Semi-Auto Eroticism

"I've got you on my no-fly list," Dianne slurred, her drink spilling on the floor as she pointed at the erect AR-15.

"You're no good. You're a bad boy." She trailed a finger down the handguard to the ejection port dust cover and then lingered on the shell deflector. She finished her drink and let the empty glass fall to the thick shag carpet of the hotel room.

"You always feel bigger than .223 when I have you inside me," she whispered then licked the ridged nubbin of the magazine release frantically. She ran a thumb over the front iron sight post and groaned.

"You're my weapon of choice. I want you to declare jihad on my pussy." Dianne grabbed up the assault-style military-type autodeath rifle and ran her dry face lips over the cold muzzle brake as she applied exquisite pressure to the rear takedown pin.

"Oh, you like that? You like it in the rear pin? You soldier boys are all the same." She rammed the buttstock buffer tube into her pubic mound and jerked the rifle in a rough up and down, the charging handle battering her pleasure raisin. She suckled the barrel gently and probed every accessory rail mounting hole with a moistened pinkie.

There was a soft knock on her hotel room door that broke her reverie.

"What?" she screamed.

"Ith thyme thoo vo-tib," Nancy said through the door.

"Goddamit! I was almost there!"

“Memories and possibilities are even more hideous than realities.”

“Thank you for meeting with me,” Hillary said. It was loud enough for the staffers and reporters in the hallway to hear before she shut the door.

“No problem, no problem,” he said. Bernie feebly made his way to an overstuffed chair and lowered himself painfully into it. “The campaign trail. Young people hug too strong these days. Back when I was growing up in Brooklyn we were tough but we knew how to hug! The old Brooklyn hug we’d used to say. It was elegant, dammit. And it never hurt.”

Hillary played with the panel near the door. Powerful bolts thunked close inside the door and frame and three loud beeps sounded.

“Shut up, fuckhead,” she told him. “I’ve turned off the recorders and soundproofed the roof.”

“Excellent! I already have an erection. There’s a button between my dangler and my nutsack.”

“We’re not here for that,” she said.

“What? I wasted a charge then. You know they have to reload through my ass? My ASS!”

Hillary slapped him.

“Pay attention. I am speaking. I have spoken!” she screamed.

“So we’re done here?” Bernie started to get up and she pushed him back down.

“What?” he asked. “You said you had spoken. Past tense. Why do I talk like an old vaudeville routine?”

“Shut up, Jew,” Hillary’s goiter rasped.

“Who said that?”

“I did,” the goiter said.

“Hillary? Your neck is talking to me. Hello? Can someone bring me a Fresca?”

“Fuck your Fresca and fuck you,” the goiter said. “You didn’t drop out when you were told and now we have to run an actual campaign.”

“Can I touch it?” he asked.

“No,” Hillary and the goiter said at the same time.

“What it is?” he asked.

“It’s my only child, Bernie. I made her,” Hillary whispered.

“What about Chelsea?” he asked.

“That ugly thing? She was made from the filth Webb left in me. Left in me, like a floater in a guest bathroom toilet. This is my true child.” She stroked the bulge on the side of her larynx. It purred with contented delight.

“I still have an erection,” he said.

“You will support us, Jew,” the goiter said. Hillary began to unbutton her $12,000 housecoat.

“Whatever you say, uh, ma’am,” he stammered.

Hillary lifted a ponderous breast and Bernie saw a dark patch of skin and hair and wetness. As she pulled her heavily-veined teat high, the dark skin split, revealing lips.

“I grew it for you, Bernie. Black Vaginas Matter.”

Magic Sauce

“There ain’t no subject I can’t spread my magic sauce all over,” Donald said, idly swirling a finger in his anus while reading Twitter on the toilet. He grunted, piggish and low, while the hat watched impassively from his perch on the bathroom faucet.

“Don’t call it that, Donald,” said his hair. “What if you called it that in public?”

“No one cares what I say, they’ll all cheer whatever it is,” he snarled.

“Good observation,” the hat said. “You’re really catching on, Donald.”

“Some bitch called me a bitch on Bitch Twitter and some darkie called me a racist on Black Twitter and some wetback called me a Mexiphobe on Undocumented Twitter and some little twink called me a self-hating self-tanner victim on Fag Twitter. I’m going to destroy them all!” Donald screamed.

“Isn’t all of Twitter just Fag Twitter?” the hat asked philosophically.

The hair laughed despite himself. “Stop it. Some of our country’s finest GOP politicians and their hairpieces have been homosexuals.”

“You would know,” the hat grumbled.

“Like you don’t have an adjustable strap in the back.”

“Would you two shut up? I’m trying to make my magic sauce!”

“Donald…” the hair began.

“Out! I want both of you out!” He snatched the hat off the faucet and lumbered toward the bathroom door.

“Oh, god. He’s touching me with the finger that was in his ass,” the hat moaned.

“Donald, wait. It doesn’t have to go down like this, man,” the hair said.

Donald awkwardly opened the bathroom door with his ass play hand and threw the poopy hat into the hotel room filled with advisors waiting for him. His tiny, startled penis had forgotten they were there.

“Take this too,” he yelled at them, ripping the hairpiece away.

“Not the shit finger!” the hair gasped.

Donald slammed the door and retreated to his porcelain turd dungeon to Twitter forevermore.

Thumb-puppet of hate

“I expect a concession speech tonight, Bernie,” Hillary rasped, her throat as dry as a turtle’s asshole. “I have the Superdelegates, you crusty old fuck. You cannot withstand their power.”

“I’m from the Brooklyn. I am tough. You do not control the Bernie Rev-rev-revolution!” the old man stuttered. The wheeze in his breath sounded like the rustle of beetle wings. She loved listening to him die on the phone.

She stroked its bulging mass and smiled.

“I’m rubbing maple syrup all over my pussies, Bernie. New Hampshire maple syrup,” she said.

“No! You witch!” You’ll feel the Bern for this!”

“Now I’m opening a bottle of Canadian maple syrup.”

“You wouldn’t! You wouldn’t dare!”

“Tariff-free. Bernie. Tariff-free syrup. Hmm. Free trade feels so good on my pornucopia of back-up labias.” Hillary held the phone away as she and the goiter chortled.

“I WILL DESTROY YOU AT THE CONVENTION!” Bernie screamed, but it was tinny and far away on the phone's tiny speaker.

“No you won’t, Bernie,” she said, drawing the phone back. “I’m taking away the millennials. The Tumblristas are mine. All your little college lackeys and dick-drunk bros are mine. I’ll call them sexist if they stay home.”

“It won’t work. They are mine, you dried up old hag. I am the youth movement!” He was so agitated his jowls made a flapping sound as they shook with rage.

“They are going to vote vagina now. AND I HAVE ALL THE VAGINAS!”

She let the goiter laugh into the phone for a long moment before she hung up on his raving and tucked Convenience Phone #17 into her wetly pulsated gunt pouch.