Mittro-sexual: A Mitt Romney Erotica

• 2012-11-27

  Anonymous asked: WHY DO YOU DO THIS HELP

• 2012-11-23

  Chapter 7: And Then Like More Gay Stuff Happened.

  And then the one guy who owns Fox News did something gay to Mitt’s butt. He did it so hard that Mitt got real hurted and bled profusely and died. 

  THE END

  ?

• 2012-11-01

  Chapter 6: Tira-Mitt-Su

  

  
  

  Four Seasons Hotel, Manhattan, New York

  Mitt’s internal organs lurched as a private elevator shot him up towards the 52^nd floor. He was drunk and disheveled. A half-empty bottle of vodka slung limply from his left arm. His shirt was unbuttoned and dirty. He and Ann had an argument back at their hotel about leaving her behind to attend Rupert Murdoch’s party. Mitt had to lie through his teeth. He couldn’t tell her the real reason he needed to go alone: to be a virgin sacrifice upon Newscorp’s semen-stained altar. He brought along bandages in addition to lube. The private lift reached its destination. Thumping bass leaked though the elevator doors. They opened and the strong smell of sweat, breath and burning feces hit Mitt like an adult diaper to the face. The penthouse suite was the nicest room that the Four Seasons could offer—a shining example of first-world luxury. Tonight, though, it was a grandiose cathedral dedicated to Murdoch’s own unique brand of depravity. Mitt crossed the threshold into the maelstrom of red-state hedonism. To his right was a charming layout of a sofa, loveseat, chair, and table surrounding an ornate hearth. On the table, Ann Coulter lay on her back, fully clothed, legs splayed underneath her modestly cut skirt. Her panties were around her left ankle. A line formed leading up to her as party guests took turns pouring shots of absinthe between her thighs. She coolly smoked a cigar as this happened, her eyes focusing on the space between electrons. Somehow, Geraldo had managed to convince security he was sound of mind and was now flitting about the party stark naked, waving an RNC flag. A thin trail of red flowed from his nostril. As he ran by, guests would either slap him square on his rear end, or force him to kneel in front of them so they could spit into his open mouth. He walked through the throbbing crowd, still gyrating to the music blasting from the walls. He tripped over the motionless torso of Todd Akin asleep in a pool of vomit. Mittwell arrived at a long dining table in front of the floor-to-ceiling window near the rear of the suite. There, seated on an intimidating, throne-like chair, gnawing on a ham hock was Murdoch. He wore a robe similar to the pagan druids of old Europe. He cackled and drank, groping the nubile group of youths clamoring for his lap. When Mitt approached the table, Rupert caught his eye and grinned maniacally. He brushed off his zealous lap candy and set down his ham hock.

  “Well, well. It looks like our guest of honor has finally arrived!” Murdoch sneered. He waved his hand and the music ceased. The apocalyptic-looking mob stared at the dining table. Rupert rose from his throne and spoke.

  “My children, tonight is but a preamble of the revelry we, the righteous, will soon partake in.” A slurred cheer emanated from the mob. “For it is not a matter of if we will prevail, but when.” Mitt indulged in yet another long pull from his quickly vanishing bottle.

  “Fear. Pain. Agony. These emotions are necessary contrast in order to actually feel and appreciate joy, comfort…pleasure.” He turned to Mitt. “These vital, aspects of humanity have been neglected by those we oppose. This is precisely why we exist, my friends. This is precisely why we fight. We, dear family, are the hinge upon which the door of reality swings. We are the shade that allows light to be seen; we are the silence before the crescendo; we are the moldy slice of bread near the end of the loaf. We are the keepers of civilization. And, dear followers, we are unstoppable.” The crowd bellowed again pumping fists and waving flags.  “And so we are here tonight to anoint the instrument of our people…the very blade of our crusade, our 2012 presidential candidate, Mr. Willard Mitt Romney. Mitt, would you stand beside me please?” Mitt nodded and walked behind the table. Used condoms and smashed food littered the floor underneath. Rupert put an arm around Mitt once he reached his side. “Fortunately this year we picked a looker.” Jeers and wolf-whistles were heard. Mitt looked at Murdoch. He was licking his lips. Mitt tried to convince himself it was merely to lap up residual ham grease. Rupert continued his oration: “And now time for the main event. Everyone, please.” Murdoch gestured with his hand and the crowd formed several neat rows, all sitting in the same bizarre posture: legs crossed, right hands covering their right ears, left arms pointing vertically in the air. Two minions appeared from the shadows clad in the same style of cloak that covered Rupert. They quickly cleared the massive banquet table of debris and began to erect a frame upon it using steel pipes. They created a pyramidal frame culminating in a circular opening at its peak. Within this opening was a cross member. Attached to the cross member were four heavy duty restraints. Mitt was visibly sweating now.

  Murdoch walked in front of the structure and spread his arms. Each acolyte grabbed a side of his cloak and disrobed him. Underneath was an all leather bodysuit adorned with silver hardware. He was six inches taller due to his foundation of spiked black heels. One of the acolytes returned and knelt before Rupert, presenting him with a gilded chest. The crowd suddenly began to hum in unison with a low, guttural timbre. The servant scuttled away and Murdoch ceremoniously opened the chest and presented the objects inside to the crowd one by one. First, he produced a leather face mask which in design resembled his attire. It came complete with a crudely fashioned crown attached at the top. Next he pulled a living rabbit from the chest grasping it in one hand by its neck. The trio was completed by a black rubber fist which flopped around as Rupert presented it. He proceeded to put on the mask, obliterating the face that had been haunting Mitt’s subconscious for days. The crowd’s mantra suddenly ended on a dime. One of the servants reappeared again and goaded Mitt into standing before Murdoch. He did so and stood before the unholy garbage bag of a man. The acolyte kicked the back of Mitt’s legs causing him the fall to the ground onto his knees.

  “Prepare the initiate!” Murdoch bellowed. The Acolyte began to tear off Mittwell’s clothing until he was clad only in skin. Rupert once again grabbed the rabbit and held it over Mitt’s head. The savage mantra of the crowd began again, this time accompanied by an odd, but perfectly synchronized circular swaying. Murdoch produced a small knife from a sheath around his thigh. It gleamed with menacing intent. Mitt looked at the small creature crinkling its velveteen nose. If only you knew what was coming, Woodland friend, Mitt thought. I envy your ignorance.

  Murdoch began to speak again. His voice however had some odd quality to it. Mitt couldn’t quite pin it down, but it seemed as if there was an ethereal authority and significance to it. As if it was coming from something much greater, and much more terrifying than Murdoch himself:

  
  “Witness, privileged keepers of the secret, the birth of a new vessel!

  Through trembling teeth and hidden erections,

  We recognize the conduit of our salvation!

  Allow us to make this conduit pure,

  To make this vessel true,

  That it may carry us all toward the end of days.

  To the end of suffering.”

  The mantra began to rise in tempo and volume as Rupert held the knife to the rabbit’s collar.

  “Be cleansed, unworthy servant!”

  Mitt’s scalp felt moist all of a sudden. Crimson flowed from his unkempt hair and formed tiny rubies on the floor before him. Soon his back, shoulders, and torso were stained with the pigment of pure innocence. He looked at his palms, soaked in bunny blood. He began to convulse, afraid of what he was about to become, afraid of what was about to happen. His fears were sidelined by a sharp kick to his sternum. He fell prostrate on the floor before the all black form of Murdoch. A sharp stiletto heel pressed painfully into his back.

  “Now,” Rupert growled. “Time for my fucking dessert.”

• 2012-10-25

  Anonymous asked: write another chaaaappterrrrr

  Get out of my room, mom. You’re not my dad.

• 2012-10-19

  the-seasick-sailor asked: You are a wonderful writer! I look forward to each masterfully written chapter with grave anticipation. Where will Mitten's daring adventure lead him next? Only time (and you) will tell. ;)

  Thanks! I appreciate the support! And I’m glad you enjoy reading it! More Gay republican sex is forthcoming!

  -S

• 2012-10-17

  mersenneprimadonna asked: You are an amazing human being. Just sayin'.

  No no, you is! 

• 2012-10-16

  V: Friends, Roman-Catholics, Countrymen…

  

  Manhattan, New York City

  Mitt fumbled with a bowtie in front of a mirror. He paused for a moment to stare at nighttime Manhattan outside his hotel window. After one more concerted effort, he decided he was all thumbs and walked over to the mini-bar. The fundraiser was in an hour. New York’s conservative elite would be in tow, their luscious rumps seated on fat wallets. Mitt was on edge. It’s easy to sell to people who cross the street to avoid a black man approaching them on the same sidewalk. But these people were the intelligentsia of American conservative politics. Mitt was merely a pretty sock puppet perpetually fisted by a News corp. branded hand. He wasn’t on edge. He was downright terrified. The green liquid in his martini glass trembled in time with his hand. He desperately grasped it with its counterpart, taking a deep breath in order to find his center. He walked over to the window and stared at the lights. Ann emerged from the bathroom fixing an earring. She walked behind Mitt, reached over her shoulders and began tying his bowtie.

  “Are you nervous?” She asked after a smooch on his shoulder.

  “I don’t have nerves, honey. Remember?” he replied weakly.

  “I know you’re gonna do great,” she said as she blocked his hand from taking another drink. “Just ease off on the apple juice until the party after.” Mitt turned around to face the mother of his children. “You look so handsome,” Ann said beaming. He knew he had to tell her he loved her, not out of emotion…but out of obligation.

  For a millisecond Ann’s body took the shape of Matt in a latex bodysuit murmuring through a ball gag.

  Mitt blinked and the form of his wife reappeared.

  “Ann, I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He said.

  Mitt still ruminated on his desires as the entrées came out. Toby Keith was just finishing an acoustic rendition of a song he wrote for the Romney campaign entitled: “Red, White, and You.” This was all orchestrated according to strategy: get the guests liquored up and running on emotions…vulnerable. That would be the moment Mitt would strike, straight to the jugular, incapacitating these titans of industry and holding them hostage for their checkbooks. A polite, yet impassioned golf clap goaded Mr. Keith off the floor. Next up was 9-year-old Rebecca Jessup from Clarksburg, Tennessee. To hear the girl say the words “And the home of the bwave” would drive even Stalin to tears. A collective “daaaawwww,” was inevitable. The precocious little girl began to recite a poem she wrote for Mitt:

  “Amewwica is my home.

  Amewwica is my land.

  Dear Amewwica,

  I want to hold your hand.

  Fwom your gween mountains

  To your blue seas,

  Give me a pwesident

  To watch over me.

  I can feel the sun,

  Fwowing through my hair,

  President Womney,

  Destwoy Obamacare.”

  The women in the audience were clutching their brooches for dear life, fighting their welling emotions. The men had put down their drinks and cocaine frosted hundred dollar bills to listen respectfully; a few were also tearing up. A roar of applause erupted from the well-dressed crowd, many getting up to their feet in honor of little Rebecca. Good work, Jim, Mitt thought, seeing the immediate effect. Jim was a particularly bright event planning intern Mitt had tricked into playing “hide the corncob,” with once. Kid has spunk. He’ll go far. Mitt thought.

  The desserts finally arrived: Tiramisu with a dark chocolate ganache adorned with gold-leaf swatches. The decadent dessert was made all the more opulent by the fact that all the gold used was confiscated from urban police killings. Oppressively delicious. A picture of an adorable puppy flashed onto the screen as Former Attorney General John Ashcroft took the podium. Mitt was steeling himself for his talk. His top shirt buttons were down two, and his bowtie hung around his neck like a priest’s stole. He grabbed a glass of what looked like scotch, but was really heavily colored ginger ale. He figured this would give him a Sinatra-esque swagger onstage. He threw his tuxedo jacket over his shoulder to complete the look. He walked up to the podium and made another stylistic decision, by grabbing the mic and walking out onto the empty area just in front of the stage surrounded by dinner tables.

  “This isn’t a place for me to be talking down to anyone,” he began. “In this room is the heart, no. The very soul of America, and I am humbled that I can stand amongst you this evening.”

  “COOL FUCKING STORY, BRO,” yelled an inebriated Geraldo Rivera from the back of the room. He was promptly escorted out by two secret service agents. Mitt wasn’t fazed. He feigned amusement and took a drink from his faux-whiskey.

  “I really can’t blame the guy. This stuff is excellent.” The crowd chuckled slightly. “Anyway, I am truly honored that you chose to come here tonight to eat, drink, and most importantly, to talk. I don’t need to tell you that the situation in our country is dire.” Mitt stole a glance at his PR chief who gave him an almost imperceptible nod. “For the last four years, good, hardworking, God-fearing Americans have been treated like trash. These are the very same people many of our ancestors once were before they embraced that beautiful American dream, and bought a negro that they could call their very own. Before you know it, that negro harvests enough for your ancestors to be able to afford two more negroes, and soon, a full scale tobacco plantation. The very same plantation that pumped out the hard earned money many of you are still spending today.”

  “Hear hear!” a voice shouted across the dining hall.

  “And today, who is denying these people their right to prosper? A Kenyan socialist.” Heads began to nod emphatically. Mitt decided to get theatrical. He continued in dramatic fashion:

  “The man sitting in the nation’s highest office is not even of this fair soil. Not even of this world, ladies and gentlemen. He is a demon, sent by Beelzebub from the infernos of hell to destroy the utopia of the fair, and faithful.” Mitt was truly exerting himself to be so expressive. It seemed to be working, though, based on the crowd’s positive reaction to such a harsh and potentially damaging statement. But there was no outside press at this event. Only dinner guests and Romney’s executive team. This exclusivity was a requirement in order to lure donors of this caliber. The most prominent of which was now glaring at Mitt with hungry eyes: One Keith Rupert Murdoch. The elusive Australian business magnate was undoubtedly the main goal of the event, seated front and center in full blast radius of Mittwell’s fiery sermon. The man held global media by its right testicle, not to mention a Swiss bank account that usually was spent on his annual bonsai trimming wine and cheese party in Monaco. This man could make or break a Republican candidate and Mitt was well aware. He looked the man square in his shriveled raisin face and spoke.

  “How far have we fallen, ladies and gentlemen? When did we lose control? Well I’ll tell you.” He slammed his ginger ale onto Murdoch’s table. The occupants looked up at him in surprise. “November 9^th 2008. Four damn years ago, when a drunken horde of college students decided to reenact scenes from Mad Max in the middle of OUR streets. They ushered in their new commie superhero with bottles of OUR champagne. They burned effigies of OUR NASCAR drivers. OUR country was taken over by a bunch of smelly barbarians. And, ladies and gentlemen, it was on OUR watch.” Disparate applause broke the hesitant silence.  

   “We did nothing but roll over. Like a little lap dog. Don’t get me wrong, my family and I love our pooch, Herpes, but I am a man, good people. Made in the image of our loving creator! I won’t roll over when some unwashed, pothead, immigrant tells me to. I will stand up. And I will pounce at his throat. Thank you for your attention and God bless the United States of America.”

  The audience jumped to their feet cheering at the top of their chubby, pink lungs. Dinner guests rushed up to Mitt to shake his hand and pat him on the back. He had done it. He had proved himself as a strong, viable medium for the agenda of neo-conservatism to flow forth onto the face of the American voting public. His financial officer would surely see a large spike in campaign donations tomorrow morning. But there was one person who still occupied his seat. Mitt looked to the table his glass rested on amidst the jungle of tuxedos and handshakes.

  Murdoch was seated arms crossed, staring at the presidential nominee. Mitt made eye contact to determine his mood. He motioned with his head to the empty chair next to him. Mitt pulled himself away from the crowd and nervously sat down. In front of Rupert was an untouched portion of Tiramisu and an empty whiskey glass.

  “I see you haven’t touched your Tiramisu, Mr. Murdoch. Can I call over a chef and get you something else?” Mitt struggled to maintain composure in front of the man.” Murdoch continued to look at him silently. Mitt’s nerves started to show. “Did I say something wrong up there? I know I was harsh, but I truly believe we are at war and if we don’t toughen up we’ll surely lose our way of life.”

  Murdoch’s upper lip quivered.

  Mitt began to babble. “Listen, I can tone down my stance, maybe have Paul soften up the youth vote with a school visit or something? Are your accommodations comfortable? We can upgrade the suite for you and your wife! Please, Mr. Murdoch, I…I need you.” Suddenly Rupert’s hand snapped over and grabbed Mitt’s genitals with a painful grip. Still crushing his family jewels Murdoch used Mitt as an anchor to slide his chair close enough to stare at Mitt in the face. His breath was equal parts wheeze and growl.

  “How dare you bribe me, you measly invertebrate.” Mitt was terrified, but couldn’t say a word. “I could rip these off, plate them in platinum, and hang them on my fucking Christmas tree if I wanted to!” Mitt nodded pathetically. Rupert moved his face away slightly. ”Now, I like your bravado. Reminds me of…well…me at your age. But you can’t go around representing my interests looking like a sissy little Muppet.” He leaned in again. “I know you have balls. Fucking use them.” Mitt nodded desperately, on the verge of hysterics.

  “And about my dessert,” Murdoch continued, “why don’t you be my substitute?” Mitt wincing in pain nodded again through snotty tears. Rupert loosened his grip.

  “I’m moving the after party to my hotel suite. Meet me there at 11. Bring your Sunday best, and leave your wife.”

  Mitt looked over at Ann who waved back with a loving smile.

• 2012-10-11

  consulting-troll asked: I check your blog every day at least once in the hopes that you've updated. I enjoy you. Deeply.

  How deep is deeply? Thank you. You are a nice consulting troll. <3 Chapter 5 is forthcoming. 

• 2012-10-10

  

  A momentous occasion. FOLLOW PLEASE. 

• 2012-09-27

  An addendum to the previous chapter. Didn’t know this existed! Thanks internet!

  mittromneyspresidency:

  

  Source: