Mahmoud’s tongue was slipping, lizard-like, in and out of Lauren’s deep, bald vagina when she began to taunt him. Before this point, the encounter had been oddly conventional; oddly conventional, that is, for such a politically bizarre coupling as this. Mahmoud, a Somali Muslim refugee. Lauren, a Trump-supporting Norwegian-American from Minneapolis. She had had too much to drink that evening, you see, and had fallen into his arms outside the Falcon Bar in Saint Paul, whereupon she had begged him drunkenly for sex. He was all too happy to oblige her.
But here, back at Lauren’s college dorm, the taunting started, making the situation considerably stranger, and for Mahmoud, whose English was imperfect, confusing.
“Do you have any idea what this pussy is worth?” Lauren said breathlessly.
Mahmoud looked up at her and frowned. “What?”
“Did I say you could stop?!!!” she raged, prompting Mahmoud to return, frightened, to the business at hand.
Lauren repeated her rhetorical question and went on, “My pussy is at the very top of the pile, boy. You’re at the fucking bottom. I hope you understand how lucky you are right now. My pussy is protected by the strongest military in the world. We could destroy your whole culturrrrrr. We’re numberrrr fucking wa-eene.”
Sour European cum began to issue in thick rivers from Lauren’s body, flowing onto Mahmoud’s tongue and slipping down his throat.
“I’m a puyerrrrr American,” she continued, her eyes tightly shut. “I could send lynch mobs to your house. That pussy you’re tasting is white power, boy. I’m worth a billion of you.”
She grasped a scrunch of Mahmoud’s hair and pulled it at.
“What is this crap?” she laughed. “Feels like rope. You’re tasting a superpower, boy. I don’t think you realise…”
Lauren’s cum flowed thicker and thicker and thicker. Mahmoud coughed, unused to the bitter taste of a woman’s issue.
“Don’t cough!” she said, offended. “That’s America you’re drinking, boy. You should be fucking honoured! One day you’ll realise how lucky you’ve been. When America is great again.”
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