He awoke with a start. Through bleary eyes, he read the clock. 11:50PM. He woke up suddenly on most nights due to his night terrors, but usually it happened sometime around 3AM. This was ridiculous. He had barely just gotten into bed.

Still, it was unlikely that he’d fall back to sleep without an aid, so he turned on the TV. This was his only recourse until his wife started sleeping in his bed again. Usually, a little midnight blowjob would sedate his troubled mind and he’d fall fast asleep (except on Sundays; she didn’t work on Sundays). But that was not an option with his wife still living in New York. Now all he had was Fox News @ Night.

Donald J. Trump sat upright in his bed and watched Fox News, waiting for the inevitable. Soon enough it came. Although the segment was about the left’s war on Christianity, they mentioned his name. No matter what the topic was nowadays, everyone was talking about Trump.

Before I was president, he thought, the media would talk about Iraq and Congress and Obama and the environment. The news was not great. Now, Trump’s taken over, big league. The media are like junkies, addicted to my every word and action. Everyone wants a piece of Trump.

The only downside ... they’re trying to tear me down. The media’s turned against me. The same press that had given me tons of free press now records, replays, and discusses my every mistake for hours on end.

Not that I’ve really made any big mistakes. For a non-politician, I’m doing great. I’d love to see anyone else get as much done as I’ve done in just a few months. Hell, today I must’ve signed 100 laws. I doubt any president—especially Obama—did this much in a few mere months.

I have to fix this. I just have to out-think them. I’m a thinker, so it’s just a matter of time before I figure it out. I’m like some sort of mad genius—no, a stable genius—so it’s just a matter of time until I figure out how to beat them.

He watched with amusement. Fox didn’t always get it right, but Donald felt they always gave him a fair shake, while the rest of the media was praying for his downfall. Fox showed the good and the bad. And they always pointed out the hypocrisy of the left.

Curiosity suddenly struck, and he flipped to CNN, half-expecting to see some flaming effigy of himself. The topic was Russia.

Again, he thought. No talk of the economy, of jobs, of my beautiful soon-to-be-built wall, and how I’m trying to fix health care. No, it’s this Russia bullshit again. My haters will never stop!

Time to tweet. Donald grabbed his phone and readied his thumbs.

“The haters in the mainstream-”

“The hateful media constantly brings up about Russia. Yet look at the-”

He stopped. He needed something more positive. Enough with the angry rants. Focus on your successes! Tell them you’re making America Great Again. MAGA! And Mike did say to stop mentioning Russia.

“Despite the constant negative press coverage,” he attempted to type as he heard a door slam. However, the sudden noise jarred him and his fingers slipped, typing “covfefe” instead of “coverage”. He looked down and saw his mistake. He really should finish his tweet, but the noise probably meant that Ivanka was home. And there was no time to waste.

Donald quickly slid out of bed, dropping his phone on the floor. As the phone fell, it grazed his hand, and he unknowingly hit “Send”. The relatively-quiet noise of the phone dropping didn’t deter him. He peeked through the eyehole of his bedroom door to assess the situation.

Ivanka (or whomever) had closed the hallway door, but left the door to her office open. Perfect. Wanting to keep her close, Donald gave her the office right across from his bedroom. The shared hallway was closed, so no one would see him if he approached her office. Her office where she often changed clothes.

Donald slowly and silently opened his bedroom door, tip-toeing to her office. Two black stilettos were strewn outside partially ajar door. He smiled, knowing there was a chance she was changing. He slid up to the door and peered inside the narrow opening. There was Ivanka, facing away, fiddling with the zipper in the back of her impossibly tight black dress. Jackpot.

People could say whatever they wanted about his dumb fuck-up sons. Donald knew that he did one thing right when he made Ivanka. His failures in business, marriage, and politics ... they didn’t matter because he made her: a smart, beautiful, thoughtful woman. With a bitchin’ bod to boot.

Donald leaned in to catch a better view and unknowingly pressed his diminutive hands against the door. The door creaked ever so quietly. He muttered, “fuck” as Ivanka turned around. She saw him immediately and rolled her eyes.

“Daddy...” she said admonishingly. She was barefoot and the straps of her dress hung lazily off her shoulders. The dress’s zipper perched tantalizingly down a few inches from the top. Her hair was up in a neat bun. It was clear she had just come from a fancy party full of Washington elites.

“Sorry, I was just up because of the TV. And! This is true: I heard you come in, you woke me up so I thought I’d see who it was.”

Ivanka rolled her eyes at his rambling excuse. “You can stay. I was just going to sleep in the office tonight.”

Donald smiled. “How was the affair, darling?”

“Boring,” she said flatly, removing her earrings. “Jen kept introducing me to all these bigwigs and I had no idea what they do, or if they’re going to be important later.” Blonde locks unfurled down to her shoulders as she let her hair down. “Jared was no help. He kept talking to Mr. Kislyak and was drunk in the first hour. I sent him home in an Uber hours ago.” She procured a long shirt from a desk drawer. “Now, Daddy, I need you to turn around.” She said, knowing full well he would leer at her given the chance.

“Of course,” Donald replied, as if he wasn’t just spying on her as she undressed. He turned to face the door he had just entered moments ago. Ivanka also turned around and let her dress fall to the floor. Finally her body was free of awful constrictions!

Donald, of course, turned his head slightly to peer at his daughter out of the corner of his eye. He could see the glorious curve of the sides of her supple breasts. Young and tight. He loved fucking Melania, but his daughter made his wife look like a fucking hag. He quickly turned his head back to the door.

“Okay, you can turn back around,” she told him.

Donald was disappointed to see she was now wearing her nightshirt, essentially a long white tee that went down to her thighs. Her nipples poked at the thin, semitransparent material, which was a small consolation. And her smooth toned legs were clearly visible.

“You are beautiful,” said Donald. “Did I ever tell you that if you weren’t my daughter...”

“Literally every day,” she sighed, shaking her smiling head at him. Her father, the pervert. He was too embarrassing to live, let alone be president of the United States.

“Well, it’s true,” he cooed. “Jared doesn’t know how lucky he is.”

Ivanka hung up the dress in the closet. “He knows.”

“Sorry. I guess I’m a little sore he took you away from me. I still remember when you were your daddy’s girl.”

She smiled. He really was sweet when he wanted to be. “I’m still my daddy’s girl. I’ll always be your girl, Daddy,” she said, looking him in the eyes.

Donald smiled warmly, unaware of his growing erection. They stood there a moment as he looked proudly at his daughter and she stared lovingly back. He placed a small hand on her waist. Then he removed it; after first, slowly, and then quickly, intentionally sliding it down the top of her backside.

“Daddy!”

Donald lifted his tiny hands in the air to protest his innocence. She shook her head at his shamelessness.

“You have to be careful now,” she said softly. “Everyone’s scrutinizing every step we make. They want to take everything we have.” Ivanka noticed the tent in his pajama bottoms. Yep, she thought, my dad is horny. She ignored this thought. “When’s Melania coming to DC?”