“Stormy! Stormy! I’ve got the hots for you, honey! The best hots! I know all the hots!” 

“Oh?” Miss Daniels looked up from her MAGAzine. “Sorry, I didn’t notice. Your tummy kind of hides that cute Mr Tadpole the way your jowls hide your neck. But…” She sighed, and held out her reader for Donald to press his firm proud, square-jawed credit card against it, with casual familiarity.

There was a pause. Stormy had learned not to move a muscle, Trump-ward, until the cash showed up in her account. At last, after a little electronic chirp, she put down her copy of Hustler and turned off Fucks News.   

(Not actually the real DT. More an artist’s impression.)

She put on a white latex glove and lifted the reality TV belly’s dewlap. “I see,” she said, with professional detachment, “these would be the flibbiity floppity hots, Donald?”

“Well, you know I’ve been a very bad property developer. I get harder when I’m punished, Mistress. I love it when you call me names.” 

“Racist. Incompetent. Narcissist. Lazy idiot. Creep. Rapist. Psychopath,” sighed Stormy. “Ok, I think what you want is a good spanking, isn’t it?” 

The future President brightened.

“I banned black tenants from all my apartments today! Was that bad, Mistress?”

Stormy waved her forefinger in circles, the get-on-with-it gesture. “Then I guess you’d best assume the position.” She moved an elegant thigh forward, and reached for her Hustler. 

Donald leaned forward, slowly, and bent, puffing audibly, so that one half of his belly hung over the right-hand side of Miss Daniel’s presented thigh, and the other half bulged over the left. “I’ve been the baddest. Like you would never believe. People come up and tell me, they say they’d never seen badness like mine. Some of them are even crying.” 

Stormy sighed again. She rolled the Hustler into a tight cylinder and secured it with a rubber band. “I bet,” she said. 

She began to spank her client vigorously.

Though she was trying to hit hard, the sound that filled the room was not the usual crisp spanking sound. It was more like a live gerbil striking a pillow full of custard. 

Stormy closed her eyes and thought about money. And long, hot showers.

Note: Marie at Wicked Wednesday invited us to write turn-offs, this week. I believe I’ve lived up to the assignment.