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Presidential Erection

By: James Dann
Published By: James Dann
Copyright: Published by James Dann
5 chapters / 11,465 words
Heat Level:
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$3.99

A penetrating scandal that plunges deep into the government (then takes a deep breath and tries it again). Two presidential leaders take to Moscow as they embark on a hedonistic, orgy-fuelled international summit. Under the alluring eyes of Madam Alyona, the most beautiful and sensual escorts from across Russia gather in the Grand Suite to be trained, punished and pushed to their mental and physical limits to appease their guests. Eager, naked and warmed by roaring fire that burns behind them - what will these girls have to do in order to please their masters? 

This satirical-erotic novel follows the adventures of two world leaders as they come together for a weekend of sex, scandals and salted pickles. As well as physical, this book also offers release in the form of comedy, giving you a hilarious as well as extremely fetishised, hedonistic and sexual read. A unique, trend-setting hybrid - this book truly fuses satirical comedy with high class erotic literature. 

A must read for anyone with a spare minute / hand.

The alluringly soft, innocent, white-shimmering clouds began to nervously part, inviting the mighty thrust of the solid jet between them. The moisture from them hung loosely in the air, like vapour from an E-cigarette after an obnoxiously large puff. The heaving white dripping candy floss members pleaded mercilessly for the plane to slide through and put them out of their gaping misery - to end this forced chaos that shamelessly gripped the sky. The heavens opened, moaning a ray of eternal, unforgiving light that beamed down on the city of Moscow - transforming the hard-faced jungle into a glistening metropolis, beams of glorious gold bouncing off the fountains and cutting through the city, blinding drivers and alerting lovers to the beauty of their chaotic land.

 

The jet began to descend, ploughing into a vacuum of turbulence as it began to edge itself towards the landing strip. The long, silver beast bounced helplessly in the sky, shuddering and rocking, collecting moisture on its tip and spraying it back into the sky. Inside the vessel, people were desperately grabbing for oxygen masks, foolishly tending to their children first before putting on their own masks, ignoring the well laminated signs in front of them. An air steward looked at the chaos, with the hindsight ignorance of sending those last minute texts whilst the safety instructions were read out.

 

“Why bother,” she muttered, coldly, as she smiled, unfastened her seatbelt and prepared herself for what she hoped this time would be a certain death.

 

A figure at the back of the plane, bold in stature and orange in face, began to panic and remove other passengers’ oxygen masks - taking as much air as he could in the hope of pumping himself so full that he would simply float to the ground. All the control tower could do was offer crackly panicked words of advice, gasping breathlessly for words of encouragement as they saw the silver Eagle plunge through the sky, the force of it so heavy that it took two well trained men to hold it up and stop Lady Gravity from committing her most deadly of sins.

 

No wall could slow them down, no travel bans could dent the murderous mentality that possessed this 500 ton tin can, hurdling directly towards the Earth. The sensual Slovakian whimpered, grabbing hold of her husband’s arm and pleading him to save her from this awful fate. The vessel jerked and rocked, bouncing violently through the sky as the first lady knelt down in front of her husband and opened her mouth, her moist trembling lips trying to steady herself before the final plunge into darkness. Her knees grazed from the rough, peanut-covered floor, began to part as she placed her tumbling hands on her husband knees.

 

“Please” she begged, embracing his eyes.

 

“Please, save me, Mr President.”

 

CHAPTER 1

 

The reception in Moscow was a mixed bag of stern faces and cold, morbid smiles. It was hard to believe this is what sheer delight looked like in the former USSR country.  As soon as the plane door swung open, a frenzy of government approved Journalists swarmed the runway. President Derek Trunk pressed his lips and gave a wave, as he and first lady Monica were ushered briskly into the presidential limo. Mr Trunk spotted the limo driver's license that was framed on the back of the headrest.

 

“Dmitri… Sokolov” He sneered.

 

“God damn foreigners.”

 

He grumbled an inaudible slur about the Chinese industrial revolution as he stared intensely at his wife’s chest. Monica smiled back at him in loyal encouragement. He patted her patronisingly on the leg and slid the window down to peer outside into his 2nd favourite nation. (Israel was too hot this time of year, and thus was classed a “national threat” due to his militant caucasian heritage and burnable orange completion. As he was down to his last layer of skin, Mr Trunk had been strongly advised to stay away from any countries where hummus was a local dish).

 

Monica sat with one leg elegantly folded over the other as she prudently peered out of the window at the forest of grey columns that whizzed by the car. All eyes of the world were on her now, and she’d never felt more alive. She had the well toned athletic body of a 1st lady in command; legs long enough to kick North Korea back into the dark ages and breasts soft enough to melt a Mexicans heart and bounce them right back over the border. She loved her president. The way he acted, the way he talked - the way he seemed to interrupt every senten-

 

“You know, if these Ruski sons-of-bitches took a break from pickling everything in sight they could make this city into a billion dollar franchise” said Trunk, staring at Monica as if she was stupid not to have thought of it herself.

 

“You’re right, people need to be much more proactive, but how can you make them understand?” said Monica , her eyes fixed on the droplets hitting the window.

 

“This town is nothing more than a gimmick! It’s a cheap gimmick that everyone has bought into. I mean you may as well rename Moscow to “Big Boris’s Cabbage and Vodka Land” it looks like a meteor struck and no-one bothered to clean up the debris, instead they opened a god damn tobacco kiosk on top of the ruins, and whatever they couldn’t sell, they put in a stew for the whole god damn family!”

 

Monica nodded in agreement, not knowing what her husband had said, but knowing he was right.

 

“If I bought the rights to this hell hole then we could franchise Moscows all across the world - folks looking for a bit of rough urban adventure could get it right at their own doorstep!”

 

“That’s a wonderful idea, but how co-”

 

“There could be a Moscow in Santa Cruz, Atlanta… we could even open up a Moscow in Afghanistan, give those A-rabs something else to do other than sit around eating sand and trying to work out how to train suicide camels.”

 

“We could even open up a Moscow in St Petersburg!” said Monica with genuine enthusiasm.

 

“Yeah, I’ll stick to the business baby, you just sit there and look pretty,” Trunk said, smiling at her the way you would smile at a child when they’ve done a good painting that you promised to put on the fridge.

 

As the long black limo ploughed through wide Moscow highway, Trunk began to look his wife slowly up and down. Each inch of her toned, bronzed body bought with it a thousand thoughts of how he could control it, master it and make it his toy. He reached into his pocket and took out a label-less medicine bottle. Her eyes gazed over the bottle as she bit her lip, feeling a small tremble going down her body from the bottom of her neck to the base of her spine. She shivered and looked her president in the eye as he started to unscrew the bottle, their gazes locked intensely like a burning rod of fire, branding one another with their loyalty and devotion to each others’ bodies.

 

Trunk unscrewed the lid, threw his head back and swallowed a little blue pill.

 

“This erection is rigged,” he said, with a flirtatious smile.

 

Trunk didn’t need the enhancers, but when he took them, it drove him more wild than a taunted caged animal having a steak thrown slightly out of its reach. Monica unbuckled her seatbelt and pushed herself up against the luxurious leather of the limousine. Normally a reserved, quiet type, Monica truly came into her own during the physical act of love. Her scattered thoughts collected and focused on one aim - to please her husband. With the world wanting him to go, her only wish was for him to cum.

 

He unbuckled his belt and looked lazily around the limo, making sure all of the dividers were closed so that the driver wouldn’t see his wife’s writhing delight. Crouching towards her seat, he slowly pushed his weight on top of her, grabbing her hair and pulling it towards her back. She let out a whimpering moan as he started to bite her neck from her ear to her shoulder, allowing each  sensation to send a signal of pleasure pulsating around her body. Despite his stagnant views on immigration, she knew there was about to be a foreign invasion through some very choppy waters.

 

He unbuttoned her shirt as carefully as pushing out the last Jenga block, making sure to not allow her appearance to be anything but perfect when he met with the Russians. She kissed him passionately and grabbed hold of his shoulders, dragging his blazer down his body and giving him permission to take her with full force. With the last button sliding out of its cotton loop prison, he threw her top open like a magician and stared down at her heaving, goose-bumped breasts. Each breath she took aligned with his own as they synchronised their heart beats and committed to each others’ pleasure.

 

Monica  took her hands and ran them up Trunk’s legs towards his golden Hannah Clinton belt buckle, which he wore during the campaigns in order to emphasise that no matter how untouchable Hannah thought she was, she was always one slight move away from being totally fucked. Slowly unfastening his belt she revealed his swollen member beating inside its cotton fortress and yearning to be let out. Trunk grabbed her by the pussy, his favourite of flirtation methods, and started to knead his thumb around the top of her vulva. She moaned out in pleasure as she wriggled around his hand, closing her legs and biting the headrest in order to stop her screams being heard through the windows that separated them from the outside world.

 

“I think it’s about time I got myself into the oval office” Trunk said, circling her vagina with his thumb.

 

“Please, don’t pledge your allegiance inside of me. It will drip down my legs all day…” she whimpered, eyes closed.

 

His breath became deeper and he started to pant. Taking off her tights with one hand and rolling them slowly down each leg. At her feet he gave a small tug to set them free, leaving Monica in her dress and shoes, dripping quietly onto the leather beneath her. Struggling to get out his words, he began to run his fingers up her legs towards her entrance.

 

“Honey, I own this car. I own this driver. I own the god-damn $400 bottle of untouched champagne. that’s in your door. And guess what, now, I own you”

 

With that he slipped his finger into her sodden tight, pink hole.

 

“And when I own something, I do what I damn well please with it. I’ve built an empire, and I’ll plant my seed wherever I want,” he said, breathing deeply into her ear.

 

The rush of his fat, wide digit made her recoil into her chair and moan out even louder. The finger that, at one touch of a button, could start a nuclear holocaust. That finger that, if pointed at someone, could have them fired from their job and left penniless on the streets. That finger that, with the right dexterity and maundering, could cause a frigid Latvian girl turned-first lady into a hysterical fit of moans and mumbling that not even an exorcist could understand.

 

She reached inside his navy blue boxer shorts and slowly pulled out his throbbing member. Rubbing the head of it between her thumb and forefinger, she, for a short amount of time, was his only fixation in the world. Trunk grabbed her by the waist and flipped her over like a Texan steak at a BBQ, revealing her soft flesh, grazed with the red lines of the sticky back seat leather. With one hand he slid her skirt all the way up her back, and with the other parted her legs allowing an entrance to form which beckoned and guided him in like the distant glow of a runway.

 

Upfront, as the car rocked side to side like a seesaw in a storm, a disgruntled and baffled Miklavich fiddled with dials on his dashboard and peered out of his window at the front two tyres, thinking that his suspension had broken. “Blyat,” he sighed to himself. Looks like another trip to the mechanic. 

 

Trunk pounded his solid orange carrot into Monica  with the entire force of the USA behind him. Her ass was huge and round, like a tear drop splashing into the milk white ocean of his broad legs. He moaned holding onto her collar as she panted and bit deeper into the headrest, allowing herself to be fully lost in the intense moment. She knew that if these windows weren’t tinted, the entire world would be able to see her eyes rolling back into her skull and her exposed breasts bouncing off the top of the seat. This excited her tremendously, as she felt so vulnerable, being one tinted pane of glass away from being fully exposed to the judging gaze of the world.

 

Spreading her buttocks she allowed him to see herself slapping against his thighs and moaning into him as each stride hit deep inside her, making her drip onto the floor and her juices get absorbed into the carpet.  Days from now, on his hands and knees, a daydreaming young Slovak cleaning the limo would recognise that smell, and sell the 3 inches of sodden carpet on eBay for the hefty sum of 68 Rubles.

 

Fastening his pace, she could feel that he was close to finishing his term inside her oval office. She reached her hands back and held onto his, which were gripped tightly around her waist. She turned her head and saw him panting, staring down at her open ass and beginning to groan louder with each plunge he took into her moist, dripping vulva. She dug her nails into his hand, leaving red marks on him, a souvenir from their hidden journey of passion. As well as, in her mind, something for him to look down on when shaking hands with gorgeous Russian diplomats, to remind him that he belonged to her.

 

He spanked her ass as she began to moan louder than before. She could feel that he was about to unload inside her as she bent down even further, opening herself up as wide as she could for him. His rhythm increased and he grabbed hold of her hard, biting down on the back of her neck and groaning into her ear. Trunk grabbed hold of her swinging tits and began his ceremonial countdown before he exploded inside of her.

 

“Four”

 

“More”

 

“Years!”

 

With that he drowned the inside of her, making her scream out in delight and hold onto the unfastened seatbelt. He pushed her shoulders down with his hands and laid on top of her back, allowing them both to breathe deeply on top of each other. His member naturally slipped out of her, and their juices collected at the bottom of the seat. As she turned around and looked him in the eye, he smiled at her and ran his thumb across her lips.

 

“Get dressed. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

Candy Newton on 03/28/2018 12:24pm
As in every budding political relationship, the best part of Dann%u2019s tale is the sex. In Presidential Erection, we watch with perverse voyeurism as the author%u2019s protagonist embarks upon his European foray. This was my gateway into erotic heaven. Dann%u2019s book ends with an explosive sex scene: Trunk emerges as a new man: the apex of his evolution involving a circle of sex workers, a Russian politician and pleasure. The finale of Dann%u2019s masterpiece is equally as sadistic as it is satisfying. This is triumphant, but not because it is so licentious. Rather, the compelling part of this tale is the intersection of politics and intimacy; the story of a sticky bond between two men.
Amelia Johnson on 03/24/2018 02:19pm
I laughed, cried and definitely came. Thrice. The satire is spot on but the erotica creates a palpable, electric atmosphere that let me forget who the protagonist was and let me submerge myself into a land of blissful waves crashing over me. I haven't felt that same tingle for a few years, thank you Mr Dann!
Zoe on 03/24/2018 03:12am
Kept me up all night.
Carl McCavish on 03/24/2018 03:07am
This book not only had me nursing for hours, but it was also very educational on the election process.

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