Chapter 5

The floor-to-ceiling windows of Rex Tanner’s opulent penthouse apartment framed a glittering cityscape, the skyline a blur beyond the king-sized bed where Zara Cole lay sprawled, face down, ass up. The sheets—black silk, rumpled—clung to her sweat-slicked skin as Rex loomed behind her, his 6’2” frame a tower of muscle, his thick eight-inch cock slamming into her soaked cunt with brutal, relentless thrusts.

Her platinum-blonde hair fanned across the pillow, her bubblegum-pink nails clawing the fabric as he fucked her deep and hard, her lush tits bouncing with each jolt, her tight white tube-top long discarded on the marble floor beside her micro-miniskirt. She still wore the stripper heels, at Rex’s insistence. Her green eyes rolled back, her plush red lips parted in a stream of moans—high, needy, broken—as he pounded her, driving her through climax after climax, her pussy clenching around him, gushing wet.

Rex gripped her hips, his beefy hands digging into her flesh, and spat crude praise, his voice a gravelly growl. “Fuck, Zara—you’re a hot little slut, takin’ my cock like a champ. Tight cunt, perfect ass—built for this shit.” He yanked her bleached hair, pulling her head back, her throat arching as she gasped, and smacked her ass—hard, the crack echoing, her skin blooming red. “Dumb as fuck, though—can’t debate worth a damn, but who gives a shit when you’re this sexy?”

Zara lapped it up, eager, her whimpers turning to cries as she rocked back into him, loving it—loving his huge cock stretching her, filling her, the rough way he handled her. “Yes, Rex—fuck, yes!” she panted, her voice thick with need, her green eyes tearing from the hair-pull but glowing with adoration. “I’m your slut—love your cock, love how you fuck me!” Her pussy spasmed again, another climax ripping through her, her clit throbbing as he pounded deeper, his balls slapping her soaked folds. His degradation—dumb, slut—lit her up, validation in every thrust, every smack, and she ate it up, craving more.

He tugged her hair harder, his hand cracking her ass again, his rhythm savage. “Stupid little bitch,” he grunted, his blue eyes glinting as he watched her writhe. “All you’re good for—tits, ass, this wet fuckin’ hole. My sexy co-host, my personal fuckdoll—fuckin’ love ruinin’ you.” His cock drove in to the hilt, stretching her walls, and she screamed, her body shaking, her fifth orgasm crashing as he humiliated her, owned her.

Zara’s mind spun, hazy with pleasure, drifting back over the months since she’d become his—co-host, fuckdoll, whatever he wanted. He’d taken her home most nights after Liberty and Legs tapings, this penthouse her second skin now—gold fixtures, leather couches, a bar stocked with whiskey she’d pour for him, giggling in her skimpy outfits.

Not every night, though—he kept it non-exclusive, fucking other sluts when he felt like it, leaving her aching for him on those off days. She’d begged to move in once, her green eyes pleading, but he’d laughed, smacked her ass, said he needed his space—”Don’t tie me down, darlin’—plenty of pussy out there.” She’d pouted, but accepted it, too hooked on his cock, his praise, to push.

The show had been her world—thriving, not on wins, but on the flood of attention. Rex rolled her in every debate—climate change, taxes, whatever—her notecards useless, her old sharpness dulled to a giggly blur. She didn’t care—he won, she posed, and the callers, the fans, the crew showered her with crude love: hot, sexy, dumb. She’d lean into it—tube-tops, miniskirts, heels—showing off her gym-toned body, her platinum hair, her pink nails, lapping up their eye-fucking like it was oxygen. Ratings soared, money poured in—more than her old show, less than Rex, but enough for designer bags, spa days, a life of pampered excess.

She didn’t keep up on current events anymore—too busy at the gym, sculpting her ass, or at the salon, bleaching her hair, painting her nails. The staff slipped her notecards before tapings, weak talking points she’d fumble through, but it didn’t matter. Her free time was beauty magazines now—glossy pages of makeup tips, not newspapers—her old feminist fire snuffed out, replaced by a shallow thrill she adored. Rex’s cock, his hands, his words—they’d remade her, and she loved it, loved this—face down, ass up, his dumb, sexy slut.

“Gonna cum, you little whore,” Rex growled, his thrusts erratic, his hand smacking her ass one last time as he buried himself deep. His cock pulsed, thick spurts flooding her cunt, hot and heavy, and Zara climaxed again, her pussy milking him, her scream muffled in the pillow as she shuddered, lost in him. “Fuckin’ take it—best piece of ass I’ve ever had,” he panted, collapsing over her, his weight pinning her as his cock twitched inside.

She moaned, soft and sated, her green eyes dazed, her body humming as his cum leaked down her thighs. “Love you, Rex,” she whispered, barely audible, her heart pounding with the truth of it—his fuckdoll, his co-host, his forever, as long as he’d have her.

The morning sun streamed through the towering windows of the penthouse, glinting off the sleek marble counters of his kitchen where Zara Cole stood, barefoot and humming softly. She wore only lingerie—a sheer black babydoll, the lace barely covering her full C-cup breasts, her nipples peeking through, and a matching thong that hugged her round ass, her long legs bare and glowing above her sky-high heels. Her platinum-blonde hair fell in a messy cascade, her bubblegum-pink nails flashing as she moved—sizzling steak in a cast-iron pan, cracking eggs with practiced ease, his favorite breakfast taking shape. She squeezed fresh oranges into a glass, the juicer whirring, and brewed his coffee just right—black, strong, no sugar—her green eyes soft with contentment as she worked.

Zara’s mind drifted, warm and lazy, reminiscing on the months she’d spent learning to please him like this. Mornings after he fucked her—deep, hard, relentless—she’d wake early, slip into lingerie and heels, and cook for him, her way of thanking him for the way he owned her body, her soul. Last night had been no different—face down, ass up, his cock pounding her into the sheets—and now here she was, serving him, a ritual she’d grown to crave. She flipped the steak, the sizzle filling the air, and smiled to herself, realizing the appeal of it—this traditional feminine role, tending to a man, her man. No debates, no stats, just this—simple, primal, satisfying in a way her old life never was.

She plated the eggs, her thong shifting as she bent to grab a tray, and idly thought of Rex’s upcoming birthday. What to get him? A watch—too basic. A gun—he had plenty. Her green eyes narrowed, musing, as she poured the coffee, steam curling up. Something special, something he’d love, something to show how much she...

Rough hands interrupted her, Rex’s big palms sliding around her from behind, groping her tits through the lace, squeezing hard. Zara gasped, a moan spilling from her plush red lips as he pressed against her, his hard cock—thick, insistent—grinding into her ass through his boxers. “Fuck, Zara,” he growled, his stubble grazing her neck, his musk—sweat, sex—flooding her senses. “Look at you—hot little housewife, cookin’ for me in this slutty getup.”

She melted, her green eyes fluttering as his fingers pinched her nipples, his cock nudging her thong aside. “Rex,” she whimpered, bending over the counter, her hands bracing on the marble, her ass pushing back into him. “For you—always for you.” Her pussy was already wet, aching, and he didn’t wait—yanking her thong down, freeing his cock, and slamming into her cunt with one deep thrust.

Zara cried out, her body rocking as he fucked her against the counter, his huge cock stretching her, pounding her raw. The steak sizzled forgotten on the stove, the coffee cooling as he gripped her hips, his hands roaming to smack her ass, leaving red prints. “Tight fuckin’ pussy,” he grunted, his thrusts brutal, shaking her slim frame. “Dumb, sexy bitch—cookin’ and screwin’, all you’re good for.” His praise—crude, degrading—lit her up, her pussy clenching around him as she moaned louder, loving it, loving the feel of his cock inside her, owning her.

Her platinum hair swung, her tits bouncing in the babydoll as she took him, her mind spinning through the haze of pleasure. And then—there it was, the perfect idea for his birthday, clicking into place as he drove her toward climax. She didn’t voice it—just gasped, her green eyes rolling back as her pussy spasmed, her orgasm crashing through her, her juices slicking his cock. “Rex—fuck, yes!” she screamed, her body trembling, contented, complete.

He groaned, slamming in deep, his cum flooding her as he growled, “Best fuckin’ slut I’ve got.” She smiled, dazed, her cheek pressed to the cool counter, her gift idea locked in—a secret for now, but one she knew he’d love.

The air at the Trump rally crackled with fervor, a sea of red hats and MAGA signs sprawling behind the makeshift stage where Zara and Rex taped a special Liberty and Legs episode. Banners waved—Trump 2028, Keep America Great, Third Term—and giant cutouts of President Trump loomed, his smirking face framing the scene. Zara perched on a stool, her platinum-blonde hair teased high, her bubblegum-pink nails clutching notecards as she popped her gum, her green eyes darting nervously. She wore an American flag bikini—stars over her tits, stripes hugging her slim waist and round ass—her long legs gleaming in platform stripper-heels, bracelets jangling as the crowd’s eyes devoured her. The bikini strained, her chest heaving with each breath, and she felt the heat of their stares, her pussy tingling despite the boos already brewing.

Rex stood beside her, his 6’2” frame commanding in a black MAGA tee, his buzzcut sharp, his stubbled jaw set as he leaned into the mic, his piercing blue eyes glinting. The theme music blared—brassy, patriotic—and he roared over it, “Welcome, patriots, to Liberty and Legs—live from the Trump 2028 kickoff rally! Rex Tanner here with Zara Cole, debating a third term for the Don. Let’s roll!”

The crowd cheered, a wall of noise, as Rex launched in, his voice a sledgehammer. “Trump’s the best damn leader we’ve had—economy boomin’, borders locked, libs cryin’. A third term? Hell yes—give the man what he deserves!”

Zara fumbled her notecards, her gum popping as she squinted at them, her rebuttal lame and shaky. “Uh—okay, so, like, the Constitution? It says two terms, right? 22nd Amendment or something. We can’t just ... change that.” Her voice lilted, weak, and the crowd booed, a low rumble of “Shut up, bimbo!” She pouted, her plush red lips jutting out, her green eyes glum as she flipped her hair, the bikini’s stars shifting over her big tits.

Rex grinned, rolling her flat. “Constitution? Sweetheart, that’s a guideline—people want Trump, we make it happen. He’s a winner—you’re just whinin’ like a loser.” The crowd erupted, “Rex! Rex!” and Zara slumped, pouting harder, her notecards trembling as she tried again.

“Um—precedents matter,” she read, her tone pathetic, “FDR did more, but ... it’s risky?” Boos drowned her, “Go back to the salon!” and she whined, “Ugh, they hate me,” her green eyes darting as Rex steamrolled on.

“Risky? Bullshit—Trump’s a fuckin’ king. FDR was a commie—Don’s pure America. You got nothin’, Zara.” Cheers exploded, and she pouted again, tossing her hair, her bikini barely holding as the crowd jeered her flop.

After a few rounds—each a massacre, her lame stabs crushed by his MAGA fire—Rex turned, his grin softening. “Cheer up, darlin’—you’re takin’ it hard, but I really like that birthday present you got me.”

Zara’s pout vanished, her green eyes lighting up as she leaned toward him, arching her chest, the bikini straining over her new DD-cup fake tits—round, firm, impossibly perky, a fresh upgrade she’d unveiled for him. “Really, Rex? You mean it?” she chirped, her gum popping as she posed, the crowd going wild—whistles, hoots, “Holy shit!”—her implants bouncing slightly, a gift she’d spent weeks planning, funded by her Liberty and Legs cash.

Rex chuckled, his big hand swinging out to grope her right there on stage, his thick fingers sinking into her fake tits, squeezing the silicone mounds through the bikini. “Fuck yeah, I mean it,” he said, his blue eyes glinting as he pawed her, thumb brushing her nipple. “These new double-Ds? Best damn present—hot as hell, babe.”

Zara moaned, loud and needy, her green eyes fluttering as his hands roamed, the crowd roaring applause, “Squeeze ‘em, Rex!”

She giggled, leaning into it, her voice breathy. “I thought even if I’m not pulling my weight in our debates, I could at least do something for the show’s ratings, right?” She popped her gum, tossing her platinum hair, her pussy wet under the bikini bottom as his groping sent shivers through her, the rally’s cheers a drug she craved.

“Damn right,” Rex said, giving her tits one last hard squeeze, drawing another moan as the crowd lost it, her humiliation and arousal a perfect storm under the MAGA banners.

Hours later the Trump rally roared around the Liberty and Legs stage, MAGA signs swaying, the crowd’s energy a fever pitch as Zara slid off her stool and onto Rex’s lap, her American flag bikini glinting under the lights, filled out by her recently-installed bolted-on tits. Her platinum-blonde hair spilled over his shoulder, her bubblegum-pink nails brushing his chest as she cooed, her green eyes soft and adoring, her plush red lips parting in a needy whimper. Debate was over—she’d stopped trying, her notecards scattered on the desk, her role reduced to this: Rex’s sexy, giggling ornament. The crowd hooted, “That’s it, babe!” as she settled, her round ass nestling against his crotch, her long legs draping over his thigh, stripper-heels dangling.

Rex grinned, his 6’2” frame steady under her weight, his black MAGA tee tight as he wrapped an arm around her waist, his mic in hand. “Fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered, then roared into it, launching a tirade. “Trump deserves a third term, patriots—he’s the goddamn GOAT! Built the wall, crushed the libs, made America a beast again. Two terms ain’t enough for a king—let’s rip up the rulebook and give him what he’s earned!” His blue eyes blazed, his stubbled jaw set, the crowd erupting—”Trump! Trump!”—as his free hand roamed her body, casual and possessive.

Zara moaned, low and eager, her green eyes fluttering as his thick fingers slid up her side, groping her new DD-cup fake tits through the bikini’s stars. He squeezed, hard, the silicone yielding under his palm, and she arched into it, her nipples stiffening as she cooed, “Oh, Rex—you’re so right, baby.” Her voice was breathy, her gum long gone, replaced by a needy edge as his hand dipped to her ass, smacking it lightly, then kneading the flesh under the stripes. She grinned, grinding her ass against his cock through his pants, feeling it harden—thick, insistent—pressing into her thong-clad crack.

The crowd cheered louder, “Get it, Rex!” as he ranted on, unfazed, his hand slipping to her thigh, spreading her legs slightly for the cameras. “Libs wanna cap him at two—fuck that! Trump’s a machine—economy’s gold, China’s scared, jobs everywhere. Third term’s destiny!” His fingers dug into her fake tits again, rolling a nipple through the fabric, and Zara whimpered, her pussy soaking the bikini bottom as she rocked harder, her ass teasing his growing erection. She could feel it—eight inches, pulsing, ready—and anticipation burned through her, her mind flashing to the fucking he’d give her after, rough and raw, just how she loved it.

“Love how you talk, Rex,” she purred, loud enough for the mic, her green eyes locked on his as she ground down, her moans mixing with his tirade. “So strong—so hot.” His cock twitched under her, straining his pants, and she shivered, her body buzzing, craving the moment the rally ended—him bending her over, pounding her cunt, owning her like always.

Rex chuckled, his blue eyes glinting as he groped her ass again, his rant rolling. “See, folks—Zara gets it. Trump’s the man, I’m the man—third term’s comin’!” The crowd went wild, her moans a soundtrack to his triumph, her surrender complete—his lap, his hands, his cock her world under the MAGA roar.

The afterparty throbbed in a lavish ballroom, gold chandeliers casting a warm glow over dark wood paneling, the air heavy with cigar smoke and the sharp clink of whiskey glasses. Zara hung on Rex’s arm, her American flag bikini gleaming—stars taut over her new fake tits, stripes clinging to her slim waist and round ass. Her platinum-blonde hair shimmered, teased into a high cascade, her bubblegum-pink nails grazing his black MAGA tee as her platform stripper-heels clicked on the polished floor. Her green eyes sparkled with a vacant sheen, her plush red lips parted in a mindless smile as Rex paraded her through the crowd. He’d already introduced her to senators, judges, power brokers—grinning as they leered at her curves, her role simple: smile, pose, dazzle. She’d giggled, tossed her hair, let their eyes feast, her pussy tingling with each hungry glance, loving her place as his trophy.

Now, Rex guided her toward a stocky man in a pinstriped suit, his hair greased back, a diamond pinky ring glinting as he swirled his drink. “Zara, this is Vince Russo,” Rex said, his blue eyes sharp as he clapped the man’s shoulder. “Key donor—pumps millions into Trump’s machine, calls shots from the shadows.”

Zara flashed a bright, empty smile, arching her back to thrust out her fake tits, her long legs shifting in the heels as she twirled a platinum strand around one manicured finger. “Hi, Vince—so nice to meet you!” she chirped, her voice bubbly, brainless, popping an imaginary piece of gum. She pressed closer to Rex, her bikini brushing his arm, and Vince’s gaze—icy, predatory—scraped over her body, lingering on her chest, her ass, before nodding with a thin, approving smirk.

“Charmed,” Vince said, his voice slick with disdain, then turned to Rex, dismissing her entirely. Zara didn’t care—her part was played. She stayed on Rex’s arm, ornamental, preening as the men talked, her green eyes glazing over, her thoughts drifting to beauty, shopping, homemaking—soft, feminine things that felt right now. Maybe a new mascara, she mused, or that leather skirt at Nordstrom—Rex’d rip it off me fast. She pictured cooking his steak again, brewing his coffee, her contentment in serving him a cozy little hum.

The men’s voices cut through her haze, sharper now, specific and chilling, though she barely noticed. “Third term’s locked,” Vince said, his tone flat, deadly, sipping his whiskey. “We’ve got the Electoral College sewn up—bought the swing states. Next, we gut the Constitution—22nd Amendment’s toast.”