Kamala Harris

First Selection/First Year

The stage is set bright lights, patriotic banners, and a buzzing crowd of human and anthro spectators filling the massive open air convention. Journalists adjust their microphones, camera crews steady their shots, and political aides scurry in the background, all while the air hums with anticipation. The scent of sweat and excitement mingles with the thick musk radiating from the podium, where Kamala Harris stands, legs slightly spread, one furred hand working furiously beneath her legs, the other kneading her plump wet pussy.

“On air in five minutes!” says her beige blue eyes dog assistant as Kamala Harris masturbates on the podium

"Yes, I know, just one second." Kamala Harris responds as she fondles her huge tits and fingers herself. Kamala Harris desperately wants to relieve a little stress before her big moment. Kamala Harris can’t seem to cum however, not matter how hard she tries.

A young fox reporter near the front row shifts in his seat, his ears twitching as he catches the unmistakable wet squelch of fingers plunging into slick folds. His tail puffs up slightly, and he glances nervously at the human woman next to him a seasoned journalist who clears her throat, her face flushed as she stubbornly pretends not to notice.

Two security guards a broad-shouldered German Shepherd and a human in a tight suit stand rigid at the sides of the stage. The German Shepherd’s nostrils flare as the potent, musky scent of Kamala’s arousal fills the air. His tail stiffens involuntarily, and he clenches his jaw, eyes locked forward with trained discipline. The human guard, meanwhile, wipes sweat from his brow, shifting his weight uncomfortably, trying not to look directly at the way her blazer gapes open, revealing the dark, puffy areola peeking through her black bra.

"Fuck, I need to cum," Kamala sighs, her velvety voice low but not quite hushed enough microphones pick it up, and the sound engineers exchange panicked looks. One of them, a rabbit with nervous fingers, fumbles with the dials, trying to mute the feed, but it’s too late every news station broadcasting live just caught the Vice President moaning on national television. But Kamala, Kamala can’t cum, she furiously fingers her sopping wet vagina in front of the large crowd, desperately chasing the elusive orgasm she needs

A deer intern backstage drops her clipboard, her ears perking in shock. "Oh my god," she squeaks, wide-eyed, as Kamala’s tail lashes behind her, her hips grinding against her own fingers. The intern’s phone buzzes it’s her group chat blowing up with texts like "IS THIS REAL LIFE???" and "Do we stop her???"

Kamala’s grin never wavers, even as she lets out a frustrated growl, her claws digging into her own plush thigh. "Almost… there," she pants, her massive cock now fully unsheathed, twitching thickly in the open air, precum beading at the tip. The crowd murmurs some shift in discomfort, others lean forward, transfixed. A few phones are already recording.

The director’s voice crackles in the assistant’s earpiece: "We can’t cut this, just roll with it America’s watching!"

The assistant gulps, then steps back helplessly as the red "ON AIR" light flickers on.

Mid-Year 2 – End of Year 3: “No More Excuses”

The White House Press Briefing Room is packed. The air is heavy with musk and sweat, the scent of Kamala’s arousal thick enough to taste. Flashbulbs pop, but not just for her words-for every twitch of her thick cock, every slick gleam between her thighs. She stands at the podium, completely nude except for a single presidential sash draped over one shoulder and a string of pearls around her neck.

Her paws-manicured, gleaming-rest on the lectern as she addresses the nation, her tail flicking lazily behind her. She doesn’t bother to hide anything anymore. There’s no point. The microphone catches every wet sound as her fingers slide between her legs, teasing her pussy while she speaks.

"The-ah-economy remains strong," she announces, her voice trembling only slightly. A bead of sweat rolls down her temple. Her fingers curl deeper, and her cock twitches, fat and heavy against her stomach. The press doesn’t even pretend to look away. Cameras zoom in. Live broadcasts blur nothing.

Someone in the front row clears their throat. "Madam President," a reporter begins, voice steady, "can you comment on the latest Senate bill?"

Kamala exhales sharply, her fingers working in slow circles. "Mmm. Of course." Her tongue darts out, licking her lips before she drags two fingers into her mouth, sucking them clean with an audible pop. Then, without missing a beat, she continues

"The bill is-ah-important." Her breath hitches. "But I think, nnh, we can all agree… some things are… more urgent." Her hips rock forward, grinding against the edge of the podium. A wet spot darkens the wood under her. The room is silent except for the sound of her slick folds being toyed with.

"For example," she pants, "I need to be bred. Right now."

The reporters scribble notes. One adjusts his glasses, unfazed. Another checks his watch.

*Kamala’s thighs shake. She doesn’t stop touching herself, doesn’t even try. "I mean it," *she whimpers, her voice cracking. "Fill me. Use me. I can’t-I can’t think straight until someone does."

No one moves to help. No one rushes the stage. They just watch some with detached professionalism, others with open hunger as she loses control, her orgasm hitting hard enough to make her knees buckle. She gasps, her cock pulsing, her cunt clenching around nothing. Pearls of cum splash onto the floor. The cameras keep rolling.

When it’s over, she slumps forward, panting. Her smile is back shaky, but there. A staffer steps up silently, handing her a glass of water. She takes it with trembling hands, sipping as if nothing happened.

"So. About that bill," she says, voice hoarse but steady. "I’m ready to sign it… right after my next break."

The press nods. The nation watches. And the ratings?

Through the roof.

Public Reaction:

• Cult Followers: A surge of devoted supporters treat her every appearance like a religious experience. "I Want It So Badly" becomes a slogan, printed on T-shirts, flags, and novelty dildos bearing her likeness.
• Political Backlash: Opposition leaders argue she’s unfit but their speeches are drowned out by the sound of millions masturbating to her latest press conference.
• Media Frenzy: Late-night hosts joke, "Kamala’s the only politician who actually delivers." Clips of her moaning through policy statements go viral as both satire and porn.
• Merchandising Gold: Action figures (with "realistic" features), scented candles ("Eau de Oval Office"), and limited-edition posters sell out instantly.

And Kamala?

She’s never been more popular or more desperate in her life.

"Total Slut President – Year 4 & Reelection Day"

The stage is drenched in the blinding glare of floodlights as President Kamala Harris White waddles forward, her monstrously swollen belly swaying with every step, veins pulsing beneath thin, stretched fur. The gold bell on her choker jingles with each movement, a cheerful counterpoint to the wet slap of her milk-dripping breasts against her stomach.

She doesn’t bother with a podium anymore-just stands bare and proud, her wild, unkempt pubic bush on full display, the tattoos "Puppy Maker" and three little hearts glistening with sweat. The crowd roars as she grabs the microphone with a sloppy lick, her bright blue lips smearing across it before she moans into the mic:

"Mmmf-America… you’ve kept me so full… but I need more."

Her orange-heart pupils dilate as her free paw slips between her thighs, fingers sinking into her soaked cunt with practiced ease. The audience erupts-some in cheers, some in shock, but no one looks away.

"Vote for me… and I’ll let you milk me while you still can," she pants, rolling her hips, her fat cock twitching against her belly as precum dribbles down in thick strands. "Four more years… of breeding, of leaking, of-ah!-taking everything you give me!"

On cue, her press secretary, a sharply dressed aide with a deadpan expression, steps forward. Without hesitation, he takes one of her swollen nipples into his mouth, sucking hard until thick streams of milk spray across his face. Kamala whimpers, her legs shaking, her body convulsing as another orgasm rips through her.

"See?!" she cries, voice cracking. "Still-ngh!-still productive, still strong-still-!"

She cums mid-sentence, her cock erupting in fat, syrupy ropes that splatter across the stage. The bell on her neck jingles wildly as she writhes, her pregnant belly heaving, her "Milk Me" tattoo glistening under the stage lights.

The crowd is frenzied. Some faint. Some scream. Some drop to their knees and start masturbating on the spot.

But when the votes are tallied?

Landslide victory.

Her face smeared blue lipstick, milk-streaked fur, sloppy, fucked-out expressionis plastered on every news outlet.

Her new term begins with a national holiday: "Milking Day."

And her legacy?

Unstoppable. Unashamed. Unfit for anything but being America’s Total Slut President.