Politics Ch. 09

Chapter 9: Marriage?

While the last thirty-six hours had been agonizingly slow, Katie couldn't remember the details. She remembered cancelling her meetings yesterday and today. The psychiatrist had told herself that doing so would allow her to recover from her sexual mauling at Alistair's hands. She remembered drinking—most of Election Day had been spent with a glass of wine in her hand. And here she was, the day after, in a rough bar in the East End of London. Drinking again.

Any other substantive thing was gone.

She told herself all this was necessary. The alcohol provided her with the liquid courage to face up to the repercussions of everything that had happened since she'd met Alistair Brinkley-Jones. A name she'd come to hate. Unfortunately for Britain, it was a name that was now acknowledged as the new Prime Minister.

She stared up at the big television screen above her head. He'd done it after all. Despite the Mary O'Leary allegations, he'd pulled it off. The first black Prime Minister. It had been a close run thing, but not only had the Conservative Party won the election, they'd also (only just) gained sufficient seats to guarantee them parliamentary control.

His ugly face was on the screen now.

She had no idea which News Channel it was, not that it mattered. They were all the same. Broadcasting a replay of Alistair's acceptance speech given in the early hours of the morning. George Blair, the Labour Leader, had waited until the result was certain before conceding. He'd drawn it out as long as he could and waited for the recounts in the most closely contested seats. But in the end, there was no room for doubt.

As she listened to Alistair's calm, reasoned, statesmanlike diatribe, her face creased in contempt. This was the man who had so roughly fucked her only two nights ago. She'd kept saying no, though she knew that her refusal was a moot point. Her body had gratefully taken everything he could give.

But it was a drug and alcohol fuelled body. Put there by his ex-girlfriend. So that she could fuck her, too! How could she have been so stupid?

The brunette had tried to help Alistair. She'd attempted to find a way to bring him out of his self-confessed 'sex addiction'. Instead, she'd been seduced into their little games by the Conservative Party Leader and his Swedish slut ex-girlfriend. Had they set her up together? A charade designed just to fuck her? Logical thought said that was impossible. Her intuition suggested something else.

If the public knew what a sex-crazed bastard he was, things would be different. Maybe the Mary O'Leary accusations had been false, but there were lots of similar women that Alistair had taken advantage of. Unfortunately, her professional oath prevented her from revealing that secret.

And now she was one of those women.

She felt her fingers wrapping around the stem of her cheap wine glass as rage poured through her. At Alistair. At Erika. The Swedish beauty had befriended Katie with the sole purpose of seducing her. Questions bounced around her head. Had Alistair's arrival in their suite scared the blonde seductress away? Would she actually have spent the night with Erika otherwise?

She recalled the sight of the Scandinavian woman riding Alistair's black cock with an ecstatic look on her face. It made her cringe with horror. The problem was… it inflamed her, too.

Since leaving Glasgow, she'd been constantly horny. A bitch in heat! As much as she denied it to herself, while everything that had happened since meeting that bastard had almost ruined her life, their experiences together had rekindled the fire inside her. Her heightened arousal had always made her more sexually aware. Of people around her. The way they looked. What they might be fantasizing. Like her…

The guy sitting in the corner had been watching her for the last half an hour. Of course he hadn't made it too obvious, but Katie knew

Hell, he was coming over to her now. Well… it had taken him long enough.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked as he reached her.

There was a knowing flicker of his dark eyes. She returned the look. It was like he'd been sent to her. For the last hour she'd alternated between hating Alistair and thinking of Eduardo. Should she go back and visit the café owner again? Instead, her answer was here. A stranger. And with his dark Indian complexion, shaved head and slender figure, he was just the way she liked them.

"I guess I could do with another," she smiled, pulling at the ponytail of dark hair as she raised her empty glass. "Dry white."

She watched the wiry stranger through narrowed eyes as he headed to the bar, keeping her lustful gaze on him until he'd returned with their drinks. The way he carried himself, the way he smiled—he was cocky, no doubt about that.

He thought he'd pulled. Well—he might just be right!

"Want to talk about it?" he said, pushing the chair back with his foot and flopping down opposite her. He plonked their drinks down onto the round wooden table.

"About what?"

"Whatever it is that's troubling you. Whatever's led you to a bar like this. A pretty lady like you."

"A bar like this?"

"Yeah," he grunted, his narrow eyes flickering across her body as he spoke. "A good looking, nicely dressed woman like you. This isn't your usual place. You're an upmarket bird. This is far too rough for you. Want to know what I think?"

Katie smoothed a hand through her ponytail again. Her eyes remained on the rim of her wine glass. "And what's that?"

"I think you're looking for something."

The psychiatrist didn't speak for a moment. Instead, she allowed the arousal building inside her to circle around her sex. It was here on a plate. All she had to do was take it. "I think I've just found it," she told him, meeting his hot gaze.

Throwing her head back, she drained the wine in one go. Standing up, she made her unsteady way across to the small door on the right of the bar. How much had she drunk? It wasn't necessary to look back—she knew he'd be following. Her heart was racing.

Was this really happening? Was she really going to do this? Suck him off?

The bathrooms matched the roughness of the bar. Dirty wooden floors, grainy walls, stained porcelain sinks. The stalls were no better, with some of the slats on the dark doors broken. But Katie didn't care about any of that. Barely saw it.

Instead, she turned to see that the sexy stranger had followed her inside. He was leaning against the wall even as his hands were working on his belt. They didn't need to speak. In a few seconds, his trousers were down at his ankles. Her mouth watered at the sight of his swollen, uncircumcised dick.

It featured a pronounced, upward curve. Like a dark banana.

The young Indian man was hairy, although he kept his pubes trimmed short and his large balls as shaved as his head. Katie didn't trust herself to say anything.

Almost robotically, she crossed the room and sank to her knees before him. Taking his hard cock from his stroking hand, she closed her mouth over the head. Her body shivered as an orgasm quaked through it. There was absolutely nothing as exciting as sucking on a man for the first time. It rivalled any other experience she'd had.

Even that of being fucked by Alistair.

The stranger had to sink a little along the counter in order for her to get the proper angle. She corkscrewed around the curved cock, feeling it's spongy head graze the roof of her mouth as she swallowed more.

"You're good, baby," he groaned as he roughly gripped her ponytail. He began to jerk his hips in time with her head thrusts.

He pushed against the back of her throat, causing her to choke a little. Katie sucked off the dark banana to compose herself before diving back in. Her body was on fire. She'd soon have what she wanted. His cum. Then she'd be out of there.

The dark stranger shuddered above her as her moan passed vibrations along his fleshy cock. He was close, she quickly recognized. She bobbed faster, taking shorter strokes designed to maximize the pleasure of her deep-throat.

She was shocked when he wordlessly came. So quickly? Only the tightened grip on her ponytail warned her. His throbbing cock spat into her mouth, little bullets of creamy manjuice. It was exactly what she needed...

She sucked his head clean, desperate to savour the moment. Much to her surprise, he only went partially limp. She wasn't too experienced, but all of her previous lovers went soft after emptying themselves into her mouth.

Then his hands were underneath her arms, picking her up off the floor with a grin and kicking open a stall door. "I know, I'm a stud," he said, bouncing his thick brows.

His mouth crashed against hers, distracting her for a moment before she realized he was unsnapping the button of her tight jeans and pulling at the short zipper. God, he was sliding her jeans the rest of the way off. Suddenly, she realized his intent. The Indian was going to fuck her!

"Nice thong," her impromptu lover commented as her lacy panties came into view. His words inflamed her more. She shoved her hand beneath the skimpy lingerie and found herself soaking.

She didn't do this. Not fuck. She found strangers and sucked them off. That was all. Yet she didn't protest. Nor did she stop him when he peeled her blouse over her head. She deserved this, after falling for Alistair.

It was her penance.

"God, you're sexy, baby," he grunted as his hands slid over her bra, dragging up the cups and tightly squeezing her naked breasts.

"Stop talking," she demanded, kicking her jeans off her legs. Stop talking! Just fuck me! Her heels went with them, leaving her in the presence of a man whose name she didn't even know, in nothing but her dark lacy panties.

The guy nodded, reaching out and yanking at the expensive black material. She cried out as they snapped, thirty pounds gone in one yank. Her skin burned as he pushed her back into a stall and sat her on the closed lid of a toilet seat. He was right beside her, cock in hand. God, he was growing again!

She lifted a leg onto the toilet paper dispenser and rested the other on the floor. He still wasn't fully erect, but when he rubbed his cock along her well-oiled furrow it didn't take long. Her hands went for his cock and dragged him to her wet opening. With a grunt, he pushed himself inside her.

Katie reclined, hitting the old-fashioned toilet handle with her back and flushing it. She didn't care. She didn't even hear it. The cold metal digging into her naked skin reminded her how dangerous this was. How dirty. She was being fucked in a public lavatory! And a dirty one at that! It somehow heightened her arousal.

"Fuck me! Fuck me!" she moaned, feeling the Indian's sweat drip across her tits.

He pumped inside her in long thrusts, caring only for his own pleasure. Her breath was blown out of her lungs. Stars twinkled in her vision as her nostrils flared. When she came, it was as if a series of volts was being fired through her.

It was only a few seconds later, when he turned and left her without a word, that she wondered what the hell she was doing.

***

Alistair Brinkley-Jones—Prime Minister! The black politician breathed out a long sigh that encapsulated the rigours of the last twenty-four hours.

It had been late into yesterday evening before his victory was confirmed. One of the closest races in modern history. Curiously, all bar one of the recounts had gone the way of the Conservatives, giving them sufficient seats for parliamentary control. The Good Lord had been smiling down on him.

Yesterday had been the most exhausting day of his political life, though as he'd been dead and almost buried just a few days ago, he wasn't complaining. The telephone calls had started to arrive. Fillon, Berlusconi, Merkel from his European counterparts. He'd even held a brief telephone conversation with Barrack Obama. They'd agreed to meet in the next couple of months.

He'd created history! The first black British Prime Minister! All of his press conferences were completed and only a round of TV interviews remained.

The five-minute break he'd insisted on talking was supposed to allow him to collect his thought and prepare. Instead, he was realising what a fool he'd been. One thing that would make his world complete was missing...

Erika!

His whole team had been wonderfully supportive. Thomas and Sally in particular had worked like Trojans and he needed them as part of his inner circle when he moved into number ten. He wouldn't be Prime Minister without them and their experience and loyalty were essential in guiding him through his first term.

But it was thoughts of Erika that filled his mind. His ex-girlfriend had surprised him yesterday. She'd taken away a lot of pressure he was feeling by picking up everything that had slipped through Thomas and Sally's net. After that last night in Glasgow he hadn't even expected to see her at Headquarters.

They hadn't discussed what had happened. Not that they'd skirted around the subject, it was just that there hadn't been much opportunity for any sort of conversation. The day had been frenetic and Alistair had been dragged from one constituency to another to add his support for the local candidate. He'd been run ragged—and it had been worth every single chaotic second.

It had been late in the day when he'd eventually returned to their South West London Party Headquarters in Millbank and Erika had still been there.

He'd been sitting with his head in his hands as they'd waited the results of yet another recount, when she'd brought him a mug of coffee and ruffled his hair. It had been a tender gesture. Without speaking, their eyes had met and communicated as if it had been like the 'old' days.

Old days? How he missed them!

Rather than being upset with Erika for what had happened in Glasgow, he realised she'd opened his eyes. His brief flirtation with Katie had been a horrible mistake. How could he have thought he'd be better off with the psychiatrist than Erika? What he needed—now more than ever—was a strong woman by his side. Not someone who could so easily be seduced into bed. It was pathetic!

His Swedish girlfriend was always one step ahead and that was one of the qualities he loved in her. She was more than self-sufficient. She was his equal.

They made a wonderful team.

And then there was the sex. Yes, he admitted it. He was addicted to the lifestyle Erika offered. He'd tried to run away from it because he was apprehensive about the consequences. And the Mary O'Leary situation had fuelled that anxiety. But he should have had enough faith in his girlfriend to realise that she'd never allow anything to eke out in public. She was much too resourceful for that.

How could he have imagined that Katie was any sort of match for her? That was ridiculous. He'd thought he could start again with a strong powerful woman and adopt a different lifestyle. But she'd shown she wasn't a strong woman. And he'd realised he didn't want a different lifestyle. All he needed was for their way of life to remain their secret. For the women Erika procured to know their place!

Had Erika had stayed in his Glasgow suite two nights ago they would have enjoyed sensational sex with Katie. There was no doubt the psychiatrist was hot in bed, too. But his ex-girlfriend hadn't. She was making a point. And the point was well made. If there was any comparison to be made, it was the Swedish woman who'd come out on top every time.

He sighed again, wandering to the window of his office and staring down into the South West London street below. The knock on his office door interrupted his reverie.

"Yes," he grunted.

It was Sally who poked her head around the door. "The car to take you to the television studios has arrived. Sure you don't want me there with you?"

He shook his head as he turned and headed towards her. "No. You enjoy the party here. I'll be back soon enough."

Halfway across the office the new Prime Minister paused. He knew only too well that had it not been for Erika, he wouldn't be Prime Minister now. She'd invested so many hours in him. Accompanied him to functions. Willingly developed and cultivated relationships with key business and political contacts. She'd planned, cajoled, plotted behind the scenes—all to further his career. Most of all, she'd been the driving force behind him when he'd had doubts.

Without a shadow of a doubt, he realised he still wanted her. Wanted to be with her. He reached for the phone as he glanced across at the redhead.

"Sally, I have a call to make. Tell the car to wait and keep people away from my office…"

***

Erika checked her appearance in the bedroom mirror. Just out of the shower, she was naked under the green wraparound dress. It would take only a single pull of the tie at her waist to reveal her glorious nakedness.

Becky would be hers soon and the thought of the Brazilian woman's hot body already had her excited. In Glasgow, Katie had been the aperitif. Today, two days later, she'd taste the main course. And there was no doubt the young beauty fell into the à la Carte category. Her tongue flicked across her lips at the thought. The sexy woman would be there in half an hour. And then…

The brief thought of Glasgow made her reflect on Alistair and Katie. She momentarily wondered what had happened between the two of them after she'd left the suite. Or rather, she knew the answer to that question. It was how Katie had reacted the next morning that intrigued her.

The brunette had been so out of it with the weed and alcohol, and so incredibly horny, that she imagined the two of them fucking well into the early hours. A tinge of regret flickered in her heart. In other circumstances, she would have been with them, enjoying the fruits of her labour.

Another women seduced, for the two of them to enjoy together.

She and Alistair made such a good team. Until she'd thought about it after retiring to bed, she hadn't quite appreciated how much she actually missed the man. She'd been so hell-bent on gaining revenge on him that she'd lost sight of the fact that the two of them went so well together.

When she'd masturbated that night, it had been Alistair she'd fantasised about.

Yesterday—Election Day—she'd seen every facet of the vulnerable man. She'd seen his strengths, his weaknesses, his aspirations and his fears. She knew them all even better than he did. Watching on television as he raced from one venue to the other, he'd looked very powerful one moment and incredibly susceptible the next. It was the Alistair she'd come to care about.

Not love—she didn't 'do' love. But perhaps the next best thing?

And becoming Prime Minister wasn't just the culmination of Alistair's dream. It was hers, too—her dream for them both. It was what she'd put so much effort into. Groomed him for in some ways. That's what it had been all about, hadn't it? Erika Brinkley-Jones had such a wonderful ring to it. Wife to the first black Prime Minister, to the man who would eventually inherit millions!

Then the idiot had become infatuated with that fucking psychiatrist. How stupid! She'd have given him a little scope if that were what he'd wanted. After all, she had Guus Kessen, didn't she? The Dutchman was too good a contact to ignore. She'd make sure she and the multi-millionaire would remain close allies. She'd position him exactly where she wanted, fuck him when he needed her, and ensure he was on hand to help her whenever it was required.

But as for Alistair and that woman, their relationship had no chance of succeeding. Even without her interference, it was doomed to disaster from the very start. The two weren't right for each other. They weren't a match. She'd quickly been able to see that and was surprised he hadn't. But then, like most men, he'd never been good at relationships.