The Prime Minister’s Sordid Pleasures

The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom leant back in his favourite armchair and closed his eyes. This was his most cherished part of any day. He didn’t have to worry about any pressing concerns that came with his position. He didn’t have to worry about what Her Majesty’s Opposition was up to; he didn’t have to worry about being disturbed. All he had to focus on was the naked nineteen-year-old redhead currently sucking so enthusiastically on his fifty-eight-year-old cock.

This one really was a pretty little thing. A beautiful face, framed by expensively cut strawberry-ginger hair above the body of a fashion model. Given his choice, he would have preferred bigger tits, but even as slim as she was, she was still a cut above the usual disposables. Barney had chosen well. He had been told her name, but he could never be bothered to remember them. He didn’t need to. After today she was history. If they ever met again, in different circumstances, it would be a fresh start. None of this would be remembered or referred to. It would be as if this had never happened at all.

Of course, she would remember it. Remember it all her little life. Maybe this would be the highlight of a humdrum existence. He smiled to himself, this would give the little tart something to tell the grandchildren. It was a thought which amused him.

He glanced down at the bobbing head. Fair play to her, she really was putting herself into it. Maybe she hoped she would get an opportunity to repeat matters, or even. – Heaven forfend – become a regular. His little slagette on the side. It was impossible to imagine what ran through the minds of these girls. Perhaps she even imagined she was somehow unique. That she would capture his attention by giving him what no-one else ever had. But it really didn’t matter to him what she thought anyway. She would still be disappointed.

To him, these adoring little party activists were just breathing condoms. Something he liked to put on his cock when he needed to, and throw away afterwards.

Barney knew enough to make that clear to them. They were all enthusiastic enough in the Party, usually because their parents were active. And they were flattered by the invitation for a visit to number ten Downing Street. Once they were inside, there weren’t many who resisted the offer.

Martin D. Harrison, PM, loved his job.

He looked down at her. Those full lips – lovely bright red, heavily lipsticked – tight around his throbbing cock, pulling away to the very end of the bell-end before plunging down again, driving his hardness back to her throat. She was a practised performer. Well-practiced. Polished. He vaguely knew her parents. Well, he knew their names, but he couldn’t bring faces to mind. Who cared?

Whatever her name was, she was fifteen years younger than his own daughter. Only five years older than his granddaughter. He enjoyed that fact. It felt perverse to him. Here was a girl, from a good family, a family with morals and ethics and beliefs—a family with their hearts in the right places. And yet here she was degrading herself with a man old enough to be her grandfather.

The thought, he knew would hasten his orgasm. Soon he would be filling that pretty mouth with his cream. Already he could feel his balls starting to twitch. They felt hot and itchy under her slender, cool fingers. It wouldn’t be long now. And…
…and…
…there it was. A hard spurter. The first for a full three days. Three days where his cum had thickened and multiplied. His hand instinctively reached for the blonde head, holding her firmly in place. ‘Swallow it’, he said. Swallow it all.’ He hated spilling even a drop. His cock end was right in her throat now. Oh yes. Oh oh oh fucking yes.

God, he thought look at the time. He had an important call to make. The newly elected president of the USA wouldn’t wait on him.
Back to the real world.

Barney Hetherington sat in his office next door awaiting the call. The call that was his cue to collect the ‘visitor’ from the Private Study. It was a task he enjoyed. He would bring them down to his office here, ply them with tea and cake and have the ‘little chat.’ It always amused him to know that they had the Prime Minister’s cum inside them. Maybe the tea would wash away the taste.

They would always sit there, expectant. He could almost read their Tiny minds. ‘Now what’, they were thinking. When would they be needed again? As if.

The phone rang on cue. Time to be the PM’s waste disposal unit.

The PM was well into his usual spiel when he entered – after knocking of course – the study. The girl looked quite composed really. Butter wouldn’t melt. Some of them looked like they thought they were now the PMs mistress, some still looked star-struck, and some like they didn’t know – or care – what day it was.
Well, not Olivia Buxton-Trippier.She looked cool, well-groomed and like the proverbial cat which had got the cream. She would be easy to chill out downstairs.

‘You see, it is not really practical. The prime Minister’s schedule makes these kinds of meetings so rare. And I know he wouldn’t want yo compromise your own reputation by you being the subject of malicious gossip which could harm your career or future relationships. Or even your parents standing in the party. So you see its all for the best.’ He gave her his best grandad smile and knew his work here was done.

But Olivia didn’t move. Usually, they were so self-conscious they didn’t want to take up more time. They were, after all, in the presence of important busy men. But she just sat there, a fetching half-smile fixed across her pretty features.

‘So’, he said at length. ‘I hope you’ve had a great day.’

Olivia just nodded. She wondered if the fat man sprawled in front of her even remembered the pretty blonde girl who made this same visit almost exactly a year ago.

But who cared if he did or not. The die was cast now. So all-in-all there really was no doubt about it, she had had a really great day. One she would remember forever. The day she changed her life. And – although it was very much a secondary thought – the life of the nation.

Soon she would be on every front page and news programme. Maybe even be interviewed by Piers Morgan. The story itself would be worth a fortune, and then there would be spin-offs. Big Brother, I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here. The money would roll in.

Far more than the minute all-plastic camera had cost. It just so fitted her bag.

Poor Prime Minister, she almost felt sorry for him. But then she thought of her sister, who had made this same visit exactly a year ago. And when she tried to contact the party afterwards, was told by this fat fucker to just forget about her visit, ‘Get on with your life.’ And when she insisted was told she was ‘Little people’, and ‘little people don’t go making trouble for big people.’

Oh no?

Erotic fiction - The Prime Minister’s Pleasure

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