Mike Bloomberg Re-Enacts Call Me By Your Name Peach Scene With an Orange
I kept thinking of him as I lay in bed that sultry afternoon. Donald. Donnie. Don. How he called me by his name and I lovingly called him “Mini Mikey,” his pet name for me. How he had penetrated me with his miniature manhood and stretched me to my limits.
I reached for the orange I brought with me. I held it in both hands contemplating the somewhat misshapen orb, for it was a navel orange. The pocked skin of the fruit reminded me of him, orange and rough. The nubbin at the end reminded me of his petite meat.
I began to peal the skin, opening the inside segments. It all began to remind me of his ass. The white of the inner peal clinging to the flesh of the orange reminded me of the thicket of hair hiding his orifice. Having to part it to find my way in.
I was seized by a desperate yearning. I yanked my erection out of my shorts, rubbing it against the flesh of the orange. The citric acid smarted a bit , but I was too rapt in ecstasy to care. I came hard, drenching the violated fruit with my Bloomberg juice.
Spent, I was about to toss the fruit on the floor for the help to find later, when Don opened the door.
“Whatcha doing there, Mikey…er…Donnie?”
“Uh well, Mikey, I was just…”
“Whatcha got there, pal?” Don asked, thick tiny fingers trying to seize the oozing orange from my hand. ” I am yugely hungry right now.”
“Don’t. I can’t bear it,” I whimpered, tears welling in my eyes.
Don bit into the orange, juices running down his face. A secret service agent handed him his handkerchief.