Donald Trump Grows a Bigger Winkie

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic


Everything Trump does tells me he wants to be bigger than Obama.

Submitted: February 23, 2018

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Submitted: February 23, 2018

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Donald Trump Grows a Bigger Winkie

 

Donald Trump nervously paced the Oval Office waiting for Wayne LaPierre. Their meeting was set for 10:00 PM sharp. Although Trump was on quite good terms with the NRA Executive Vice President, he was uncomfortable with the content of the upcoming meeting. The subject matter was personal and somewhat intimate. He rose from his desk and stared out the three large windows behind his chair and went over how he planned to steer the conversation.

Wayne arrived and was announced at 9:49 AM. Wishing to appear busy, and not wanting Wayne to know that most of his time was spent as “Executive Time”, i.e., time devoted to watching TV, golfing or eating Big Macs, Trump pretended to be busy.

“Hello, Wayne”, Trump shouted into the intercom. “I hate to hold you up, but I have some stuff I just gotta finish up here before we meet. Should have it cleared out in five or ten minutes.”

“That's fine”, LaPierre replied. “I'll just sit here in polish my gun.”

“Sounds good”, Trump replied. “See you in a few.”

About ten minutes later Trump buzzed LaPierre into the hallowed Oval Office. Wayne came in slowly, taking in his surroundings. Trump's famous Twitter phone on the coffee table, next to a mirror with a razor blade and small glass tube resting on it. A coffee mug on Trump's desk that looked like a woman's boob. Mr. LaPierre caught the odor of Big Macs, fish and french fries.

Trump rose from his desk and crossed the office to the couches before the office fireplace.

“Let's sit here”, said Donald. “No need to be overly formal.”

In response, Mr. LaPierre sat on one of the couches and Trump sat on the other couch, facing him. Trump leaned forward and touched the tips of his fingers together.

“Mr. LaPierre”, “I need you to keep the conversation strictly confidential. What I'm about to discuss with you is somewhat personal and somewhat embarrassing to me.” Trump let the silence hang in the room for several seconds to let this sink in.

After a few moments, Mr. LaPierre responded, “You want to know if owning a gun can make your dick bigger. Correct?”

Trump was somewhat taken aback, “Well Mr. Lapierre, I have to admit that I've always been curious about such things and …..”.

“It will”, Mr. LaPierre interrupted.

“Bigger than Obama's?”

“Depends on the gun”, LaPierre answered. “But I think I can recommend what you need.”

“But Obama's a black guy. Or at least half black. And you know what they say about ….”.

“Quite”, Mr. LaPierre cut him off.

“So what do I do?” Asked Donald. “Just go buy a gun?”

“You could”, said Mr. LaPierre. “But if you get the wrong gun it can really cause problems.”

“How so?”

“Well, it you're gun's too small and wimpy, like a single shot .22, it could actually cause shrinkage. But if it's too big, I mean before you're ready for it, it could cause growing pains. And those are bad. It's a very sensitive area of your body.”

“So how do I know?” Asked Donald, thoughtfully rubbing his chin.

“I can help you but ….. and this is a little embarrassing ….but to help you, I'll need to see a picture of your, ahem, gun. And hey, I'm not gay or anything. But I need to see it to get the right size for you.”

“I expected as much”, Donald replied, extracting an envelope from his inner coat pocket. “I had the White House physician take one the other day during my physical exam.” Donald held the envelope out to Mr. LaPierre, but as Mr. LaPierre reached for it, Donald jerked it back.

“Promise me you're not going to look at it and spank the monkey”, Donald said, staring intently into Mr. LaPierre's eyes.

“You have my solemn promise on that”, Mr. Lapierre replied, taking the envelope and inserting it into his own inner coat pocket. “Expect a delivery shortly after noon tomorrow. Now, do you know how to take care of a gun?”

“I have some idea, but I would prefer if you go over it with me Mr. Lapierre.”

“Of course. First, keep your gun with you in the evening. Lay it across your lap and stroke it as you read or watch television. Keep a soft rag handy to wipe off the fingerprints as they are acidic and can mar the finish on the gun. Next, you want to sleep with your gun. To keep it company and for self defense. You know, in case you are attacked during the night. And remember, most guns like to sleep on the inside, next to the wall.”

After several more gun care points the meeting ended. Trump spent the rest of the day watching Fox News and eating Big Macs. The following day, a long, narrow box arrived. Trump eagerly opened it and found a Red Ryder lever action BB gun inside. Inside was a note from Mr. LaPierre: “Best to start here. We'll graduate you to a single shot .22 in a couple of weeks.”

Donald followed Mr. LaPierre's gun care instructions to the letter. In addition, the BB gun sat behind Mr. Trump's desk during the day and he even took it out a few times and tried to shoot sparrows with it. He felt he had done a good job in bonding with the gun.

Trump would do his usual measuring routine and plot the results on a chart he kept in his bedroom. But when he laid a ruler on the chart he saw there was no real change over the past four months. He mistrusted the measurements made more than four months prior as the ruler he had been using during that period had been broken.

But be that as it may, Trump definitely felt more virile with the gun by his side. He went so far as to inquire if Stormy Daniels would come over and piss on his office chair. But her price had risen to the point that Trump balked.

A couple of weeks later, a single shot .22 arrived, After a few days with this gun. Trump was both startled and delighted to see his measurement records trending upward. Not a lot, but the change was unmistakably there.

The same thing happened when he received his Ruger 10/22 Semi-automatic. And then his .38 revolver. And there was a big jump when his SKS arrived.

Truly a big jump with the SKS. There was a big jump in size, but his willie now appeared to be much darker. Kind of a dusky color.

The big day finally arrived when received his first AR-15. Just a bare bones model for now. A rifle not yet equipped with a night vision scope, tactical flashlight, suppressor, high capacity magazine or any of the other goodies to come, but an AR-15 just the same.

With the AR-15 the jump in size was visible to the naked eye. There were even some growing pains, which Trump suffered gladly. Trump now had to be careful selecting his slacks for the day as now some of the slim fit cuts were down right uncomfortable. Trump did notice, however, that his willie was now completely black and that the rest of his skin tone was becoming more dusky. He attributed this to hormone changes brought on by the rapid growth of Mr. Poindexter, his male member.

His laser sight and night vision scope arrived and he installed these accessories. But after they were in place for a week or so, his orange hair began to darken and curl. Although his willie was now something to behold. With the high capacity magazine and suppressor, His hair became literally frizzy, his member huge, his skin even more dusky and his lips began to fill out. He decided it was nigh time to see the white house doctor about this.

“There is definitely something odd here”, said the doctor, after a cursory exam. “We need to do some blood work. You're not afraid of needles are you?”

“How big are the needles”, Trump asked with apprehension in his voice.

“We'll use tiny ones”, the doctor replied. “Smaller than the bone spur in your heel.”

Trump visibly relaxed.

“Come back in a week and we should have the results”, said the doctor in closing.

That afternoon, Trump had a strategy meeting with Steve Bannon, David Duke and the editorial staff at Breitbart. He was surprised that the members of the group were reluctant to shake his hand or sit close to him. And midway through the meeting, one of the attendees asked him to go out and get coffee for the group.

Trump saw a similar reaction when meeting with American White Nationalists later in the week. They just seemed a little put off by him and Trump couldn't explain why.

A bipod for the AR-15 arrived the next day and Trump literally felt his member jump in size. His voice began to deepen and he could now sing a very soulful version of, “Swing Low, Sweet Chariots”.

Midweek Trump returned to the clinic for the report on the tests. The doctor entered with a folder full of reports. Seating himself opposite Trump, he began.

“It's exactly as I suspected”, said the doctor.

“What?” Asked Trump.

“You're turning into a black guy.”

Trump was shocked. “No wonder David Duke wouldn't sit next to me. But, how? Why?”

“Have you been using those penis enhancement pills that Rush Limbaugh sells?”

“No, I use big, dangerous guns for that”, Trump explained.

“How far along are you?” The doctor asked.

“An AR-15 with almost all the accessories”, Trump responded, with pride in his voice.

“That's it then”, the doctor replied, “You exceeded normal white guy size, especially the size for a wimp like yourself, and your body is tying adapt to the new, larger size. Ah, do you have a name for it?”

“Mr. Poindexter”, Trump replied. “But can you do anything about this? My core base are a bunch of racists and Nazis. I can't be a black guy.”

“Well, it's no problem, you just need to take Mr. Poindexter down a few notches and everything should be fine.”

Trump was crushed. He'd never been so delighted with anything as he had been with his new, ahem, size. But he knew his political career depended upon being accepted by the White Nationalists. So he reluctantly traded his gleaming, new, accessorized AR-15 for a bolt action deer rifle. One with no scope and just open iron sights. Within a couple of weeks Mr. Poindexter shrank several sizes and Trump again turned orange. Shortly thereafter he had a very productive meeting with several representatives of the Klan.

 

 


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