The Circle Politics
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Sexual Politics free porn video
This is a Romance between a heterosexual couple, it contains some sex and some rude language. If your preferences lie elsewhere, I suggest a back-click. Copyright: neonlyte-06/2006
*
Jack had whisked her away from England almost before she’d had time to blink, and certainly before she had time to reconsider the decision she’d taken and the career she’d chosen to abandon. He hired a small business jet for the short flight, for expediency rather than to impress.
‘Why Dinard?’ she asked as the plane began its descent.
‘It’s traditional,’ he answered, holding her hand across the narrow gangway.
‘How so?’
‘It has long been a refuge for the fallen. In the late nineteenth century it was the home for failed politicians,’ he paused, ‘and for adulterers, bankrupt aristocrats and swindlers. Mostly English,’ he added, ‘it was known as the ‘Brighton of Brittany’.’
She laughed, ‘And which of those am I?’
‘Dinard became a great favourite for European gentry in the early twentieth century,’ he said, avoiding a direct answer, ‘the fallen could continue mingle with their peers in holiday mansions they had constructed along the cliff tops. Off limit soirees — even the disgraced had their uses. The people who own homes here will surprise you.’
She caught the hint. This escape wasn’t to be entirely a holiday. ‘Jack, you’ve brought me away without a thing to wear.’
‘We’ll shop. I’ll enjoy buying clothes for you. Lingerie, it’s high time you wore French lingerie.’
She slapped the back of his hand playfully, pleased he’d remembered, and sat back in her seat, ready for the landing.
‘Nowadays Dinard is famous for its Film Festival,’ Jack continued, seemingly oblivious to the wind buffeting the small jet on its final approach to the airport, he sensed her nervousness and wanted to distract her, ‘Hitchcock used to holiday here, on the river Rance, he filmed ‘Psycho’ at a villa overlooking Plage D’Ecluse. It was not filmed in America, as most people believe.’
Jack had booked a suite at the Grand Hotel overlooking the bay. She didn’t know whether to be impressed by the greeting he received as a well known guest, or jealous of whom he might have brought with him on previous visits. They shopped, spent time on the beach, he hired a launch to take her down the Rance for a lunch at the medieval town of Dinan. And they spent a great deal of time in the suite, familiarizing at leisure, reclaiming territory.
‘So… I’m to be some kind of trophy.’
She framed the words as a statement freed of indictment or malcontent, but still delivered with a slight intonation, and managing almost — if not quite — to question him. Jack didn’t answer immediately. He remained uncertain as to the extent of her complicity and whether her willingness to accommodate his escalating requests was a measure of her security of their union, or whether she agreed to his suggestions by way of recompense.
She raised her head from the cotton pillowcase covering the duck-down filled pillow, took her weight on her forearms, and turned her face toward him, her grey eyes alerted into attentive wakefulness by his request. In the ensuing silence, he imagined he could hear the air sucking into her pillow as the duck-down strove to assume its natural shape. And she watched him, as his eyes irresistibly wandered from hers beguiled by the relative novelty of her complete and relaxed nakedness, across the tanned skin of her shoulder, to the angular protrusion of her shoulder blade. She monitored the direction of his gaze, down, across the concave expanse of her back, pausing at the base of her spine, hesitating over the dimpled hollows each side of her spine marking the spring of her buttocks, and she smiled, as his eyes rose, crossed the curve of what might be described as an ample bottom, and his tongue dabbed anticipatively at the corner of his mouth. She involuntarily pushed the recently shaved mound of her pubis — another of his recent requests — against the bed. He smiled.
‘You want to show me off,’ she said, with the same soft cadence, her voice calling his eyes back to hers, ‘some kind of trophy?’
Her quietly spoken words almost made him feel guilty, though it was guilt entirely without a hint of remorse. He regretted nothing, except the wasted years. Only the two of them knew the true extent of the banality forlornly masquerading in public as ‘her life’.
They had tried to stay apart. Their relationship, sexually driven from the outset, spanned two decades. It began at university, Cambridge in England, and consummated — despite their political polarities — at snatched moments across the intervening years. Their passion spanned two broken and childless marriages. Jack’s marriage had been no more than a failed diversion, an attempt to wean himself from desiring to possess her, and her own, had been loving to a degree, but lacked the compulsion that might have made her wish to bear her husbands’ children. She used politics, her career, as her excuse to remain childless, always aware of the price required to have Jack’s child growing in her womb. Her husband had the good grace to ask her for a divorce, honourably citing his own infidelity, which only served to raise sympathy with the voting public and her stock in the political arena.
Some people — people to whom she had once extended the courtesy of friendship — judged hers and Jacks to be a sordid relationship. They condemned her, behind her back for the most part, since none of her former quasi-friends rooted in the collegial bonding of high office had the nerve to confront her face-to-face. These so-called former friends conducted their pillorying through the media, as if the squalid media had a reputation to uphold! A divine hypocrisy, she mused, a media with morals, almost worthy of an opera. The ‘red-top’ newspapers accused her of sacrificing a life that most of her genre would metaphorically kill to achieve. Betrayal was the word of the moment, though one of the ‘high brow’ newspaper editorials had penned her as ‘perfidious’. She’d taken exception to the description, had reached for her telephone intent on extracting an apology, treachery had played no part in her decision to abandon her career. ‘They are trying to tease out a statement,’ he’d said, ‘playing to your intellect. Don’t give them the satisfaction.’
‘No,’ Jack said, finally answering her question, . .
yes… but… . .
not a trophy. I explained that.’
He was beginning to think he shouldn’t have mentioned it, and after all the years, the subterfuge, the wooing, the snatched frantic lovemaking, the fumbling with zips and buttons and clasps and tissues, now that they’d found space, and found time, and shared more than bruised lips stained with desire and genitals swollen and slick with the sheen of lust… now he’d grown uncertain, cautious, frightened her permanent presence might turn out to be no more than temporary, his plan, his request, would ensure there could be no going back.
‘Hmmm…’ she murmured, recognising the hint of insecurity in his voice. An insecurity he’d displayed from the outset of their relationship, rooted in his erroneous perception of ‘his humble background.’ He compensated by moving toward the outrageous — in all things — including sex. Not that she minded his wanting to possess her, his demands of her body that bordered tantalising close to the obscene. Surrender was her choice, if he needed for her to do this ‘parade’, so be it, she had, after all, kept him waiting longer than he deserved, but he’d have to earn the prize.
She turned to face him, lay on her side, brushed strands of dark silky hair from her face, and hooked them behind her ear. She raised a knee up and across the bed, stopping where she could feel the heat of his penis glow against the taut skin of her kneecap, wondering if he’d move to touch her, if his penis would stretch out to caress her, knowing both would happen.
‘But you want to show me off. Mark my conformity to your desires for the world to see. You want to show the world that you won the prize.’
‘I’ll be naked as well!’
She let his words hang between them, mocking him with her eyes, until she took pity upon the extent of his exposure.
‘Ah! . .
Why Sir, I suddenly feel foolish. Forgive me for my lack of comprehension.’
She lowered her eyes in sham humility, just far enough to fix on his penis marking the staining from their earlier lovemaking, wanting him in her again, from behind, like last night when he took her like an animal bending her body to receive the spray of his passion just as he did the first time, when she was barely out of her teens.
‘Self deprecation is not your strongest suit,’ he said.
‘Public nudity is neither a desire nor an ambition.’
‘You go naked on the beach.’
‘No darling, I go topless on the beach. Perhaps you didn’t notice the cerise adornment between my legs. . .
You’re a breast man! . .
I’d never have taken you for a breast man!’ she laughed, ‘I’d always imagined my bottom to be the object of your desire.’
Again, they let her words hang in the air buoyed on the sparkling shine of her eyes as if she’d discovered the greatest secret that invisibly joined them, gently mocking the indecision in his eyes as he switched between each breast and the crease between her legs… was he expecting cerise she wondered.
‘I was concerned…’
‘I noticed.’
‘I thought they might burn.’
‘What with your hands, and the sun lotion, my breasts were in no danger of seeing too much of the sun.’
She studied him as he watched her nipples stiffen, the memory too fresh to ignore. The bulbous end of his penis nudged her knee… then discovered the enveloping caress of her fingers.
‘Tell me again why I should be doing this Nude Day thing, and this time, try not to make it sound like a triumphal parade.’
‘It’s about freedom… ‘
Her fingers pulled back his foreskin and continued down the length of him massaging gently at the base of his penis and his balls, filling him with a sensation he’d never previously known to exist.
‘… freedom of expression.’
She shifted to within intimate reach of her objective, her nose catching the musky scent rising from the heat of him.
‘Continue,’ she said glancing back along the length of his body, though her purpose was to make sure he had ample view of the curve of her hips, the plump globes of her bottom and the openings made for him to fill. The twitch of his penis spoke volumes, ‘… justify your request.’
‘It’s to return to nature… ‘
‘Mmm… I like nature,’ she said, momentarily releasing his penis from where it pulsed between her lips.
‘Ohh… naked like the Lord intended… ohh… ohh… ‘
‘No fig leaves?’ she asked, easing the length of him from her mouth.
She moved to straddle him abandoning the damp folds of her sex to his gaze, swamping his thoughts with fragrance redolent, and bent forward to her task, displaying herself to his eyes with rapine intent.
‘Touch me you bastard. Don’t make me beg,’ she said, enveloping him again in the portal of her lips, feeling his involuntary thrust, his craving to enter into her body, his need… her gift.
He knew what to do, she was nothing if not blunt in telling him of her needs. Her voracity surprised him, her lust frightened him, what came easy in deception grew difficult by demand, failure could no longer be lost in the busy streets of the city and the halls of power. He traced the boundary where white skin replaced cerise into the crease of her buttocks, moving inward to the beckoning dilation of her anal fissure drawing a finger nail lightly across the opening, teasing, keeping distance as she eased back against his fingertip. Later, she eased into sleep, her body still trembling from the shock of his assault and the liberties he assumed he could claim and plunder now she’d agreed to share a bed.
– – – – –
Twenty years before, in the University debating chamber, argument had replaced debate. Reasoned position abandoned to political ideology separated by an unbridgeable chasm. She was possibly, he thought, at her most vivacious when angry, he was enjoying himself, he found her easy to goad and easier still to embarrass, though perhaps he shouldn’t have called her ‘one of Thatcher’s Whore maidens’, the chair ‘person’ had made him apologise, which he did graciously, adding before the entire assembly, that he was more than willing to be seduced to join the Conservative Party, if she were doing the seducing. He’d be in the Student Union bar, he said, to laughter from both sides of the chamber, if she wanted to try her luck.
‘Very funny,’ she called out as she passed him in the bar.
‘Have a drink?’ he invited.
She hesitated, ‘with a Socialist?’
He gestured with an upturned outstretched palm to the group surrounding him, ‘you’ll be safe, one or two are Liberals. What do you drink?’
‘I’ll have what you’re drinking,’ she said, anxious not to have him accuse her of drinking some bourgeois cocktail.
He raised his eyebrows and passed her a freshly pulled pint of Burtons bitter, ordering another for himself. Eventually he managed to steer her away from political argument, separating her from the gradually dwindling assembly, curious as to what background had sharpened her political focus, learning she was conventionally middle-class, small business father, school-teacher for a mother, typical Conservative Party grounding.
‘No boyfriend then,’ he stated.
She smiled, wrinkling her nose and briefly glancing away, ‘I knew you’d get around to sex eventually.’
‘Stands to reason. Never seen you wear anything other than a dress… ‘
‘Oh… you’ve noticed that have you?’
‘I’ve seen you around, you’re not easy to ignore. You cut quite a figure across campus.’
‘So you think my wearing a dress, displaying my femininity, is solely to attract men.’
‘Or women. What ever turns you on.’
‘You should stick to politics, that’s my advice.’
‘Christ woman! Surely you don’t think I’m trying to chat you up. I could no more sleep with a Conservative than I could sleep with my mother. But I’ll give you some free dating advice, if you are going that dress again, leave your knickers off, either that or buy some French underwear, I’m sure you can afford to, the line of your knickers show through that dress — it looks like you are inviting someone to take them off.’
She coloured, nostrils dilating, angry, ‘Suddenly you’re an expert of French lingerie… ‘
‘No… I’m an expert on women who sleep around. Sluts. And the dividing line, judged solely at the level of appearance, is mighty thin. If you were my girlfriend, I’d never let you out of the house dressed like that, you look ready to fuck the first bloke that comes along.’
‘And you’d like to be the first bloke… ‘
‘I told you… I don’t fuck Conservatives… or virgins.’
‘I’m not… never mind. This is the ’80’s not the God-damn ’50’s! I can dress how I like.’
He shrugged his shoulders and sat, chin resting upon his hand, looking at her until she became uncomfortable.
‘It’s late. I’d better go before I’m locked out.’
‘I’ll walk you,’ he said rising, ‘Pembroke is on my way.’
She was pleased to be out of the Student Union, she needed the fresh air, drinking beer had not been her idea of an ideal evening, it was stronger than she’d thought and she’d striven to keep pace with his consumption.
‘Tell me why you are a Conservative,’ he asked.
They walked and talked, and argued. Stopped and argued. Walked some more… and argued, and when they reached Pembroke College, they found the gates, as both had long since guessed, closed for the night.
‘Bugger! I need to pee,’
she exclaimed.
Jack laughed. ‘Come on. I live down here. You can pee, and stop over if you want. I’ve a spare room.’
She looked at him quizzically, ‘You’ve a spare room? In Cambridge?’
He shrugged, and led the way.
She looked around the small terraced house in silence. This was not a rental, it was a home, and it exhibited design, style, and taste. ‘Don’t tell me this is yours.’
‘I know. I try not to let people visit.’
‘I can imagine! A property owning son of a miner — it blows the cover a bit.’
‘The toilet is upstairs, middle door. Tea or coffee?’
‘Tea, please.’
From the kitchen, he could hear her investigating upstairs. He should have been annoyed that she took it upon herself to enter his rooms uninvited. He heard her footfall on the stairs.
‘Can I stay here next year?’ she asked, ‘it’s perfect.’
‘I don’t like to share.’
‘You won’t be here after graduation. And I somehow don’t imagine you selling this house.’
‘You,’ he said, ‘are very presumptive.’
He passed her a mug of tea, and pointed to the milk and sugar on the spotless worktop. She shook her head and turned heading down the short corridor past the stairs to the sitting room. The green silk skirt of the dress flared off her hips, he noticed she had removed her knickers.
‘What do you want to know?’ he asked, realising he’d have to offer some kind of explanation for his capitalist acquisition. She sat across the room from him, preferring the floor, leaning back against the sofa.
‘Everything. Why are you a capitalist property owner and espousing socialism?’
‘The house was largely paid for by an inheritance,’ he sighed, ‘and in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a few years older than you. I worked before starting University… so that I could pay my way. As for being a socialist — I don’t need to explain that to you.’
She shook her head. ‘No you don’t. You can clearly afford to be a socialist, while I have to work at being a conservative.
So… where is Miss Socialist?’
‘Gone,’ he sighed again, ‘how did you know?’
‘The house is just a touch feminine. I’m struggling to imagine this is entirely your taste. Is she coming back?’
He shook his head. ‘She didn’t like the University lifestyle. Moved back home, to Nottingham.’
They sat drinking the tea, each taking measure, weighing up the odds. She moved, not much, but enough to let the silk slide and expose part of her thigh. They both looked at her pale skin.
‘I told you… ‘
‘You don’t f u c k conservatives,’ she said, ‘yes I remember.
I could pretend,’ she added after a brief pause.
‘I don’t play games either.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of playing a game. Life is too short. You are the one that proposed seduction.’
He didn’t take the bait, simply sat watching her… intently, succeeding in making her feel foolishly young.
‘I’m going to bed. Which room, you decide,’ she said, not quite willing to give up the chase.
She stood and walked toward him, holding a hand out for his mug. He passed her the mug then grabbed her above the wrist, and pulled her toward him. She looked down at him as he ran his hand over the silk touching the warmth of her body through the thin material. She tried to remain impassive, determined he’d have to make the running, and sensing any encouragement from her would dissuade him.
‘If you were mine, I’d never let you wear knickers,’ he cupped her bottom, squeezing gently, ‘why did you take them off?’
‘You… were right,’ she shivered as his hand moved down into her skin, his fingers slowly began to draw the silk up her thigh, ‘they spoilt the line.’
‘Turn around,’ he instructed. She looked around for somewhere to place the mugs. ‘Keep hold of them, you won’t be needing your hands.’
She felt the cool air caress her skin as he exposed her, his hand on her hip, then sliding across the small of her back, then down, across her buttock, nudging at her inner thigh for her to part her legs. She hesitated.
‘Do you want me to stop?’ he asked.
‘I… I don’t want you to hurt me.’
He brushed the curve of her bottom with his lips, inhaling the mixture of womanly scents gracing her skin. ‘You’re beautiful… ‘
Hortense
- 21.05.2022
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