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Donald Trump stood on the balcony at the White House on the Fourth of July. Only Ivanka, his daughter, was at his side.

The First Lady was locked in her room. She fears that her husband's touch could cause her death, either from AIDS or COVID. Or maybe both at the same time. Whenever he comes near her, she demands that he maintain his six feet of social distancing. She also demands that he wear both a mask and a condom even though she has no intention of kissing him or fucking him.

He has been a fuck-em-and-forget-em-guy all his life. He remembers the good ol' days when billionaire child molester Jeffrey Epstein was his buddy and he could count on his friend for fun and young girls. Melania isn't much more than a financial burden. He is resentful that she intimidated him into negotiating a new prenup when he won the presidency. If he didn't cut her a better deal, she was going to remain in her plush New York City residence and leave him to recruit his lovely niece Mary to fulfill the First Lady duties. Melania smiled at Donald, reminding him that his cousin Mary might need material for a second critical book.

After so many bankruptcies, Trump knew when to fold. Knowing he could grab women by their private parts, he could not escape the reality that his wife had grabbed him by the balls and was squeezing them. Reduced to a masochistic macho as president by his wife's rejection and her refusal to share the same bed, he felt a pleasure in the pain. It had been years since she had held his genitals in those soft hands, those soft and pliant hands that had delighted some of Europe's most handsome and richest men.

He had to maintain her good will. Though dozens of unflattering books had been written about him and the $150,000 he had paid porn star Stormy Daniels had been an expensive fuck, he recognized that figure couldn't compare to the eight figures publishers would offer Melania to write a book that would outsell the Bible. He could hear her dictating the title now: "He wasn't a man! He was a monster!"

He did have a regret that superseded his fear of Melania. Why did Ivanka have to be his daughter? While screwing Tiffany might bring back memories of his second wife Marla Maples, nothing could compare to sucking Ivanka's surgically sculpted tits, jamming three, maybe four fingers, in her pussy shaved smoother than a silk sheet, and then fucking the holy shit out of her. There was no way her prim and proper husband was doing justice by her.

For a person who once could have anybody, he had nobody. After Clinton ruined everything for his successors with Monica Lewinsky, Trump had no options. He was left with his crude imagination in which he was abandoning Washington D.C. in flames and fleeing to Lee's house across the Potomac River with Ivanka and Tiffany in tow. The Confederacy would rise again!

But Donald Trump triumphs in the end he told himself. He didn't hear fireworks bursting around him. Instead, he was hearing an endless 21-gun salute to the thousands of Americans he had condemned to death. Ivanka and Tiffany, and even Melania, might be escaping his grasp, but there were thousands upon thousands of dead Americans he had fucked. And he had fucked them good.

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