“Damn it, Donald! I was supposed to be the chosen one!”
Little Marco sat across the desk from the man who looked likely to end his political career that evening. Big Trump appeared casual but confident, barrel-chested with strong-looking rounded shoulders that rested easily on the luxuriously appointed leather swivel chair.
"Don't worry about it, Little Marco...it'll all be over soon. I've beat you so many times it's gonna be a relief to you now that you're finished, believe me. Once you endorse we'll figure out how you're gonna serve in my administration, since you can't go back to Florida after I embarrass you in front of everyone there. Maybe you can be my FEMA Administrator...wait, you're too much of a choker for that, aren't you -"
"I'm not a choker! And stop calling me Little Marco!"
How Little Marco hated his debased desire for Big Trump's embrace! He looked down, averting his eyes from the enormous desk carved of rich mahogany, the classy gold pens and sharpies held up in those little holder things littered across that same desk, the various gold encrusted trophies and plaques scattered about the office suite, the golden-hued tapestries hanging from the walls, the tremendously-sized windows that overlooked the glittering Manhattan skyline, and all the other goldish fineries that bedecked the Trump Tower penthouse, serving on this blackest of nights as Little Marco's very own Rubicon.
When Little Marco opened his eyes again, he felt hot tears run down his cheeks. Through the tears, he saw fingers drumming on Big Trump's desk. He knew who they belonged to. Many people said Big Trump's fingers were very short and sausage-like, and even little Marco believed them at first. He felt even more sullen as he thought back to the day he had impugned Big Trump's hands. They didn't seem so small now.
“They don't seem so small now, do they?” Trump was holding up his hands in Little Marco's face. "Come here, Little Marco." Trump beckoned him forward, and then patted his right leg. Their eyes locked with an intensity Little Marco was only beginning to understand. Yes, Donald…claim me…
All he wanted was to rush over onto the bigger man's lap and begin to lap, but he resisted and turned away in anguish. His voice squeaked, “Let's dispel once and for all with this fiction that I'm going to endorse you just because -”
But Trump was on him before he could finish the sentence he had practiced over and over again in the mirror, the sentence that would firmly reject Trump's entreaties for his endorsement, the sentence that was useless now since Trump hadn't even asked, he had taken, like always - and the only thing firmly rejected were Little Marco's clothes, which were firmly rejected off his body and onto the floor. Trump fell upon him like a savage, bent him over the desk and thrust into him with a rigid and corpulent coil of elderly loins, and in the pleasure Little Marco took from Trump's lust, his body became an extension of Trump's tremendous success in the GOP primaries—proof of his worthiness to be the next President of the United States, in Little Marco's eyes, at least.
A river of sweat and spittle dribbled down Little Marco's back and gathered at the base of his spine. Between spanks, yanks, and bleats, flecks of spit flew out the sides of Big Trump's mouth. Each bit of spittle that hit Little Marco on his back, legs, forehead, chin, and ear lobes only hardened his resolve. And by resolve, I mean erection. Little Marco's endorsement was forthcoming momentarily. He would endorse all over the rich mahogany desk, just before Trump made America great again deep inside Little Marco's body cavity.
Little Marco collapsed onto the now-slippery desk in ecstasy. Trump pulled his pants back up and began to stagger around the room raving to himself and anyone within earshot."What a tremendous blow for conservatism! That was a tremendous blow, frankly, for our country! Nobody pounds Little Marco better than me, believe me, and I pounded him for very cheap. We made the best deals. And how you do it, let me tell you, is good management..." Trump continued speaking in this manner without interruption for the next seventy minutes, though eventually he left the office suite and finished his peroration in front of a bank of cameras and slack-jawed supporters.
Curled up in a trembling, clammy ball on the desk, Little Marco thought of all the older men he had shoved out of the way on his way to this ignoble night. Charlie Crist. Jeb Bush. He wondered where they were now, and whether Trump had already ruptured their anuses too. He quivered, and his teeth began to chatter. Then, through slimy, feverish, lips, Little Marco whimpered: "The horror...the horror..."