seemed that every time Donny looked up, Greg’s eyes were burning into his from across the wide table. The mere sight of Greg’s quivering man fists was enough to sustain Donald’s boner for the entire night- in fact, by the end of the meal, his Y-fronts were soaked with precum. Donald hadn’t been able to get it up without a triple dose of Viagra since 1995, so this was quite a feat.
By the end of the banquet, Donald knew he couldn’t bear to keep his flabby orange hands off his schlong for any longer. He abruptly left the gathering and went into the cool night, hiding behind some trees a good distance from the farmhouse. There, he quickly ripped down his pants and began emphatically stroking his cock- albeit, just with his index finger and thumb. After all, it was only about half an inch when erect.
Donald’s jerking motions were getting faster, and after only a few seconds he knew he was close to his climax. He never was one to last. The president gritted his lower lip between his teeth and closed his eyes.
“Greg...” he moaned. “Oh, Greeeggg...”
Suddenly, Donald felt two strong hands on his shoulders. With a ladylike gasp, his eyes popped open and he snapped his head around, terrified to see whichever secret service agent had caught him this time. He hoped it wasn’t Kyle again.
But no. Behind Donald was a behemoth of a man, so tall he almost blocked out the light of the moon that shone off his ginger hair. It was none other than Greg.
“You called, Donald?” he said in a low, seductive voice.
“Oh, Greg... that was just... er... fake news?” said Donald worriedly. The early-stage dementia was getting to him again.
Greg chuckled menacingly. “There’s no news here, Donald. Fake or otherwise. Just you and me.”
Donald’s eyes widened, but before he could try and blame the Dems (his next automatic response), his tiny asshole-shaped mouth was full of Greg’s meaty fingers. Donald moaned as the other man’s calloused digits massaged the inside of his mouth, even working their way down his throat. With a wet pop, Greg slipped his fingers out of Donald’s orifice and leaned in to replace them with his tongue. But before he could even reach the thin, dry lips, Donald bent his neck away with an audible cracking noise.
“No kissing, Greg. I’m not a faggot.”
Donald watched in horror as the lust drained from Greg’s blue eyes, leaving them cold and more than a bit sadistic. “Oh, no?” whispered Greg into Donald’s orange tinted ear. Shivers raced down the turned-on president’s spine. “I’ll show you a faggot.”
With that, Greg spun Donald around and bent him over, his tiny hands scrabbling for purchase against the rough bark of a nearby tree. One of Greg’s hands squeezed Donald’s huge, dimpled ass cheek, while the other unzipped his pants to release his monstrous ten inch member.
Donald, still helplessly pinned against the tree, felt Greg’s spit-slickened fingers slide down his ass crack to circle his entrance. With a debauched moan, he felt Greg’s hand slide into his trembling hole and probe his silky anal cavity.
Although Donny wasn’t nearly stretched out enough for Greg’s girthy cock, the giant of a man decided that he couldn’t wait any longer to feel the POTUS’s quivering anal walls tighten around his meat rod. Greg pulled his shit-covered fingers out of the president’s asshole, along with a wet fart. Then, with a lowing noise not unlike those of the cows he cared for, Greg swiftly pushed his one-eyed trouser snake between Donald's dummy thicc ass cheeks.
Greg didn't wait for Donald to adjust to his enormous length. He began pounding against the president's prostate with 3.5 metric tons of raw sexual aggression, the ruined presidential ass cheeks clapping with the rhythm of his thrusts. "Who's the faggot now?" he moaned through his teeth.
"Nnngghh... I am..." whimpered Donald, who was sweating through his task of taking Greg's gargantuan pecker.
After thirty long minutes of bruising the millionaire's prostate, Greg was on the verge of busting a nut. Before he could release, he pulled his whanger out of Donald's now gaping asshole. A stream of rancid shit squirted out as well (Donald was not at all prepared for this, which shouldn't be a surprise after witnessing his response to the global pandemic). Greg quickly pulled Donald around to face him with his ripped farmer's biceps, and ejaculated gallons of sperm-rich cum all over the president's face, which actually didn't look much different from his rear. Donald almost choked on the Niagara Falls of semen, but was able to eventually swallow enough to clear his airways.
Greg smirked down at the sputtering world leader. "I'm not quite done with you yet, Donald," he boomed. "I've finally gotten to fuck you in the ass, like you've been doing to the working class during your entire time in office. Unfortunately for you, this punishment wasn't quite sufficient. You need to suffer for your sins."
Donald pouted. "But... but I didn't even get to cum. You fags are all the same, only concerned about yourselves and your own tremendously un-Christianlike behavior. It's really disgust-"
But Donald never got to finish his sentence. Greg had swooped down and hurriedly locked lips with the president, slipping his moist tongue into the other man's mouth. Their meaty mouth-muscles battled for dominance, until Greg was finally able to suck Donald's into his own mouth. But he didn't stop there. With the powerful rage of millions of pissed off Americans, Greg sucked the president's head into his mouth... then his large, lard-laden torso... followed by his dummy thicc, shit-covered ass cheeks... the chubby legs... and finally, his muddy leather shoes.
Greg, now satisfied, gently rubbed his huge bloated stomach. He could feel a bit of movement coming from his distended guts, but knew that it would soon cease as his stomach acids did their job. In the meantime, Greg leaned against the tree, loving the feeling of being so full and moaning slightly as he felt the president's restricted movements tickle his insides. The farmer was reminded of a saying he'd heard several democrats use while marveling at the upper class's disdain for those not in the 1%. At last, he could say it with truth:
"Eat the rich."