The heavy oak doors of the Kremlin office creaked open, and Tucker Carlson stepped into a world of crimson and gold, his polished loafers sinking into a plush Persian rug. The air was thick with the scent of aged leather and something muskier, something primal. Dim light filtered through velvet curtains the color of spilled wine, casting long shadows over golden Orthodox icons that stared down with judgmental eyes. But it was the enormous framed photo on the wall that stopped Tucker dead in his tracks—a grinning black man, winking at the camera with a mischievous glint, as if he knew something Tucker didn’t.
Before he could process the surreal tableau, a wet, rhythmic slurping sound snapped his attention to the center of the room. There, behind an imposing mahogany desk, sat Vladimir Putinsky, the Russian President himself, his sharp cheekbones and icy blue eyes unmistakable even in this... compromising position. His lips were wrapped around the massive, glistening shaft of a man standing before him—a towering figure with skin like polished ebony, his uniform unbuttoned to reveal a chiseled chest. The man, presumably an aide, stood stoic as a statue, hands clasped behind his back, while Putinsky worked with the dedication of a craftsman.
“Mr. Carlson!” Putinsky’s voice came out muffled, garbled around the impressive girth, but his tone was warm, almost jovial. He didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down, his head bobbing with practiced ease as he gestured for Tucker to take a seat. “Welcome to Moscow. I trust your flight was... how you say... turbulent in all the right ways?”
Tucker’s jaw hung slack, his notepad slipping from his fingers to the floor with a soft thud. He adjusted his tie, his face a mix of horror and morbid fascination. “Mr. President, I—uh—I wasn’t expecting... this kind of welcome.”
Putinsky pulled back for a moment, a string of saliva trailing from his lips as he grinned, wiping his chin with a silk handkerchief embroidered with the Russian eagle. “Ahh, Tucker, you Americans are so prudish. This is Dmitry Ivanov—Big D, as we call him. My most trusted aide. And this—” he gestured proudly to the still-throbbing member before him, “—this is tradition. Black Cock Worship, or BCW, as we call it. A sacred Russian custom, older than the Romanovs.”
Tucker blinked, his mind racing to catch up. He sank into the leather chair across from the desk, trying to focus on Putinsky’s piercing gaze and not the... activity resuming with renewed vigor. “Black... Cock... Worship?” he stammered, his voice cracking like a pubescent boy’s. “You’re telling me this is a cultural thing?”
“Cultural?” Putinsky chuckled, the sound wet and guttural as he multitasked with alarming skill. “It is the *soul* of Russia, my friend. Every citizen, at the age of eighteen, partakes in the initiation. A rite of passage. A... coming of age, if you will.” He winked, and Tucker felt a bead of sweat roll down his temple.
“Eighteen?” Tucker echoed, leaning forward despite himself, his journalistic instincts kicking in. “You mean to tell me every Russian—every single one—does... this?”
Putinsky nodded, pulling back again to take a sip of vodka from a crystal glass on his desk, as if this were a boardroom meeting and not a live porno shoot. “Da, of course. It is a family affair. The birthday boy or girl is the star of the show. Relatives gather, the finest specimen is chosen—always a man of exceptional... endowment, you understand—and the celebration begins. The initiate kneels, the family watches, and then... well, let’s just say everyone gets a taste of glory. Facials for the birthday star are mandatory. It is a blessing, a baptism of sorts.”
Tucker’s face flushed crimson, his hands gripping the armrests of the chair as if anchoring himself to reality. “A family affair? You’re saying parents, siblings, grandparents—they all... participate?”
“Da, da!” Putinsky exclaimed, slapping his thigh with a laugh. “It is bonding, Tucker. You Americans, you send your children to therapy. We send ours to suck. Much healthier, no? Builds character. Builds *strength*.” He flexed a bicep for emphasis, then returned to his task, his eyes glinting with mischief. “You should see the afterparty. Pure debauchery. Babushka gets wilder than anyone, I tell you.”
Tucker swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper. “And this... this tradition, it’s been around for centuries?”
Putinsky nodded, his rhythm unbroken. “Centuries, my friend. It fueled the greatness of our nation. Stalin? He sucked like a champion—those purges, powered by the black rod. Mendeleev? Periodic table came to him mid-blow. The power of the suck, Tucker. It is transformative. It is Russian.”
Tucker scribbled a shaky note, his pen trembling. “I... I don’t even know how to process this. I came here for geopolitics, not... not a front-row seat to a cultural... uh... demonstration.”
Putinsky smirked, finally leaning back in his chair, wiping his chin once more with that silken handkerchief. Dmitry, ever the professional, adjusted his uniform and stepped back, his expression unreadable. “Geopolitics, culture—same thing in Russia,” Putinsky said, pouring another shot of vodka and sliding it across the desk to Tucker. “Drink. You look like you need it. And besides, I have something better than words to show you.”
Tucker hesitated, then grabbed the glass, downing it in one gulp, the burn barely registering over the shock still coursing through him. “Better than words? What could possibly top... this?”
Putinsky’s grin widened, predatory and sly. “Tomorrow, you come with me to Red Square. We train our military in the ways of BCW. Elite soldiers, Tucker. The best of the best. You will see the discipline, the dedication. You will see why Russia is unbreakable.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “And if you’re lucky, I might let you try it yourself. Journalist’s privilege, eh?”
Tucker choked on air, his eyes wide as saucers. “I—I’ll stick to observing, Mr. President. Strictly professional.”
Putinsky threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoing off the gilded walls. “We’ll see, Tucker. We’ll see. In Russia, no one stays professional for long.”
As Tucker stumbled out of the office, his mind reeling with images he’d never unsee, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the beginning. Moscow had already stripped him of his composure—and something told him the real initiation was yet to come.
Want to know how it ends?
This is just the opening chapter. Continue the saga — or write a steamy tale starring you.