The vomiting incident
Pairing: George W. Bush x George H.W. Bush. I don't think any warnings are sufficient for this. I wouldn't even know where to begin!
The year was 1992. George H.W. Bush was ready to impress his country, and furthermore the Japanese as well. He was president, he had no other choice. It was impress or die. Well, not die, just get roasted on television. And really that was worse, in a way – having such a carefully fragile public image was a lot to deal with. Every day George found himself quaking at the responsibilities he had to carry on his shoulders.
And there he was, prime minister Kiichi Miyazawa. George was sitting next to him, a wide banquet around them. He couldn’t feel any cameras on him. He sure hoped there weren’t any.
That wasn’t something he could start thinking about. If he did he would never stop.
“Mr. President,” Kiichi said. “Are you alright?”
George’s thoughts were swimming. His stomach felt odd.
“Yes, prime minister. I’m just great! Oh boy am I just-” He lurched. “I’m great! Just really great. Don’t you worry.”
Kiichi squinted at him. Others around them did the same.
Oh dear lord, George thought. God, you up there? Ya hear me? You better! Let’s keep it in tonight, alright?
God wasn’t listening, apparently, because as soon as George had that thought, raising his head up high and keeping his posture strong, he hurled. An image of his recent diarrhea issues flashed through his mind. He wondered how it would taste. It was a bad thing to wonder.
Kiichi looked blank. On the man’s lap was now a pile of vomit. George was leaning to the side, a torrent of grossness flooding out of him faster than he could follow.
“Mr president,” Kiichi said.
There was shouting. The banquet was in an uproar. George swore he heard clicks, saw the flashing of lights. Everything was crazy. But no cameras, right?
Wait, no, he thought. CNN’s definitely getting this. Dag nabbit!
...
“Poppy, oh Poppy, it’ll be alright.”
The only person who could possibly remedy such a shameful incident was George’s own son. George W. Bush sat across from him and told him sweet nothings. He was a comforting presence, but it just wasn’t enough.
“Heh. I hope so. Damn it, son, I don’t know. Everything’s going to shit!”
“Poppy please, it’s not that bad. You’re still president. Mr. president!” Dubya flourished his arms wide. “This is nothing. Absolutely nothing! No one’s gonna remember this come a week from now. Trust me!”
George set his drink down and sighed. He had to believe it. This would be forgotten in a few days and that would be that. It was a health issue. Nothing more. It wasn’t his fault.
After a moment of silence George picked up the glass again, swaying it back and forth and listening to the ice cubes clank in the whiskey they floated in.
Dubya was giving him an odd look. He crossed his arms, studying George with a curious and probing expression.
“Whatcha looking at, Little George? Cat got your tongue?” George kept his voice playful despite his mood.
“It’s been a long time since you called me that, Poppy,” Dubya whispered. “A very long time.”
George suddenly felt uneasy. Scared. His gut churned. Oh dear god not again-
Dubya was destined for great things. George knew it. Right now he worked in baseball, but soon he would run for governor. That was the plan, the same one they’d hashed out again and again every night. From there, the Bush name would carry him to stardom. George knew it, and he knew Dubya would pull through.
Dubya moved fast. He grabbed George by the collar and punched him in the gut, then again, and again, holding him over the dinner table until George came undone. Yes, George knew his son was destined for great things, and maybe this was a sign George was destined for nothing.
George hurled. Again. It poured out of his mouth and ruined the expensive tablecloth, then trickled down the wood onto the ground below it.
“There you go Poppy.” Dubya rubbed his back. “Let it all out.”
“George? Wha-”
Dubya didn’t let him continue. He socked him in the gut once again, prompting more vomit to join the existing stains. The dinner Dubya had made for him was now spewed out in front of him, a disgusting sign of his own weakness.
“Poppy oh Poppy, my dear old dad.” Dubya chuckled. “You embarrassed yourself. Yourself and your whole damn country! How does it feel? Can’t be good.”
“No, uh, no it ain’t,” George stuttered.
“Well I’ll make it up to ya. Don’t you worry dad!”
Dubya laughed as he dragged him to his feet. George’s face was slammed straight on the table, directly in his vomit. Dubya shoved down his pants and exposed his ass to the air. George nearly hurled again as he felt something cold and slimy touch his asshole.
“Not the best lube around,” Dubya said. “But it’ll do!”
Dubya rubbed vomit all over his cock. The room already smelled disgusting, but the more he spread around the vomit the worse it got. George sobbed in protest but his son didn’t listen.
Dubya fucked him rough and fast. The vomit did little to aid Dubya’s cock in entering him. It stung. Pain radiated through his body, and George didn’t know if he could stay awake. The smell made him woozy, and his son’s cock inside him made him burn.
“George…” he whined. “This is… improper. C’mon now… no more of–“
“Poppy!” Dubya squealed. “Shut your damn mouth! You don’t know when to shut up, do ya?” He started cackling again. “I was just about to cum, and then you had to go and ruin it! Shame on you!”
Dubya kept fucking him for hours. Because of his protest George had apparently killed Dubya’s boner, and now his son had to start all over. Or so he said. George kept himself awake. He stayed strong. Dubya fucked him slow and sloppy and pushed through the disgusting stench. The vomit began to dry and crust, and long after that Dubya finally finished.
George felt the cum fill up his deepest regions. His body quivered with it. To be defiled like this by his own son was, was-
Well it was dirty. Very dirty. George’s suit was disgusting and soiled now.
Soiled with his vomit. With the evidence of his failure.
“Ohhhhh Poppy…” Dubya whined. “I haven’t cum in weeks. The missus has been rowdy lately. Keeps telling me to pull out! So I just haven’t been jizzing. Y’know how it is.”
George groaned.
“That was my special load, dad. I saved it up just for you!”
Dubya didn’t bother to clean up the aftermath. A maid would get it, surely. Instead he dragged George to the shower and washed him off, then dragged him further into bed with him.
George lay on his own son’s chest. The son who was shorter than him. He couldn’t take this. He couldn’t!
Yet his cheek fell on Dubya’s pecs all the same. Still his head felt fuzzy.
“How about another round, eh?” Dubya wisecracked.
Dubya said it like a joke, but George could feel his son’s cock growing under him.
Oh bother, George thought.