Trudeau x Trump: Engulfed in a World of Orange

Chapter 7

When he awoke, Mr. Trump was in some sort of sexual contraption that had his arms and legs tied to the wall -- it was literally bondage of some sort; 50 Shades nearly in nature. Covered in a black latex suit and his mouth gagged with an apple, he had no memory of what had just happened, nor did he have any idea what was going to happen. His mumbled cries were overshadowed by the sounds of police sirens outside -- the American delegate's bodyguards hadn't left yet, and they weren't going to leave until they knew that whatever was going on in that room on the upper floor was terminated to the satisfaction of emperor Trump's high standards. All the while that was going on, Trudeau -- sporting his usual sports coat and dress shirt with a nice tie -- paced around the room, though by no means in a nervous fashion. The young Canadian knew exactly what he was doing and how he was going to do it, leaving no caveats in his plan -- it was all perfect and to his standard.

Reaching into the room's walk-in closet, Trudeau took quite a while to grab his apparati for the quest that he was already embarked on -- this was just purely to "enhance" his experience while on this voyage of amazingly fucked-up proportions. Even Trudeau knew that it was incredibly fucked up and convoluted, but he honestly couldn't give less of a fuck. But despite this, he was still reasonably confident that his plan could go forward with relative ease.

As the Donald tried to sputter a few words, Trudeau reappeared from out of the vast reaches of the closet. Holding a flail in one hand and a phallic device commonly used for reaching into the rectum of a male, Trudeau was starting to have second thoughts. Was this the right thing to do? Would his father want him to do this? Was this what he wanted to be remembered for?

The world had stopped. Trudeau gave Trump a long and deep stare into his eyes, and questioned everything that he had done in his life prior to that point.