The Body Politic
- 3 years ago
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Body Politic - 5 free porn video
When I walked in the flat was dark. Libby had given me a key and I’d hoped to find her home. I walked straight through into the kitchen, opened the fridge and poured myself a glass of white wine. I carried it through into the sitting room and turned on the low lights.
“You took your time.” I nearly jumped out of my skin.
Libby was sitting in a deeply upholstered armchair, her short hair shone as did her eyes. A glass of something amber stood on the table beside her. She wore black silk pyjamas that matched her short cap of hair.
“The PM needed me.”
Her smile was always something to see. “Well, she’s had you and now it’s my turn.” She made a little gesture with her right hand and I understood immediately. I undressed.
When my clothes were spread over the sofa she stood and took my hand. She led me to the bedroom where she got onto the bed and lay on her back, her legs together. As I stood beside the bed she slowly removed her pyjama bottoms and cast them aside, spreading her legs. I didn’t need instructions. I climbed onto the bed and knelt between her feet. Libby Manning could be a total romantic, an utter alpha female or, as in this instance, a woman who simply needed an orgasm. The role afforded me was as provider of that orgasm, a sort of human sex toy. Nobody was ever more willing to do her duty.
I leant into her, my hair brushing her thighs deliberately. Sex toy I might be but there was no way she was getting this without a little teasing.
“Do it.”
I took no notice. I stroked her thighs, working her long legs with my hands firmly, my thumbs getting close to her cunt but never quite touching it. I kept this up for some time.
“Christ, Sam, if you don’t do it now I swear I will make you suffer.”
There is a tipping point between teasing and obedience and that was it. I dropped my face to her and began to lick, lick, lick. I slipped a finger into her and curled it, my tongue swirling around her clit and pee hole. The finger stroked her g spot and my tongue complimented the sensations externally. I was loving it – her toes were on my pussy and I ground myself against them as I worked at pleasing her.
She didn’t take long.
-
I was musing to myself that politics is often about seizing the moment and that Libby had definitely done that the previous evening.
Sally Kurven, the PM’s political consultant was standing at the end of the long table in the meeting room. There were three of us seated at the table; the Prime Minister, Tony Riley and me.
“The problems with successful administrations like yours are first that because you have such a huge majority you can do what you want and often that ends up being your downfall.” She gave three examples of previous experience. “Next there is the unrest among colleagues. You’ve had your time, is their thinking, time to move on. Then there is stagnation. Everything’s working, the economy, unemployment, the health service is recovering, the military are happy. Why do anything?”
Tenant smiled. “A very good question, Ms Kurven. I do hope you’re going to answer it.”
If Kurven was intimidated it wasn’t apparent. “I would suggest that when there is nothing that needs to be done you find something that CAN be done and something that will be your legacy. Not yours personally but your administration’s.
“You have a range of options because the economy is so strong. You could raise pensions for the elderly, reduce or abandon tuition fees for students or a combination of those. You could reduce taxation, you could reduce it by quite a lot in fact with no major impact.”
Tony Riley spoke. “But you’re not going to recommend those are you?”
She grinned. “Why be mundane? Why not be extraordinary?
“The big concerns facing the world are terrorism, global warming and antibiotic resistance. Your strengthened military and security services mean terrorism is being dealt with. The other two subjects are being addressed but slowly and inefficiently. I propose that rather than being mundane you demonstrate statesmanship as nobody else has, nobody anywhere in the world. Lead by example.
“It’s a three pronged attack. One: you make massive funding available for research into the development of alternative energy sources and alternative cures. You fund businesses and academic institutions. You set challenges like Kennedy did about getting to the moon but unlike him you offer rewards for steps along the critical path to their achievement.
“Two: you remove tuition fees from students who are studying relevant subjects.
“Three: you create a new Ministry, one with Cabinet status to oversee these developments and appoint someone with massive credibility to drive it.”
She sat down.
Tenant fired off a series of questions, all of which Kurven handled impeccably. Satisfied, Tenant dismissed us.
Two days later she called me to her office. It was about 9pm and she invited me to sit and to have a drink with her. This had become a pretty regular thing in recent months.
“As you know I’ve been talking to the ‘hyenas.” This was her term for her colleagues. “They all say they agree which means that some of them do. I think we can do it but I need you to do two things. First, write me a speech for the Company Directors’ dinner next week. Second, approach Libby Manning about heading up the new ministry. It’ll be a big promotion for her but she’s ready and she’s good, very good in fact.”
Tenant knew that Libby and I were almost an item.
“May I ask why you don’t approach her yourself.”
“Because if I ask her she has to agree or snub me. If you sound her out it gives her options.”
“She knows I am your staff.”
“She also knows why I’m doing it this way. It gives her a way out.”
Libby and I had not started to live together but when work allowed I stayed with her. I kept a few things there: toothbrush, nightdresses, underwear and some clothes. It was about 11 when I got there and, predictably, Libby was still working. A large glass of red wine stood beside the papers on her desk. She wearing a long, black satin dressing gown so was obviously ready to go to bed.
She didn’t look up. “How is the exciting Miss Kurven?”
I’d told her about my night with her. “I haven’t seen her for a couple of days but she seemed fine then.”
“I’ve decided that when you fuck someone else I am going to punish you. I’m not prohibiting it, rather the opposite in fact. What’s good for the goose and so on.” She turned, smiling at me. “Get yourself a drink and come and sit beside me.”
I went to the kitchen and poured myself a glass then sat with her, my skirt pulled up and my knees apart as she had told me to.
Libby put her pen down, put the pile of papers into her box and closed and locked it. “You’re late.” It wasn’t a complaint.
“I’ve been with the PM. I have to ask you something.”
“Take your top off.” I knew what she was like when she was in this sort of mood. I took it off. “What did you have to tell me?”
She picked up her wine and eyed me over its rim.
“Have you been told about her new initiative?”
“I have. Take your knickers off.”
I stood up, slipped them off and handed them to her then sat again with my legs open.
“You know it will involve a new department?”
“Yes.” She took a sip. “Put a finger inside.”
I did. “The PM wants you to consider the job.”
“Did you suggest me?”
“No.”
“Good. So she’s asked you to tell me so that if I don’t want it there’s no loss of face for either of us.” She put her glass down and stood, moving behind me, she ran her hands down from my shoulders to my nipples which she held a little tightly. Her mouth came down to my ear. “Should I take the job?”
“You’re by far the best choice.”
She whispered, “Are you biased?” Her fingers tightened, making me gasp a little.
“Of course I am. But I am also right.”
Her lips brushed my ear, her tongue swirled around it. “Tell her I’d like to discuss it with her. The answer is almost certainly yes. Have you eaten?”
“Yes, Libby.”
“Well, you will have to eat some more before sleep time comes.” Her grin was that of a wolf.
-
“Will you be accompanying Ms Manning to the dinner?”
The question came from a reporter for the Daily Siren, a ghastly, sordid red-top newspaper that relished scandal. She, Tamsyn Loftus, was a pinch-faced woman of about fifty. Her love of scandal was notorious. The dinner to which she referred was a state dinner for a visiting African President later that week. I didn’t answer.
“Did you get her the job?” Persistent cow. It was two months after Libby had been made Secretary of State for Technological Development, the role Kurven had outlined. I’d mentioned my relationship with Libby to the PM but she’d simply said, “I know,” and carried on.
A little later, in the PM’s private office I told Sylvia Tenant about the incident with the vile Ms Loftus. I knew from her ineffable calm that she was furious. She picked up the phone on her desk and pressed a button.
“Get me on the Colin Shore programme this evening.” Colin Shore was one of the BBC’s most aggressive interviewers. “Yes, exclusive and tell him he can ask me anything he wants.”
I watched the programme alone in my office later that evening. It was all pretty straightforward until he raised Libby’s appointment.
“I understand, Prime Minister, that Libby Manning is in a relationship with a senior member of your staff, your Deputy Chief of Staff in fact.”
Tenant made no reply and I knew she’d prepared for this. She waited. Shore waited but if either was going to win the stare off it wasn’t him.
“Prime Minister?”
“I was rather hoping you might ask me a question, Colin.”
“Is it true?”
“It it, yes.”
“So was it appropriate for her to be appointed to lead your flagship initiative?”
“’Britain for the 22nd Century’ is indeed a flagship initiative…” She went on to explain it as if to a child.
“I understand all that but the question is about the propriety of selecting someone in a lesbian,” the word was stressed as if it meant something distasteful, “relationship? Especially when some would think that with her partner being someone so close to you, her selection smacked of nepotism.”
Tenant looked directly at the camera. “You’d think, wouldn’t you, that informed people like you, Colin, would have known that I decide who is appointed to my Cabinet and I who decide the roles they should have. Of course I receive advice but in this particular case my Deputy Chief of Staff quite rightly first, reminded me of her relationship with Libby and second, took no part in her selection.
“Libby Manning is the right woman for the job. I fear that while I am looking to the next century, too many people are languishing in the last especially when it concerns matters of relationships. My Deputy Chief of Staff has done a fantastic job and will continue to. Libby is doing a fantastic job and will continue to. The fact they are developing a happy and rewarding relationship is, surely, to be welcomed.”
“Indeed Prime Minister but the suspicion of nepotism will remain in some people’s minds.”
“So, Colin, does the notion that the earth is flat. Shall we discuss politics?”
God, I love that woman.
-
The PM believed that once a month she should take time out to listen to ordinary people, their concerns, their needs and so we were tasked that one letter from her massive postbag should be brought to her attention and the writer invited to Number 10 for tea and a meeting.
The letter I had chosen was from a woman who ran a small charity in Norfolk for people who suffer from some sort of disfigurement; not the disabled but those with, for example, crossed eyes, ears that stick out too much, or speech impediments. The letter touched me but I have to admit there was a funny side to this. Sitting in the PM’s office I was explaining the nature of the cause to her when Sylvia Tenant asked to see the letter.
“Who wrote it?”
“Pearl,” I began to reply.
Humour is not a particularly strong element of life in Number 10 so when it happens it assumes greater potency than it otherwise might. Have you ever noticed how laughter can be like a gin trap? It sits there, hidden in the undergrowth and then springs as you tread on it. I suddenly lost it. It started with a little shift of my shoulders and then sort of burst and my stomach began to heave and I was laughing like a drain, my eyes streaming. I couldn’t speak.
“Pearl who?”
I was lost and simply couldn’t answer so handed her the letter and watched as she read it all the way down to the signature.
She looked up at me as if regarding an imbecile and then said, “Pearl Barley?”
I nodded and the gale of laughter washed over me again and, infectious as it is, it started the PM off too. We were hooting, racked with painful laughing so loud that her Secretary burst in fearing the worst. Tenant and I were incoherent. The PM slammed her hand down on the desk, startling me to silence.
“For goodness sake, Lovett, pull yourself …..” and then she lost it again.
Two days later, Ms Pearl Barley arrived at Number 10. Her two front teeth were huge and shaped like an inverted V. This gave her ‘S’s” a sibilant quality as if she were whistling. I do not mock, I assure you but I was in danger of laughing merely because of her name and the memory of cracking up with Tenant a few days before. I delivered her to a reception room and hastily withdrew, passing a determined looking Prime Minister as I did so.
Twenty minutes later I was called back and, fearing the worst, went in to find the two of them in earnest discussion, clearly absorbed in each other.
“Sam, Ms Barley makes a very, very strong case for her cause. Seldom have I been so moved and I believe we should and therefore will do all we can to help her. I have said I will discuss this matter at my next audience with Her Majesty and seek Royal Patronage for it. I have also said that we will, as a government, supply all the assistance we can. Thank you, Sam, for bringing this to my attention. Kindly show Ms Barley out.” I did so.
I went to the dinner for the African President. It was what Libby called a ‘full-fig’ do; dinner jackets, evening dresses, jewellery and medals. Libby, as I may have said before, makes no concession to convention and wore a tuxedo, white, over black trousers and a purple bow tie. She looked fantastic of course. My dress was deep blue, tiny straps and tight at the waist. My shoes matched. As we were presented to the President a few eyebrows were raised particularly because in his country homosexuality is still illegal. I’d raised that with both Libby and Tenant. Their responses were similar.
“Fuck them,” said Libby.
“We’re not in his country,” said Tenant.
I watched Libby working the room during pre-dinner drinks. She was wonderful at it, moving between guests, a word here, a smile there. Tenant was stuck with the President who seemed to have had more than his share of the whisky. I spent my time catching up with a few of the hyenas, talking about the new Ministry, thanking them for their support (even when they hadn’t given any) and generally doing what a Deputy Chief of Staff does. Tony Riley was doing the same thing. We met at the side of the room.
“Christ I so hate these affairs.” He looked weary.
“Me too, Tony. Anything useful come out of it so far?”
“One little bit of info that might be worth noting. Perry Cadbury.”
“What about him?”
Perry Cadbury was the Defence Secretary and not one of Tenant’s biggest fans.
“You recognise Admiral Caroline Booth of course?” I nodded. “Dear old Perry, luminary of the Methodist Church, a staunch teetotaler and upholder of family values, married for thirty years, three kids and anti abortionist.”
“I know.”
“He’s shagging the Admiral.” If I looked aghast, it was because I was. Cadbury was probably the ugliest man I’d ever seen and nauseatingly churchy, constantly wittering on about God and morality. “He’s been shagging her ever since he got Defence.”
“Does the boss know?”
Riley smiled. “Odd you should ask because I have a little plan. Watch and learn, Lovett.” He turned on his heel and waggled his fingers in a mock goodbye as he approached the editor of one of our great newspapers.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and knew immediately whose hand it was.
“I am going to take you home after this charade, bend you over the back of the sofa, lift your dress and rip your knickers down and fuck you.”
“You can't.”
An eyebrow lifted questioningly. I opened my little evening bag and showed her the knickers I’d been wearing when we left her flat.
“You are such a dirty bitch, Sam.” She didn’t know then about the little jewel nestling between my buttocks.
“Did you know about Perry Cadbury and the Admiral?”
“Is that a new version of an old joke?”
“Riley’s just told me that pontificating Perry and the Jolly Jill Tar are, as it were, exchanging bodily fluids and have been for some time.”
“Oh, Sam. This is going to be such fun.” Her eyes sparkled.
-
It was about midnight when we got back to her flat. True to her word she pushed me to the sofa, bent me over its back, lifted my dress and…stopped dead. I felt a finger on the little jewel.
“Well, well, well.” Her voice was a little husky. “You just wait here while Libby gets tooled up.” She slapped my arse and leant to kiss my mouth. “You are a bad girl and bad girls are simply the best.”
Elissa
- 21.02.2021
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- Category:
- Lesbian
