Three years later
Obama was preparing some pesto sauce pasta, its color resembling Harry's beautiful orbs. Harry, meanwhile, was wiping his ass after taking a huge shit. The sight of the poopy napkin caused Harry to blush profusely. It reminded him of Barack's disgustingly gorgeous orbs.
His smitten look turned into dread in an instant when he felt shit leaking from his bootyhole. Again. Harry's tummy wasn't well lately. As it turns out, there is a thing called 'too much shrimp', as he had opposed to on his wedding.
It had been a week after their wedding, and Harry's anus was still releasing loose shit as if it were the Niagara Falls. Imagine having sex with a guy with a poopy asshole. Barack had to. Hell, he had to fuck that asshole. While it was quite pleasurable for the fuckee, it was kind of a shitty situation (pun intended) for Barack. Harry should have douched before doing the nasty.
Harry groaned as he clenched his tummy, attempting to calm down the dull pain he was feeling. He didn't feel like eating anything.
But, Barack's pesto pasta were to die for. And so was Michelle's Baked Ziti, and Timothee's Ratatouille. It was decided. Harry was more than ready to sacrifice another pair of boxers for some delicious gourmet meal.
Michelle and Timothee Chalamet, who were married for over a year now, had adopted a baby together. They had named him Barack Chalabama, after Michelle's ex-husband-turned-to-brother, Barack. They named him Barack because Timothee was an Obama-supporter, and naming the child Barack was a way of thanking the old man to divorce Michelle, because if he hadn't moved out of her life, she would have never met Timothee. And now, the couple were coming to the Obama-Styles residence for a nice chitchat.
They eventually did arrive, along with the one Harry was willing to meet the most. That delicious Ratatouille. While Harry's mouth begged him to devour it, Harry's ass leaked just at the sight of it. By the time Barack, Michelle, Timothee and the tiny human just sat on the dining chairs, Harry had already rushed into the bathroom.
Michelle and Timothee were busy telling Barack about their meet-cute.
"So, like, I met Timothee after I had left the Eiffel Tower. He was standing there, all tall and handsome. When his eyes fell on me, he..." Michelle giggled like a maniac, leaning onto her husband's shoulder.
"I kinda sang for her." Timothee's face had turned red.
"Oh, tell him what you sang!" She nudged him.
In a quiet, shy voice, he sang,
"Politics, yup! Politics, yup! Mrs. Obama! Mrs. Obama!"
Soon, the couple decided to go home. Harry had spent the entire time in the bathroom, having the greatest shit of his life. A few hours later, he came out, satisfied with how light he felt.
"Did they leave already?" He questioned Barack, who was loosening his tie.
"Bruh, it's been 3 hours AFTER they left."
"Oh. They did leave the Ratatouille and the Baked Ziti, right?"
"Sorry babe. The Ratatouille got finished, and baby Chalabama pissed on the Baked Ziti."
"Damn it!" Harry pouted, clearly unhappy.
"What can I do to make you happy, hmm?" Barack gently kissed Harry's nose.
"It's kinda your fault, y'know. You could have left me some." Harry said, hiding the smirk that was creeping onto his face.
Barack smiled devilishly, placing his wrinkly palm on Harry's chest.
"Sorry. You aren't gonna punish me, are you... master?"
"I will." He stared at Barack with such intense eyes, that Barack got a boner. Without using viagra! That was a first! That's the impact Harry had on him.
"What should I do for you, master?" Barack grasped Harry's peepee, causing him to growl. Harry removed his hand from there, and onto his ass.
"I want you to fuck me raw."
Barack smirked.
"Have you douched?"
"Why do you think I took long in the bathroom?"
Barack's smirk grew wider, as he shut the bedroom door.
You know what happened in there.