Disclaimer: this is fiction. I took it upon myself to get Melania laid.
January 20, 2017
The hallway was strangely dark and had the same tension as racehorses being loaded into the starting gate: jittery underneath all that statesmen calm.
Her stomach rolled again and a bouquet of emotions bloomed. Rage that the bastard just got out of the car and walked away. Equal parts recoil and gratitude toward the Obamas for gathering her up and guiding her toward the entry. How strange to accept their help knowing they are the enemy!
Michelle slipped right into some easy small talk when a stunning Marine strode up and Michelle said, “Hi Trigger,”
“Good Morning, Mrs. Obama.”
“Future First Lady Melania Trump, meet Captain Colin O’Connor, or as the fellas call him, ‘Trigger’.”
Melania gave him her practiced wince of a smile and offered her gloved hand. Rather than shaking it, he gripped it.
This whole thing was surreal enough, but the openness of his expression, the turquoise of his eyes, how alive he was, how…unlike Donald. The snowpack inside of her thawed as his smile deepened. Kurbin sin! Melania swore inwardly as her fake smile fell right off.
“Good Morning, Mrs. Trump.”
“Good Morning, Captain O’Connor.” The New First Lady listened politely as Michelle explained that Trigger was to be her escort down the steps to witness her husband’s swearing in. In fact, he would accompany her on many of her official appearances.
How was she to interpret Mrs. Obama’s glowing recommendation of the young man? Come to think of it, she seemed so attached; she actually gave him a kiss on the cheek like old friends.
Everyone was moved down the hall by an invisible force when Melania wobbled.
“Are you alright, Ma’am?” his voice was warm with concern.
“I em fine.” The smile returned and she thought, Noooo, Melania. You should not.
Even the voice inside Melania’s head purrs.
“I am just a little nervous,” she cast her eyes down deliberately, deploying one of her own weapons. But I could if I wanted to.
“There is no need to be nervous, Mrs. Trump. I’m going to help you every step of the way. And it’s a high honor to serve you today.”
Melania forgot herself and licked her lips – then it was in the back of her mind for the rest of the ceremony that her lipstick was flawed, but no matter.
He held her gaze with the certainty of a man who would give his life for his country. It was very very sexy, she observed.
“Is very very kind of you. To, how you say, assure me. Thank you.”
“The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Trump.” Oh please don’t remind me.
“Maybe to distract me, you can tell me about you, where you are from, where you serve…” these last phrases she elongated like a little song.
“Well, Ma’am, I’m from South Carolina originally, I’m a Citadel graduate, and I served in Afghanistan –“
The music started up and the crowd made that raspy racket on the Capitol Mall and a signal passed from person to person. She looked at him and the anxiety tightened her face once again and something compelled him to move a few inches closer and say to her: “You look incredible. Ignore all the noise and faces and cameras, and just focus on my voice. Okay?”
She took a big breath and sighed, “thank you. Thank you, young man.”
“Really, Mrs. Trump, the pleasure is all mine.” She took his arm in her gloved hand. He gave her a very gentle squeeze. For a split second, she felt right through the glove and his uniform so that her knuckles pressed his ribs.
They started moving through the hallway. Cameramen scuttled backwards like crabs to follow their progress. They stepped out into the light.
“We’ll stop here for a moment,” his voice was soft and low, and Melania held up her hand and gave the wave.
“Yes, thank you, Colin.”
“Please, Ma’am, my friends call me Trigger.”
She actually allowed herself a little hiccup of laughter.
“How do you get this name?”
The camera reappeared and they both straightened into a more formal pose.
They began the descent on the carpeted stairs and there was a long moment of silence between them where their only point of contact was her hand on his arm, and yet she felt as if she was being carried.
How long, she thought as she watched her perfectly pointy powder blue pumps take her down the steps, has it been since someone touched me.
She could not actually remember.
They reached the bottom of the stairs and he said to her, “This is where I let you go, Mrs. Trump,” and she felt him release her next to Barron, who glared at her for a single second and then ignored her. She simply nodded a thank you and he moved off to attend to the rest of the party.
Something inside her collapsed. Then her husband became President.
He grabbed her by the arm and berated her before the luncheon. She didn’t touch her food, but it smelled amazing. She just stared at her plate and fantasized about wrapping her thighs around Captain Colin’s shaved head. Trigger.
Having a pretty good idea of the chaos that was about to ensue, she fled back to New York as soon as she could. But guess who came with her?
One evening she had given Barron her customary doorway “good night” when she found herself yet again alone. She had her own wing and armed guards stood sentry outside Barron’s rooms.
It had been a particularly horrible day with Donald and so very an expensive bottle of wine was breathing on the marble countertop. The room was so immense that she could stop and look out all the windows one at a time and it would take hours.
Melania was checking Instagram when there was a knock on her door.
“Ma’am, it’s me, Trigger.” She looked down at her Ellen Fisher sweater and panicked.
“Eh, yes, I’m here,” she wanted desperately to open the door, but she also couldn’t let the Melania brand down, he was the last person she wanted to see her like this.
“Uh, Ma’am, I’m escorting you to the airport tomorrow, I just wanted to check in with you, make sure you have everything you need.”
“Oh yes, thank you, ah, can you wait for a moment please?”
“Sure Ma’am, take as long as you need.”
Like a flash, Melania whipped through the penthouse to her closet. Too many choices, too many choices! What do you wear that says please take me, my husband is a brute, I’m dying for a real man…
A burgundy blouse emerged as the right suggestion and she walked through a little puff of perfume before pounding back across the penthouse to open the door. She swung it open to the startling blue of his eyes.
Oh he has his non-military clothes on. How much easier to take this shirt off.
“Everything okay, Mrs. President?”
“Please, call me Melania, Trigger,” she let her accent roll the ‘r’ just a little and opened her arm out, compelling him to step inside. She closed the door.
“So you are off duty right now?”
“That’s right, Ma’am, you’ve got Secret Service outside like usual.”
“So you must have a drink with me, I open this lovely bottle of wine and no one is here to share it with me.”
“Oh, I don’t know, good wine would probably be wasted on me, Melania.”
I melt when he use my name.
“Oh please, I insist, is such good wine, and I am your boss, yes?”
He gave her a bashful smile and relented, “Ok, if you insist, Mrs., I mean, Melania.”
It’s working, she thought. I can get some sex and some revenge on Donald. Secret revenge.
She flitted over to the counter and found two glasses.
“Funny, I thought you and your husband don’t drink?”
“I hardly ever,” they both watched the ruby fluid circle gracefully into each glass sphere. “Donald doesn’t drink at all, he hate it, actually.”
“He’s a teetotaler,” Trigger joked.
“A what?” she handed him the wine.
“A Teetotaler. It’s from prohibition. There was a whole movement that said alcohol was the ruin of society, that it turned people into demons…”
“Oh maybe I’m trying to turn you into a demon,” she joked. Trigger gave an awkward chuckle and tapped her glass with his.
They both took a sip and the way the flavor burned sweetly, its pungent fruit and biting alcohol made them both flush. And then, it made them laugh.
“Wow,” he said with a look of disbelief that was adorable to her. “I have never tasted a better wine in my life.”
“Really? Then you must drink more wine!” They laughed again and took another sip.
“It keeps getting better.” She knew what she was doing when she met his eyes as she tipped her glass and pursed her lips. The color of the wine matched her blouse nice touch and he seemed to be seeking someplace to put his hands.
“Please,” she gestured again, “let’s sit. We finish our wine, then I let you go. I know we have early morning flight.”
“Yes,” he said slowly, and followed her toward the couch. Everything was grey here, with hints of pearl and violet, unlike the gold in Donald’s rooms.
They sat and he asked her questions.
“You know, this might surprise you, but I spent some time in your country,” he said.
“Really? During your service?”
“No actually. My great-grandfather was Slovenian.”
“Really?” How sweet it was he was trying to relate to her, but that wasn’t what she wanted.
“It’s so gorgeous, I had no idea how beautiful it is.”
She smiled again, and cast off into some other thought.
Oh please god. “Yes?”
“I know the transition into the White House can be kind of, tough. Are you managing okay?”
It could have been the wine, or the genuine concern on his face but something in her snapped. Out it poured: her rage at Donald, the constant dueling with his children, the heartbreak of Barron’s callous rejection. She was sobbing like an injured seal and she put her hands over her face out of sheer embarrassment.
And then, warmth encircled her and she came out of the dark of her hands to find that Captain Trigger was holding her.
“Melania, I am so sorry you are this unhappy.” It was the most love anyone had given her in the longest time.
She tore off her wine-colored blouse. “Please touch me, Trigger.”
A new horror appeared on her face – she had misread the signals. She wriggled free of him and tried to recoup the blouse.
“Melania,” he said again, “please, it’s not that I don’t want you.”
She had her back to him, bisected by her black bra, her blouse in her hands. “Then what?”
“It’s that I’m crossing a seriously an unethical line by fucking the President’s Wife.
“No,” she turned toward him, calculating, reassuring, “you do the ethical thing, I am First Lady, and I need this. This is what I need.”
She could see he was still dangling over the immense chasm of risk, unable to let go. So she whipped out her Trump card, which also happened to be the truth. “Donald has not touched me since I am pregnant with Barron.”
That did it. A man like this could not let a woman like her go unfucked.
Trigger stripped her of her bra and his mouth found her collarbones as he undid the drawstring and slid her silk pants off of her. I’m going to get penetrated, she jumped for joy on the inside, by something other than my vibrator.
Trigger gave her body the same level of attention he had exhibited that day in the hall at the Inaugural: he swept his chiseled face back and forth across her belly, using his warm palms to clasp her breasts. She looked down and reveled in the smooth, taut planes of his face. Youth. Happiness. Fuck Me.
Stretched out on the long grey couch perfectly naked and exposed, her hair aflail, her makeup smeared, Melania had crossed over, passed the carefully curated sexiness to the glittering creature engrossed in the ritual. Her slim thighs came apart, and he crouched beside her and spread the lips of her pussy so that his finger could draw a slow line up and down her hairless VJ.
“Yes, please,” she begged immediately. “Oh please touch me, any way you want,”
“If you need it this badly,” his smile grew sinister, “I’m going to take my time and do it right.” This elicited a squeak of pleasure from Melania.
He licked his two middle fingers and nestled them between her pussy lips before sliding them inside of her. She wailed, and he covered her mouth with his other hand.
“Shhh,” he cautioned, “we can’t have the Secret Service in here asking what’s the matter, can we?”
She nodded, her eyes half-closed, her hips wriggling involuntarily.
“Good,” he said and went back to sliding his fingers in and out of her lavishly wet pussy.
The feeling of his hand over her mouth was a shock: she loved it. She could actually scream into his hand and he muffled the sound. Her legs shuddered as his ripped arm flexed back and forth, driving his fingers into her.
“Is this what you need so badly, Melania?” Fuck, yes, oh god, I need it, I need to come
He sped up and she got a sense of just how strong he was, how aware of his body he was as his arm pummeled her underside with the perfect amount of pressure.
The first orgasm washed through her like that high-speed train she rode one time in Japan, complete with the roaring Doppler effect, complete with the full body spasm and the hush afterward.
But it didn’t last nearly long enough: she wanted more. Melania rose off the couch and started tearing at Trigger’s pants.
“Don’t say no to me,” she said in a commanding tone that surprised even her.
“I wasn’t gonna,” he let her dispose of his pants and then he climbed on top of her.
His ass, it is flawless, like if Tiffany and Company make it. While she had the chance, she reached down and embraced both of his sculpted ass cheeks.
The moment he pushed his tensile cock into her shiny pussy, she cut loose with another scream. “You still have to be quiet,” he implored as he commenced the fucking.
She guided his hand back over her mouth and her eyes rolled back in her head.
They did not get much sleep that night and he waited until he knew Secret Security had rotated so his overnight would go undetected.
The next day, in the private jet, he sat across from her in his uniform with an outlandish grin on his face.
She did her best to keep her expressions neutral. I did it, and I’m not sad. I have some control now, whether Donald realize or not. I am a woman, and I deserve to get fucked like a woman.
Throughout the first year of her husband’s presidency, Melania now had a very effective coping strategy:
When Donald told Bridgette Macron: “You’re in such good shape,” he said. “She’s in such good physical shape. Beautiful.” Melania put on a bustier and let Trigger take her from behind in the home theater while he watched porn.
After the “Puerto Rico is an island!” statement and the subsequent tossing of paper towels at hurricane victims, Melania surprised Trigger by greeting him in a full latex cat suit holding a bottle of lube. In what seemed to be an omen that they were meant to fuck like this, he brought some toys and had fun inserting them into the various holes while she lay perfectly still.
Donald stood on the platform at Fort Myers and said “Melania really wanted to be with us, it’s really touched her heart,” when she was standing right next to him. They didn’t even wait to get back to DC, Trigger met her at her trailer where he could lock the door and she could hang from the skylight as he pounded her from below.
I don’t even need Pilates anymore!
But the morning she sat eating her bowl of fruit and sipping her skinny tea, she got a blip on her phone and read the headline:
Trump Lawyer Arranged $130,000 Payment for Adult-Film Star’s Silence
It did not shock her one bit that Donald has been with a porn star, nor did the hush money surprise her. No, what really bit her on both tits was the timing: Barron was four months old when Donald fucked the other woman. A memory flooded in.
After the birth, she had a C-section and a tummy tuck, immediately put the baby on purchased breast milk so her tits wouldn’t suffer, and got back on her diet. But the sewn up gash on her belly and her engorged breasts conspired with the gale of hormones and she felt like road kill. All that was motherhood, normal, yes?
Yes, but the real dagger there, the spike in the jugular was what he said. Her body was “a mess,” and having a baby had “ruined her. ” She curled up on the bed around her son as Donald left.
She shook herself free from the memory. Barron was back in school and she was scheduled to go to Davos. She called her assistant and changed her plans.
“I saw the WSJ today,” texted Trigger. “Do you need me?”
“Yes,” she texted back, “I will need you to accompany me to Mar-a-Lagos.”
“Yes, Ma’am. Notify me when you are ready to leave.”
She looked at herself in the mirror before sliding her sunglasses on. She looked great with her Givenchy and her perfectly highlighted hair. Not great for 47, just great. But the hollow feeling was there, the battering fist that punched her organs from the inside.
She sat across from Captain O’Connor on the jet and when the flight attendants left them alone, she parted her legs and showed him her lack of underwear.
“Fuck, woman,” he grunted and moved the tray table aside.
“Take out your dick,” she drawled. He unzipped his fly and let his-semi hard pipe fall out of his pants.
“I need spanking today, Captain. I am very bad.”
“I can see that. I can also see that you need this inside you.”
“Yes, and it is your job to take care of my needs.”
“I’m happy to be of service, Madame President.”
Off the jet, holding his arm in the way that was now customary for both of them, they hopped in the car and when they arrived at Club, they entered her private suite separately.
Trigger wasted no time unpacking a duffle brimming with toys, restraints, and military gear.
There was a bottle of red wine open with two glasses at the ready but they only drank out of one.
She took a sip and closed her eyes, letting that first, sacred flourish of flavor wash her palette. This was now a familiar part of the ritual, the real moment where she disobeyed. He tasted it and kissed her.
“Here are all the implements of torture I am going to use on you, Melania.”
“Be merciful, Captain.”
“I think you know me better than that.”
The dress was suddenly gone and Melania was already down on her knees in her pretty lingerie, her hands resting face up on her thighs.
Trigger sat on the edge of the bed, his shirt flung off, his pants sloughed down around his hips, his hard cock wagging.
A fistful of her hair led her face to his crotch where she opened her mouth and welcomed in his entire length. He told her what a good slut she was as he flogged her needy ass. She spread her hipbones and sucked with closed eyes, the whap of the flogger producing a soft little grunt from her each time.
Again he grabbed her by the hair and brought her to the bed with her ass in the air, really laying the flogger down hard on each flank.
She yipped like a fox while he penetrated her with four fingers. Vag juice dripped onto the bed and the duvet already had mascara prints.
Finally, he tossed the flogger aside and came up behind her, nudging her knees farther apart. “That’s a good girl,” he soothed as slid into her. “Open up and take it.” Her pussy surrendered gratefully.
Trigger rocked her back and forth with an almost sadistic deliberation while she writhed and bucked at his cock. Her nails snarled the bed and she begged for him to fuck her harder, faster, but he made her wait.
Her whole body was convulsing and she seemed to be floating outside of it somewhere when he thumped her hard and started driving into her g-spot with quick controlled jabs. Her little frame seemed not to contain the voltage ratcheting up inside her.
“You can come now, Melania, come with me,” and she squirted as she rhapsodized in Slovenian at the top of her lungs. Trigger gushed inside her a moment later and her tailbone tucked reflexively, drawing his hot jizz deeper inside her.
He drew her a bath, let her take a nap, eat something, and then her put her pussy to work again. When she wasn’t soaking or getting a facial, she was getting mercilessly Marine fucked.
It was January 20, 2018, the one year anniversary of meeting Trigger. Oh and her husband’s thing.
When she asked him over the phone, Donald told her that the thing with Stormy was “none of her fucking business.” Melania hung up immediately and tossed the phone.
But then she retrieved it, opened Twitter, and selected the photo of her and Trigger descending the stairs on Inauguration Day, a genuine smile on her face.
“This has been a year filled with many wonderful moments I’ve enjoyed the people I’ve been lucky enough to meet throughout our great country & the world!”
The best part, Melania thought as she rolled over in bed and gently bit Trigger’s bicep, is that Donald is so stupid, he never get it.