Chapter Text
As Elon Musk settled comfortably in his chair, his eyes roamed over Donald Trump, who was seated across from him. The live stream camera zoomed in on their faces, capturing every expression and nuance, while the microphones picked up every word they spoke. This was an exclusive interview with one of the most controversial figures in recent American history, conducted by a billionaire CEO whose own antics had made headlines worldwide.
Musk leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, creating an intimate space between them. “Thank you for taking the time to join me today, Donald,” he said, his voice low and inviting. He flashed a warm smile, which was met with a smirk from Trump. “I know you’re a very busy man, what with all the lawsuits and criminal investigations to juggle.”
Trump waved a dismissive hand. “Fake news, all of it. You know, a lot of people are saying, this is the greatest witch hunt in the history of witch hunts, maybe ever. No president has been treated so unfairly, except maybe Abraham Lincoln, but even he didn’t have to deal with the likes of Sleepy Joe and Crazy Nancy.”
“Speaking of crazy, let’s talk about your future plans.”
Trump leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “We’ll win bigly, because the American people are hungry for real leadership after the disaster of the Biden years...”
Elon nodded sagely, stroking his chin, as he tried to distract himself from his own... hunger.
As Trump continued to drone on, his hands slicing through the air like tiny, orange-hued windmills, Musk found himself mesmerized by their hypnotic motion, and his gaze drifted southward, drawn to the large bulge pressing against Trump’s trousers. It was painfully obvious what was causing it, and Musk couldn’t help but salivate at the thought of unleashing that cock from its confines.
As the interview progressed, Musk’s desire for Trump grew more insatiable. He started to subtly tease him, brushing his leg against Trump’s thigh or casually resting a hand too close to where he knew Trump wanted it most. Each time, Trump would shift uncomfortably in his seat, but never once did he vocalize his discomfort. Instead, he seemed to relish the attention.
Finally, Musk couldn’t take it any longer. Without warning, he leaned forward and planted a wet, sloppy kiss on Trump’s pouty lips. The camera caught the surprise and shock on Trump’s face as he instinctively opened his mouth to allow Musk’s tongue to probe deep into his throat.
Musk took advantage of the moment, using his free hand to undo Trump’s trousers and free his cock from its confinement. It sprung forth, thick and veiny, covered in a thin layer of precome that glistened in the dim light. Musk licked his lips hungrily, unable to wait any longer.
He wrapped his warm, wet mouth around the head of Trump’s cock, sucking and slobbering greedily as his hand began to pump rhythmically up and down the shaft. Trump moaned deeply, his hands gripping the arms of the chair tightly as he leaned back, surrendering himself completely to Musk’s expert ministrations.
As Musk sucked and fondled Trump’s cock, he continued to ask him questions about policy and foreign relations, but Trump’s attention remained fixated on the recent assassination attempt, his hand periodically drifting up to his ear as if to reassure himself that it was still attached. The topic of asylum-seekers also loomed large in Trump’s mind, though his understanding of the term seemed to be rooted more in the realm of Gothic horror than international law.
His words were muffled by the thickness of Trump’s cock in his mouth, but the microphones picked up enough to make out what he was saying. Meanwhile, Trump’s moans and groans grew louder and more desperate as Musk worked him into a frenzy.
Musk knew they couldn’t continue like this for long, so he pulled back momentarily to meet Trump’s eyes. “I want you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I need your cock in my mouth and your cum all over my face.” Without waiting for an answer, Musk dove back in, hungry for more of Trump’s delicious man-flavored nectar.
Trump’s hands gripped the back of Musk’s head, holding him in place as he unleashed a torrent of thick, creamy cum into his waiting mouth. Musk sucked and swallowed eagerly, savoring every drop as it filled his belly. When Trump finally grew spent, he pulled back with a satisfied sigh, his own cock still rock-hard and pulsing with need.
Trump’s eyes were glazed over, his breathing ragged as he looked down at Musk, who was covered in his cum. “Elon,” he panted, his voice hoarse from the pleasure. “If you want to suck my cock like that every day, you can be my vice president.”
Musk chuckled softly, wiping a strand of Trump’s cum off his chin with his index finger and popping it into his mouth. “I think we both know I’m a little too eccentric for the White House,” he replied playfully. “But maybe we can work out something more... exclusive.”
Trump grinned widely, understanding exactly what Musk was implying. “I’ll keep that in mind, Elon,” he purred, his voice low and seductive. “Alright, let’s finish this. I’ve got a chess match with Bibi. I’m the pawn.”
Musk cocked his head. “Wait—Bibi? Who’s Bibi?”
"You don’t know Bibi? Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. We’re close. He lets me win sometimes. I mean, not at geopolitics, but at chess.”
Musk’s brow furrowed. “You play chess with the Prime Minister of Israel?”
“Every Thursday. We have snacks. Last week he brought babka. Very dry, but strong cultural flavor. Tremendous texture... if you like chewing drywall.”
Musk blinked.
And with that, the interview came to an end. Musk stood up from his chair, wiping the remaining cum off his face with a napkin as Trump buttoned up his trousers and straightened his tie. They shook hands firmly, exchanging knowing looks as they both knew their secret would remain just that: a dirty little secret shared between them alone.
As they walked off stage together, hand in hand, the camera followed them, capturing every step of their newfound alliance for the world to see. But what the cameras didn’t show was the slick trail of cum-smeared footprints they left behind, a reminder that even blowhards have their steamy slip-ups.