Russian Ice Pack
Posted: Fri May 31, 2019 10:51 am
It was a long arduous road to the Whitehouse, but Pete finally made it. His rock, his husband, stood by him all the way. He remembered their first fuck in the oval office, getting bent over that ancient wooden desk and teased and played with then finally given to like a rutting ram. "You might be president, but here, I'm daddy, and you don't cum until I tell you you little bitch" Chasten growled in his ear.
But now it had fallen to rubber stamping and flying around trying to secure the next election. Twinks he could only dream of having seemingly surrounded him, and some of them he did have and some of them had him. Recently divorced Secret Service agents, young aides, journalists, coming, cumming, going. But nothing seemed to fill the void.
But then came an international conference, some dog and pony show like all the others. It was the typical millieu, boring faces and boring crowds of bureaucrats and boring server boys, but this one was different in one way: Putin had arrived from Moscow the day earlier and everybody wanted to see the meeting between Pete and Putin, the grand showdown.
Finally after several hours all the preparation and Hollywood antics the moment came to face him. Putin, not imposing in height seemed ten feet tall from across the red carpet underneath their feet as they strode towards each other. Time seemed to slow for Pete. He became faint, his heart fluttered and his mouth dried as this Russian bossman strode towards him undaunting, unwavering, manly. His dominant strut that commanded all around him enraptured Pete to the point of pure arousal. As they neared the power of his eye contact grew stronger as if he had entered the gravity well of a great black butthole in space sucking him in.
The buttplug he put in earlier would surely break into shards if he clenched any harder. In those piercing eyes he saw his father, his father when he would give him love deep in those nights long ago, when Pete was only a child. He knew he must be desired by this man of men, this father of fathers. From his quivering testicles to the nape of his neck he knew that Putin was the man of his dreams, the man he imagined when Chasten held him down and railed him like a slut, the man he imagined in those sticky moments on Airforce one alone, bored, and frustrated.
Then they stood right in front of one another, face to face, and Putin stretched out his hand, and Pete stretched out his, and they met each others shake. Right there, in front of the cameras and the world and God himself, Pete reached utter climax and still grasping Putins cold, firm hand, moaned the deepest moan he had ever mustered, and that had ever been aired on live TV. As Pete crumpled to the ground in front of him Putin remained looking down on him, stoic as ever, but for the hint of a smirk as he stood above the man he had just reduced to a puddle of sweat and cum. He lingered for a second, perhaps proud, perhaps disgusted, then turned and walked away calmly as the Secret Service rushed to the aid of their President, still yoked like a bull through his cum stained pants.
THE END.
But now it had fallen to rubber stamping and flying around trying to secure the next election. Twinks he could only dream of having seemingly surrounded him, and some of them he did have and some of them had him. Recently divorced Secret Service agents, young aides, journalists, coming, cumming, going. But nothing seemed to fill the void.
But then came an international conference, some dog and pony show like all the others. It was the typical millieu, boring faces and boring crowds of bureaucrats and boring server boys, but this one was different in one way: Putin had arrived from Moscow the day earlier and everybody wanted to see the meeting between Pete and Putin, the grand showdown.
Finally after several hours all the preparation and Hollywood antics the moment came to face him. Putin, not imposing in height seemed ten feet tall from across the red carpet underneath their feet as they strode towards each other. Time seemed to slow for Pete. He became faint, his heart fluttered and his mouth dried as this Russian bossman strode towards him undaunting, unwavering, manly. His dominant strut that commanded all around him enraptured Pete to the point of pure arousal. As they neared the power of his eye contact grew stronger as if he had entered the gravity well of a great black butthole in space sucking him in.
The buttplug he put in earlier would surely break into shards if he clenched any harder. In those piercing eyes he saw his father, his father when he would give him love deep in those nights long ago, when Pete was only a child. He knew he must be desired by this man of men, this father of fathers. From his quivering testicles to the nape of his neck he knew that Putin was the man of his dreams, the man he imagined when Chasten held him down and railed him like a slut, the man he imagined in those sticky moments on Airforce one alone, bored, and frustrated.
Then they stood right in front of one another, face to face, and Putin stretched out his hand, and Pete stretched out his, and they met each others shake. Right there, in front of the cameras and the world and God himself, Pete reached utter climax and still grasping Putins cold, firm hand, moaned the deepest moan he had ever mustered, and that had ever been aired on live TV. As Pete crumpled to the ground in front of him Putin remained looking down on him, stoic as ever, but for the hint of a smirk as he stood above the man he had just reduced to a puddle of sweat and cum. He lingered for a second, perhaps proud, perhaps disgusted, then turned and walked away calmly as the Secret Service rushed to the aid of their President, still yoked like a bull through his cum stained pants.
THE END.