The View from the Top…Pt1

Hello again, Dear Avid Reader,

My apologies, it’s been a while. Well here’s a little three parter for you’re entertainment set within the Political Crucible. Seems there’s an election coming up and weirdly i started ‘penning’ this before i was aware though maybe i had a subcutaneous feeling or some such. Now all the characters within are my creation and any similarity to any real life person or persons is just unlucky and anyway it’s all lies. You may well think different but I could not possibly comment.

Do i have an axe to grind? Yeah, probably but its mainly bi-partisan as i pretty much hate/despise politicians equally! Anyhow, as ever, i hope you enjoy.


Part One – In the Trenches

“So Prime Minister, are there to be any more budget cuts or job losses?” asked Jeremy.

I watched from the wings, the glaring lights of the stage in the centre of the studio seemingly impossibly bright. This was my first time in a live studio with the Prime Minister, the atmosphere felt overwhelming but my Party leader took it in her stride like the seasoned veteran of the three campaigns she was.

“Everybody thinks he’s so fierce, don’t they?” whispered the woman to my right. I looked at Miss Rogers, the ‘Iron Bitch’ as she was known behind her back even though most of the Party as well as numerous Opposition MP’s fantasised about bending her over her boss’s desk and fucking her till she begged. “Ma’am will take that arrogant ass down a peg or two!” she added nudging my elbow.

“I reckon so” I replied quietly to the Prime Minister’s personal aide, the last line but by no means weakest hurdle one had to overcome if you wanted to get an audience with the leader of Great Britain. Less than a year previously she wouldn’t have even acknowledged my existence but now I was the ‘Golden Boy’ and if the truth was told, I had indeed earned it!

“Now, Jeremy, you are a smart man and you know the situation with the Global economy as it stands today and you know that tomorrow may well be a different matter where we can turn the tide of this recession and get back to making our country ‘Great’ again. We are at the whim of external forces beyond our control which may well call for more measures that will protect our people from the worst and prepare them for a brighter future. To ignore these facts and stick our heads in the sand as my counterpart within the opposition would have us do is the ultimate folly!” she replied nodding at her opposition number across from her with a calm and yet forceful voice.

“But-” began the host before he was cut off.

“It’s all very well making promises like those in opposition (again another nod) who can say what they want but don’t hold the power or the responsibility for our nation and our people” she leaned forward hands spread, palms upwards showing all the mannerisms of a saint and continued before the normally dictatorial Jeremy began to utter a word. “I will say this! At this moment there are NO plans for further cuts of jobs, resources or finances in the Public sector. We will hold the rudder steady and set a true and steady course through these troubled times leaving no man, woman or child behind!”

I glanced to the audience as they clapped loudly knowing that the majority had been placed there through fair means and foul by the Party. The floor manager looked a little nonplussed at the apparent spontaneity of the supposedly bi-partisan audience. I noted a four of five spread around the front few rows who disagreed vehemently with the words just spoken.

“Like puppets on a string” murmured Miss Rogers conspiratorially to me granting me one of her very few smiles, her arm brushing slowly and deliberately along mine.


I think that the majority of us that go into the political crucible do so with the best of intentions; I myself being one of them, albeit with a more pragmatic and realistic view of the world. The sense of fairness and justice I felt when I first decided to follow a political career is still within me but where it was easily discernible at the beginning it is now concealed beneath the ‘viewer-friendly’ veneer that the horde of advisors, experts in demographics, public profile consultants, feasibility specialists, focus-group analysts, image gurus and every Tom, Dick and Harry has sculpted my original self into to make me ‘electable’!

Even for all the facile crap that surrounds me it is the morass of concerns and motives that eventually get to you. The Body Politic is a writhing, fetid mass of shit that you have to wade through and no matter how strong you are in character it slowly, gradually drags you down and you wake up one morning and look in the mirror and simply see the bright, shiny, plastic ornament that you have become. And that is the day when you decide what you are going to do with your life.

Don’t get me wrong, all of us politicians are no better and no worse than anyone else and maybe that is the root of our failings. We are simply not qualified to lead or rule; there isn’t a training course or degree that helps you navigate the labyrinthine corridors of power simply because the maze is subjective and not objective. It’s all in our heads and everybody’s head is different. I even have the slight advantage over my peers by way of an eidetic memory, a fact I keep to myself as I learned long ago that people never get tired of trying to trip you up.

Having said that, I’ve sat in the House and looked across at the ‘Opposition’ and seen no real sign of any difference between us. Colleagues and associates talk of the time just a few decades ago when things were different and the ideologies were plain to see but that things were so much more uncivilised. I’ve sat there as someone or other, ally or opposition, has droned on about some minutiae of some legislation and wondered if our predecessors thought the exact same thing.

Looking in that mirror on that ordinary morning I knew I had to make a decision.

I could rise.

I could quit.

Or I could fall.


The election was still over a year away at the earliest but the Whips were already frantic on both sides of the House which meant that schedules of glad-handling and meet n’ greets was the order to be followed. Tonight I was in a northern town, a seat we had no chance of winning especially with the amount of unemployed locally but the appearance was the priority and not the votes themselves. Photo opportunities and sound-bites were the standard operating procedure, hours upon hours on the road and overnighting in hotels that became more and more mundane even though they were of a reasonable class.

For all the hand shaking and positive re-affirming conversations actual human contact seemed to diminish and everything became ‘product-placement’. Sitting on the edge of my bed, tie finally torn from my neck and a bunch of papers outlining the next day’s itinerary and points to be high-lighted I looked up at the wall opposite and saw a print of Constable’s Winchester Cathedral hanging there. I nibbled on my bottom lip and vaguely remembered a time when I had liked the painting. For the life of me I couldn’t recall the feeling.

“Drink” I muttered to myself.

A few minutes later I was down in the bar; having first checked the coast was clear of my various aides and safe to enter. I sat on a stool and ordered a 12 year old malt using my own credit card, a slight look of curiosity from the barman but I didn’t care to explain that putting it on the room tab it would be noted by my advisors and it was one less thing I wanted to explain let alone justify.

“Playing hooky?”

I groaned deeply before looking to the origin of the voice beside me, “Oh… Mrs Knight” I replied, the surprise in my voice obvious.

“I think you can call me, Kate…” she looked around, a conspiratorial smile playing about her lips, “You’re not the only one out after ‘lights-out!”

“Kate… easier than calling you ‘The Right Honourable MP Catherine Knight I suppose… in that case please feel free to call me Paul” I raised my glass to her. “Would it be inappropriate to buy the enemy a drink?” I asked.

“Definitely! Mine’s a Rioja, please Paul” she replied with a wink.

“You’re suffering from combat fatigue as well?” I asked as I waved the barman back over.

“And then some… another year of this. If wasn’t for the greater good!” she looked about again checking the remaining die-hards scattered around the bar.

I followed her gaze, “I can testify that none of the blue entourage are currently present; probably busy beavering away in their hotel rooms calculating what colour socks I should wear tomorrow!”

“No reds either… I was checking for journo’s” she replied.

“We would make a pretty picture, wouldn’t we!” I sipped my whisky, “Arch nemeses in cahoots.”

“Fraternizing with the enemy” she smiled bringing her eyes back to mine finally.

“Here’s to a conspiracy theorist’s wet dream!” I toasted raising my glass as her red wine finally arrived.

For a moment she nibbled her bottom lip, “To wet dreams!” she repeated clinking her wine glass against my tumbler. It was later that the two of us admitted that it was when we raised our glasses to that particular toast that what was to follow was a foregone conclusion.

Still we danced around each other for almost an hour sitting at the bar before being the gentleman I escorted her up to her room and stood behind her admiring the shape of her ass in her in the tight A-line pinstriped skirt as she slid her door card through the reader and opened the door to her room. She didn’t look back and she didn’t close the door. It took me all of three seconds to follow her in; thoughts of my wife and Party as far from my mind as they could possibly be.

She walked across to the window, dropping the card and her jacket onto the bed without looking back and stared at the cityscape outside. Her hands moved to her hips, her thumbs working a knot from her lower back as I approached. Her head shifted fractionally and her eyes focused on my reflection as I stepped up close behind her.

“Probably a very bad idea…” she whispered.

“Not as bad as the Poll Tax” I replied raising a smile from her lips as I bent my head and inhaled deeply through my nose the faint scent of Chanel from her blouse.

“Or taxing the ‘rich’ out of the country” she answered shifting backwards, her ass pressing against the bulge in my trousers, “You ‘Blues’ have always wanted to put it to us, haven’t you?”

My lips brushed against her neck as she tilted her head to the side, “Every waking moment… not as if you ‘Reds’ haven’t always wanted to grind us down!”

She pressed her ass firmer against my erection shifting her hips from side to side as I heard her lower the zipper on her skirt, “Need to put you down where you belong” she answered followed by a sigh as my lips took hold of her earlobe.

I began to kiss and lick her neck as I felt her push her skirt down, my hand dropping to my belt, fumbling with the buckle; all words now forgotten as her hand joined mine and hurriedly pushed down my trousers and boxers. A sigh escaped her lips as my hard cock sprang free slapping against the sheer material of her underwear. I slid my hand into her hair and twisted her head about kissing her deeply as I felt her fingers wrap around my member and rub the head against her satin covered ass cheeks.

My other hand slipped around in front of her and into her underwear, my fingers sliding along her wet crease causing her hand to grip and twist my cock harder. She broke our kiss and thrust her ass backwards bending at the hips. She stared over her shoulder and hissed “Fuck me you Tory bastard!”

I pulled her knickers to one side, hearing them tear, “You dirty red whore!” I replied slamming my length deep inside her. The two of us groaned in unison as my cock disappeared within her. I watched as she grasped the window sill and pushed back against me, my hands moving to her hips and we fucked with abandon; my hips slapping loudly against her ass with every thrust. The two of grunted and panted as we used each other to gain our pleasure, her eyes locked on mine in the reflection of the glass, a animalistic grimace on her lips as she drove back against me muttering obscenities.

Neither of us took very long and truth be told I was already emptying my balls deep inside my enemies womb before her cunt contracted tightly around my jerking length and her own orgasm overtook her. I had to clamp my hand over her mouth as her groan became louder and higher pitched. Only when I felt her pussy stop twitching around my softening cock did I release my hand.

Kate pulled forward letting my flaccid cock slip from her dripping pussy before turning about and sliding her hands about my hips. I kissed her softly as I pulled her close drawing her across to the bed, shuffling with my boxers and trousers still around my ankles. “This is such a bad idea” she said as I sat down pulling her onto my lap; our combined juices squelching out noisily onto my lap raising grins from both our lips.

“Call it détente… a momentary cessation of hostilities, perhaps?” I offered.

“I’m not sure what we just did could really be described as… mmm… un-hostile?” her hands pushed me back onto the bed; I noted the faint scar on the inside of her forearm.

“Hmmm… possibly” I pulled at the buttons of my shirt and paused as her hand reached for mine stopping me.

“We should call it a night, I think… a very pleasant interlude… never to be repeated?” she said even though her arched eyebrows suggested her thoughts weren’t in agreement with her words.

I looked to my right at the digital display on the clock beside the bed reading 1.23am. “How about we call it a night in a couple of hours… and then we can remember the occasion on those long dark nights on the campaign trail?”

She squirmed upon my lap glancing at the clock, “You really want to go again?”

“Well, soon, when I’ve examined all the issues and formulated a strategy” I answered.

Her hand slipped behind her and I arched my back as I felt her nails scratch over my sac, “Or when your cock gets hard again?” she countered.

“That’s one way of putting it” I grinned. I slipped my hands beneath her ass and lifted her up my chest, a startled look on her face quickly replaced by one of shock and then lust as I deposited her dripping quim onto my mouth.


It was just gone 4am when Kate kicked me from the room and I skulked back to my own two floors below. We had agreed that however fun and pleasant our interlude had been any recurrence was fraught with danger and career-ending possibilities let alone marriage-ending ones.

Maybe the two of us had indeed meant it that night and had been determined to stick to our mutual agreement but three weeks later when our paths had crossed again on the campaign trail our resolve had cracked and for the two nights we spent in Manchester we had shared her bed even though my own hotel room was a half-mile away. It was there that we had given into our passions and both had set up anonymous e-mail accounts knowing the dangers of using our phones no matter how much the journalists now insisted they no longer hacked accounts.

We followed simple rules and in general never breached them. Our affair was of course made easier by the fact that both of our constituencies were some distance from London and therefore for three nights a week we would often be staying in the Capital while Parliament was in session. The other major rule we adhered to quite strictly was the non-discussion of Politics or our parties. We were both fairly standard material for the average back-bencher and there our stars may have rested until we were both asked to appear on a Political panel show to offer opposing pints of view on the future of the Health Service.

Kate confessed to me later that week that she had heard I was to appear and when the Party higher-ups had asked around who would like to appear she had volunteered. We had been having our illicit affair for over eight months and in front of the cameras the two of us had gone for each other’s political throats without mercy. On both sides of the divide our peers and superiors sat up and took notice.

Kate rested her head on my stomach, her fingernail idly playing with my nipple as my own hand traced the contours of her ass, “Admit it” she demanded, “the other night in the TV studio you were trying to fuck me on camera!”

I nodded, “Yes, most definitely, the rules apply here, not there… if I couldn’t have your pussy…” I let the sentence trail off.

“It was fun, wasn’t it” she grinned, “How did nobody guess we were fucking in real life?”

“Did you not read Private Eye? They reckoned we should’ve got a room!” I grinned watching the shocked look on her face. “Not so complimentary though, I think a “bitter old married couple” was the phrase of choice they used. Anyway wasn’t like you weren’t trying to ram a strap-on up my arse, was it?”

“Hmmm…” Kate grinned, “There’s an image!”

I gulped loudly as I felt her other hand curl around my flaccid cock which automatically twitched in response. I squeezed her ass in retaliation, raising an eyebrow and grinning back at her. “Hmmm…” I licked my lips as my fingers slid to the crack in her ass.

“Might have to take that idea under advisement, I think” she raised herself up on her elbow, her other hand still scratching at my cock which was beginning to respond but to all intents and purposes of no apparent interest to her. “Are you being treated as the next best thing?” she asked. I nodded watching her bite her lip, “Okay so politics is a no-no here… what about strategy?”

“Go on” I responded mirroring her posture by also leaning on my elbow which afforded me further reach and my fingers slid down between her thighs.

She shook her head at me, a smile playing on her lips fully aware that the mimicking of her posture was a simple ploy we both used in our ‘jobs’ to give the person we would be talking to a false sense of connection. Still she parted her thighs and carried on, “Well… you know the viewing figures for the show spiked on the internet, pretty much just the two of us laying into each other.”

I nodded “I do, we already have a couple of re-mixes or whatever they call ‘em going viral!”

“Really? Well, it is an opportunity for us. A month or two and we’re no longer back-benchers! I’m due on Question Time in a couple of weeks, the greys are already prepping me” she chewed on her bottom lip waiting for my response.

I grinned as she squeezed my cock feeling the blood flow increase within it, “That’s cheating” I accused as I slid my finger along her damp slit, “as is this!” I conceded.

She withdrew her hand leaving it lying a fraction of an inch from it, “Fair enough” she agreed as I also ceased my caress and left my fingers lying slack on the inside of her thigh.

“I’m up for Newsnight on Tuesday!” I gazed into Kate’s dark brown eyes through her tousled brown hair, “Are you suggesting we manipulate our colleagues, our Parties and even the Fourth Estate just to promote our own agenda?” She blinked hard, her fingers trembled beside my swelling cock nervously and I watched as she bit her bottom lip in apprehension. “Hmmm…” I paused sliding my finger into her wet slit, “I’m in!” I grinned broadly.

She let out a deep sigh pushing her ass back against my invading finger as she gripped my cock and returned my smile, “Mmmm… the thought had never crossed your mind, had it?”

“You may think that but I couldn’t possibly comment”

And that was how it began. It didn’t take much on our part, the rollercoaster had already started and our Public Personas of Vitriolic Nemesis’s was welcomed and encouraged by our Parties and the Media. Less than two months later and behind closed doors we were both being suggested for roles albeit minor ones in our respective Cabinets. The downside of course was the increased media attention meant our assignations became less frequent and required much more care on our part.

The sex though was simply amazing partly through the periods of abstinence and the inherent danger but for me at least there was the underlying sense of ‘fucking the system’.


I knew what the meeting was about even though I was there with the pretext that I was offering a summary of the progression of one of the sub-committees I was now heading. This was my first view of Mrs Rogers, the Iron Bitch, and initially I wondered what the fuss was about but when I saw her cold hard eyes I began to believe the gossip and understand the frustration of some of my male colleagues.

I knew she was thirty-three, two years my junior, but she had the aura of a strict Headmistress who I imagined would have had the motto “Spare the rod, spoil the child” on a tapestry behind her desk with an array of canes within easy reach even though she was the bearer of a perfectly proportioned body that could have adorned a silver pole in any gentleman’s’ club. Her blonde hair was pulled back severely from a very attractive face though her expression never wavered from disdain.

Keeping with the theme I sat there like a nervous school boy in the outer room to the office of the most powerful person in the country. I had met the Leader before three times but they had all been “meet n’ greets” when I was just one of the rank and file. A shake of the hand and a few words of encouragement from her for the campaign trail or words about whatever organisation or sympathetic charity we were endorsing at the time. Nothing of note or meaning and not even a real conversation; even with my memory I only had a vague recollection of what was said.

Today was to be a one-on-one, not counting Miss Rogers who would be on hand taking notes and whether my rise was to continue or I was allowed to fall back into the non-descript would be decided. I breathed slowly and gazed out through the bomb-proof glass to the trees in St James’ Park watching the them sway and the leaves ripple in the high winds outside. A slight sense of disconnectedness came over me as no sound from the outside world reached my ears. My thoughts went to the faint whisper of Kate’s stocking sitting at the bar on the night we met up north, seemingly a million miles away from where I was now sitting.

“Ma’am will see you now, I said” repeated Mrs Rogers now standing to my left holding a sheath of papers and folders.

“Oh yes, sorry, miles away” I apologised before standing up, “Lead on please, Mrs Rogers” I offered regaining my composure.

She stared at me for a few seconds and I managed to hold her gaze even though I suspected I didn’t want to know what manner of repugnant animal or thing she was surely comparing me too. She paused beside her desk and she made some movement with her free hand on the other side of her body and I heard a double ‘click’ from the outer doors and the door into the Prime Minister’s office….

~ by ftfagos on May 5, 2015.

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