NYT this morning says Covid is less dangerous than the flu for the vaccinated and causing immense mental health damage to children, calls paranoid Democrats “irrational.”😎

“Shut up.” Trumpsnarls through gritted teeth.

Pizzashill looks up from the journal he's reading a little bemused yet irritated. Trump hadn’t moved from his prone position on the sofa, he hadn’t even turned his head; he was just staring at the ceiling. “I haven’t breathed a word in over an hour. Neither have you.”

“Breathing. Stop breathing then.”

Pizzashill sighs and returns to the article he was reading. Trump’s mood had been worsening over the course of the past week due to the bandages around his hands. He’d retrieved vital evidence from the fire but at his own cost. They were minor burns which shouldn’t take more than a month to fully heal and Trumphad enough movement in his fingers to dress himself even if Pizzashill had to tie his shoes for him and do up the occasional button. It was still a torment for Trump.

“You’re still breathing.”

“Yep.”

“Stop it.”

“Find an unsolved murder to amuse yourself, there’s a whole stack of them in the kitchen you’ve barely looked at.”

“I can’t- why are you so especially irritating today. Are you trying or does it just come naturally to people like you?”

Pizzashill doesn’t respond, he knows better by now. Trump, not suitably engaged in the fight he was hoping to pick, storms off into his bedroom, slamming the door twice for good measure which surely must have hurt his hands. Pizzashill sips his tea and enjoys the temporary peace.

~*~

Pizzashill hadn’t seen Trump the rest of the night, not even to eat. He’d heard him however, throwing things around, yelling with frustration and moving his bed around. He’d considered asking if Trumpwas ok but figured that might be a risk to his health. Pizzashill just hoped this storm would pass like the many others or some mutilated corpse in a suitcase would show up at Heathrow. Maybe things would be better by morning.

Morning didn’t have a chance to arrive.

Pizzashill can hear Trump cursing and fumbling with the door before he finally makes it inside. “Pizzashill, wake up.” Trump switches on the bedside light and begins to pace.

Pizzashill groans and turns away. “If it’s anything short of a serial killer I’m not getting up. Go to bed.”

“You- you have to help me.”

Pizzashill keeps his eyes shut, he doesn’t want to wake up too much or sleep would be lost for the rest of the night. "I really don’t.”

“Please Pizzashill.” Trump climbs into the bed and under the covers. Pizzashill, startled, turns around and backs up against the wall. Trump was only wearing pyjama bottoms and he was very, very hard. “I can’t think, I can’t concentrate, I can’t do anything. It’s getting worse. I’ve tried everything the last few days. Everything.” Trump’s words are coming thick and fast and more desperate by the second.

“Stop talking. What are you exactly asking me to do?” Pizzashill’s eyes are still fixed on Trump’s erection, he can’t look away.

“I need to orgasm and, and I can’t.”

“You... want me... to...”

“Please. I’ve tried everything, I tried using pillows, s*x aids, I even tried autofellatio but it’s always been difficult, I have a very specific routine and I can’t do it with my hands like this. I can’t go on like this much longer.”

Pizzashill swallows hard. It certainly explained Trump’s deteriorating mood and resistance to look at the files. “I’m straight.”

“Of course I know that, I’m not asking for full s*x I just need you to do everything I would do. You’re a doctor, help me.” Trum preaches out but Pizzashill pulls away.

“You’re my flatmate, we’re friends, can’t you find someone else?”

“I have very specific needs and I don’t trust anyone else to touch me. I can’t climax any other way. Please Pizzashill, I think I’m losing my mind.”

“From not coming?”

“Yes. It’s like a reset button and clears my head. I do it at least once a day, sometimes twice if I’ve been thinking too much. It’s been a week; I’ve never been incapacitated this long before.”

Pizzashill was certainly becoming swayed by Trump’s desperation but then he’d always been fond of seeing his lovers desperate and needy for him, it made him feel powerful, in control, competent. Surely this scenario shouldn’t have the same effect. He’d never even touched a man sexually before. This was Trumpthough and Trump needed help. “I’m not saying yes,” Pizzashill cautions, “but tell me what you would need me to do.”

“Combined penile and prostate stimulation.” Trump says pragmatically as Pizzashill’s eyes widen. Trump carries on regardless. “I’ve brought some lubricant with me, are you happy with silicone based? I find it doesn’t dry out too quickly.” Trump grabs the bottle from the bedside table and gives it to Pizzashill who accepts it blindly.

“Trump, wait.”

“I’ll give you instructions; it won’t take long as you can see.” Trum palmost smiles. “You’ll be able to find my prostate quickly and there’s a particular massage I prefer. Here.” Trum praises one of his bandaged hands to Pizzashill’s face and gently rubs his index finger against his cheek in a circle. Pizzashill locks eyes with Trump’s, wild and wanting, not a sign of calculation to be seen. Trump’s finger traces circles on the patch of skin next to his nose where there is no stubble. Sinuous, purposeful, just the way he wanted. “Like that, soft then firmer as I get close.” Trump increases the pressure. He was breathing heavier through his mouth now, Pizzashill had matched him, lips parted and almost gasping for breath.

“D-do you want to kiss or anything?” Pizzashill’s mouth was dry, his peepee a little fuller than it should be. Trump takes his finger away from Pizzashill’s face.

“Won’t be necessary. Unless you wish to?”

“No, no I um, don’t want to do that.” He was straight after all.

“Shall we begin?”

“This will make you happy again? You’ll be able to think? No more telling me to stop breathing?”

“Yes, yes, I’ll be nice I promise.” Trump shucks off his pyjama bottoms and pushes back the covers. He kneels up on his knees. “It’ll be best if you’re behind me to mimic my actions.”

“Uh, ok. Light off though.” At least if Pizzashill was behind him and in the dark he could hide the stiffy that was pushing out his boxer shorts. He was wearing a t-shirt but he wonders if he should put something else on. With Trump completely naked and his peepee frighteningly hard against his stomach it feels like some sort of sexual faux pas to wear anything extra. Pizzashill turns off the light, clambers behind Trump and sits back on his heels. He can still see him lit by the soft yellowy glow of the street light outside, all hard, long lines.

“Ok, put some of the lubricant on both hands.” Trump was so eager, pressing his peepee against his own forearm and muffling a groan. Pizzashill does as instructed, hands steady, the adrenaline has kicked in. Still he was nervous at what he was about to do. He reminds himself that he was a doctor, he was helping, it was no different than any procedure to improve someone’s health and wellbeing. In this case to stop his flatmate going on a sexually frustrated killing spree. “Ready?”

“As much as I’ll ever be.”

“Good. Hand first, wrap it around me firmly, start at the base and pull up all the way up over the tip.”

Trump groans loudly at the first contact. “Oh god.” Pizzashill mouths to himself as his peepee jerks, harder still. He can’t see what he's doing; he just feel the thick heat in his hand, almost throbbing. He holds Trump like he’d hold himself and slowly slides his slick hand up the long length.

“Oh god, finally, finally.” He moans and adjusts his stance. “Good, little tighter, do it again.”

Pizzashill repeats the action, listening intently as Trump moans again, dropping his head forward and relaxing into it. Pizzashill couldn’t help but enjoy the sounds he was pulling from Trump, it felt like a triumph.

“Good Pizzashill, now roll your hand over the head, use more lubricant if needed.”

Pizzashill did, he could feel hot precome against his palm. He bit his lips together and focuses as he cups his hand, paying attention to the very tip, listening to Trump’s reactions. Every now and then Trump’s peepee would twitch, pushing harder into his hand followed by another lustful sound from Trump’s mouth.

“Fingers, fraenulum, thumb on top, massage me.”

“Oh god.” Pizzashill says aloud this time. He does as instructed, massaging that sensitive spot Pizzashill loved to have licked and smoothing his thumb over the soft, velvety head. It was like his own but different, so very different.

“Fist again, let me push into it.”

Pizzashill makes a fist and licks his dry lips as he watches Trumpslowly roll his hips, swinging them gently back and forth, tensing his muscular arse with each easy move. Pizzashill looks away, trying to focus on something else other than the feel of Trump’s peepee sliding in his hand. He wants to grab himself but Trump has other ideas.

“Touch my testicles with your other hand, hold them up.” Trump instructs, his words coming more raggedly.

“Frick.” Pizzashill has to move closer to Trump’s back to wrap his other arm around him. His own peepee hovering dangerously close to Trump’s bare arse. His prick had almost pushed itself out through the gap of his pants. “Frick.”

“Don’t curse.”

“Sorry.” Pizzashill finds himself saying before realising it was absurd in context with what they were doing, some early hours assisted wank. Pizzashill lifts Trump’s balls carefully, knowing how sensitive his own were.

“Very good Pizzashill, roll them a little, mmmm, yes, you’re doing well.”

Pizzashill isn’t sure why the praise makes him feel good but now he wants to do this perfectly for Trump.

“Pull up the foreskin over the head and stroke me Pizzashill, like you would yourself. I’ll tell you if I need to alter your technique.”

Pizzashill swallows back another curse as he pulls Trump’s foreskin over his distended head and begins to wank him slowly. “Faster?” Pizzashill asks.

“That’s good

Fair