There is so much political stuff going on this emerged. All fictitious segments of my warped imagination

7.30pm, Thursday, 18th May 2017.
Mansion House, London

“Oh my God ... are you OK maam?” Doug asked, trotting forward and helping the middle aged lady up. She’d fallen on the long polished marble flight of stairs up inside the grand entrance hall of a large building. He waved away two other badged, tough looking men.

An elderly looking man came down the stairs to help, leaving behind four people he had been talking to on the landing waiting for his wife who had been delayed for various official reasons on the outer steps.

“Yes, I’m fine thank you Douglas, ah! Philip I told you I wasn’t happy wearing this dress knowing this place. Anyway, dust me off and we’ll get on to the reception,” she said firmly.

Doug stood close as Philip brushed her long skirt lightly with his hand, knowing several press were watching and cameras clicked.

“But it’s so nice and you haven’t worn it since the election,” Philip whined, adding in a whisper how the slit up the back was sexy. She thought, not much he would know about sexy.

Doug handed over to a colleague, making sure his main concern was OK, in the feeble hands of her husband and skipped lightly up the marble stairway.

“Did you get that?” Robert Peston asked his ITV cameraman, getting a confident nod and wink.

“Intéressant,” said Claude, from Canal TV France, viewing his digital camera.

“Shit I missed it,” muttered Paulo, RAI News from Italy, fumbling with his tripod.

“Who’d have thought?” pondered Laura, the BBC political correspondent, her twisted mouth puzzled.

“Right you lot, show’s over - we’re locking down for a while,” said Doug. His arms spread to herd the four genuine official, invitation only, news gatherers out of the imposing building.

Major speeches were delivered, introductions firmed, dinner enjoyed and the fifty plus guests made their way home, via a fleet of limos in convoy outside the building. The usual melee outside of press, fighting for a shot, a comment, an aside gradually died away. Doug and colleagues followed Teresa Mite’s Jaguar to Downing Street in their sleek black Range Rover and dealt with the security and final lock of No10. On escorting her inside, past Doug, ever vigilant on the pavement, Philip made his way their private apartments after the PM told him she would just thank Douglas for his assistance in an awkward moment. She indicated to the doorman to hold the gleaming polished front door and called out.

11.45 pm. Thursday, 18th May, 2017 Downing Street, London

Douglas Mountsteady joined his boss, one of the many, in the foyer as she dismissed Bert the sixty six year old Cockney doorman, telling him Douglas would secure the building when he left. Bert shrugged a ‘you know’ best shrug and buggered off to his private quarters. Shared with his wife, it was after his bedtime. She ushered the special branch officer into the large reception room off the hall, where she knew there would be no cameras and mics. She suggested the thirty four year old, ginger haired protection specialist sit while she poured him his favourite Black Label and one for her too. It had been her idea to have a drinks cabinet placed in the room since taking over from that prisssy family man Cameron.

Upstairs Philip Mite, the Prime Minister’s fifty nine year old husband, sipped his Cointreau, waiting for Teresa to join him in a little snifter as they called their nightly pre-bed drink. He zapped the TV channels to 173 and found the usual silicone titted glamour puss on Babestation. It was not porno, as the channel was easily available, although apparently you could pay for more filthy views. Philip hadn’t dared, but he watched it, rubbing his crotch, especially when the model bent over and a glimpse of her bum crevice was a little more visible. He guessed and would love to know if she had bleached round her arse – a strange cosmetic idea, he loved a dark aperture. His finger was poised over the 1 button to change, when he would hear his wife approaching their lounge across the oak floored landing. There was an element of boring in what he was watching, the underwear was ridiculous and his mind wandered back to his powerful wife.

Watching her dress to go out that evening, first off all removing her cherry coloured, silk dressing gown after a shower, to expose her sixty year old tall, slightly stooped body, Philip had passed by her naked flat rear and patted it, giggling, but getting zilch reaction. She had donned racy black French knickers, after a tailored lace trimmed black Rigby and Peller suspender belt. Her black designer brassiere, from the same source, was a great improvement on the unsupportive undies she had been criticised for in her early Parliamentary days, but her tits weren’t big. She invariably chose pale toned tights, much to Philip’s annoyance and against his pleading for darker shades and stockings, but tonight he’d been buoyed by her choice of tan Wolsley stockings with the sussies. The Amanda Wakely dress was something he’d actually had a minor influence on, although shitting himself at the exorbitant price.

She had casually brushed her natural salt and pepper coloured hair which suited her. He loved watching her dressing and undressing and stayed firmly in the background when appearing together. A plum toned lipstick made her eminently kissable to Philip and he hoped he could tonight - but she was always busy or tired, or both.

“Bit unexpected luv,” Bert said, finding Ivanka his elfin like, fourteen year old grand daughter naked in his bed. “Nice though. She’s well away,” he snickered, pointing to Edna his wife making a hell of a snoring row in her bed three feet from his. Ivanka nodded and grinned.

“Late shift this week? That’s lovely Bert,” she’d been on first names terms with him from when she could talk, a family trait, watching him heft his withered cock at her after he fumbled down his YFronts. “Haven’t seen it, or one for a couple of months. Yeah - grandma’s well fed and watered, tired and pissed. Made sure of that.”

“Reckon she wouldn’t mind anyway luv. She says she’s well past it when I fiddle with her, so I can’t see why she should be. I know incest was rife in our days and beyond, with your great grandparents then your mum and dad and their pals at the fish market, you know Shoreditch.”

“What about when you were in the military police, the Met?” she queried fondling his gradual erection, surprising her as always, with it’s readiness.

“Nah, well not incest that I knew about, big bunch of queers, but didn’t like that. But when it comes to bums, yours is a bit special,” he giggled, his hand on her cunt and digging deeper, his middle finger seeking her arsehole.

She squirmed adjusting to the intrusion, pleasant and not unusual but it still felt strange when not something done daily.

“Might be worth doing me there,” she murmured, turning her little slim body over. “It feels like a period coming, not that I’m much of a judge, only had two so far. No hang on,” she retorted turning on to her side and sliding down the bed. “I haven’t seen your lovely body and cock in months, so I’m going to have a taste first.”

Bert laid back and let her play with his tackle, now fully erect, his circumcised knob end shiny and bulbous. Ivanka’s tongue sought out all the crevasses and veins along his hard, five inch shaft, swallowing his knob end in a her small mouth with the cut overbite. Bert swept back her long, fashionable at her tender age, long auburn tresses to improve his view. He’d never worked out why his darling little grand daughter preferred old men like him having asked and got a sort of don’t know but I just do answer. Edna had often puzzled and asked her what boyfriends were on the scene, getting a number of zero as an answer. Bert and Ivanka had bonded early in her life, regularly going to White Hart Lane, with season tickets to see their beloved Spurs play football.

“Did I show much?” Teresa simpered, a hand on Doug’s brawny thigh. “You know, when I stumbled ... my legs?”

“Don’t worry maam, not that I saw,” he lied. “And if any of those bastards did, I’ll sort them, but there was only four TV crews in there, your lot asked for minimum, selected coverage and that’s what they got, bloody difficult I’ll tell you.”

“Good - thanks again, You special branch fellas are marvellous, but you’re the best” she sipped her whisky, stroking his thigh. “Philip’ll be in bed by now...”

“If I know what you’re thinking, it’s best not ma...”

“Quit with the maam bit Doug, not moments like this,” she interjected. “You don’t think so?”

He nodded his head in a wise manner, he was fucking tired, jumping in and out of a vehicle all day and being on red alert in the current political and international situation.

“Well my diary has a spot tomorrow, we checked at dinner tonight, the pesky Turkish ambassador was nagging – again. Besides the border incursion issue, his brain was focused here,” she pointed to her low slung, brassiere bolstered bosom. “If it stays free, you on?”

Mountsteady checked his phone and showed her, with a nod, getting a smile while thinking that won’t be free for long tomorrow.

They parted and as usual, thankfully, Teresa found Philip was zzzing away happily.

7am, Friday 18th May 2017, Stockwell, London

Doug called up some contacts and got them on the case. An hour later he got all the answers, she was 75% safe, street muscle worked on one, the other two had nothing, the worst problem, was good old Aunty BBC. Doug had been at university with one of the senior political guys and called him.

“John, Hi it’s Doug ... yes at No10 these days ... yes fine thanks...”

The conversation rolled on. John would check it out and get back, but it had to be within and hour Doug told John Pienass a well established political reporter.

Reports filed, appointments made, firearm practice, programme established and getting worried, Doug took a cab to an address he’d found most useful. His phone burbled in the cab and to answer, he paid off the cab and strolled through Green Park having recognised the caller code, needing ultra discretion.

“Hi John ... yes it’s got to be done, you know how she is ... OK but ... hang on she wants ... what ... for fucks sake she doesn’t ask much - but somebodies got to do it ... yes and that’s me ... well tough life you know. Yes I can do that but if you must I can sort that too, she does like you ... I’ll text you the address ... yes ... Ciao, got to go - meeting her.”

He flagged another cab.

The disguise had worked she told him, scampering into the dingy flat in Stockwell, flinging off the dowdy, straggly, dark wig, then her ankle length, grimy, gaberdine mackintosh.

“I’m glad that miserable git Gordon Brown had the old wartime tunnel refurbished,” Teresa giggled, tweaking her hair, then dashing to the bathroom. “T’sone thing that fucking Labour mob got right in their miserable existence ... oops sorry,” she snickered as a fart echoed the small room. She was perched on the toilet, ostensibly to relieve her bladder after the tortuously complicated journey from Downing Street, shaking off – and there hadn’t been any – vehicles following her. “Yeah come in you filthy sod.”

Doug sidled in, wearing only a pale grey thong, his tool wobbling in the brief, silk sliver of material. He breathed in the potent stench of her expelled wind and smiled at his Commander-in-Chief, bent forward, elbows on knees, denim mini skirt round her midriff, no knickers at her ankles, the splash of her bladder draining, music he had taught her to enjoy. He tousled her hair more, then bent down and kissed Teresa, before reaching down her back, over her top, seeking her arse crack. She wriggled forward on the basin to allow his hand to filter over her bum until his middle finger penetrated her sphincter. Another fart wafted up to him, a silent one this time, then he sensed her pelvic muscles flexing and a small but perfectly formed light brown turd squeezed past his digit.

“Dinner was good then?” he chuckled, inspecting his finger, then wiping it on a tissue.

She nodded, grinning up at him. “Yes and smell my piss ... you can’t miss it, asparagus, divine ... that’s it I think, had a big jobby, when I got up.”

Doug stood back as Teresa crouched to wipe her bottom, turned, flushed and smoothed her skirt down.

“Hmm, naughty girl, no knickers,” he chuckled.

“When I’m meeting you here I’m determined to be a dirty girl just as you like luvvy,” she chortled in a mock south London accent.

The safe house, one of several he had access to, had served them well in the few months he’d been assigned to the PM’s personal duty, others located in Hackney and Southall. There were more in other cities. He had used them for various clandestine meetings with other visiting female dignitaries such as Marina Dupin from France and that troublesome Oriental AunK Sin Suu Kyi. Mountsteady had been blessed with a natural, charming persona, very handsome, strong, efficient educated, discreet and attractively ginger hair, endearing himself to countless females. Cristine Fernánd de Kerchness the now ex-president of Argentina had introduced him to toilet play. Teresa was the summit of his conquests and for the daughter of a vicar, she had taken to that and shagging many ways easily.

They relaxed on the bed, smoking small cigars, after an energetic shag, she’d frigged her clitty to achieve an orgasm – or organism – as Doug joked it. Teresa liked those quick urgent shags as much as long, thoughtful, caring, love making, but Doug and she were pinched for time on this drowsy overcast day in the capital. Her mac, was still on the floor where she’d cast it off.

“Didn’t need it for the weather,” she smirked, gesturing at it.”Ideal for covering up though. Gets a bit hot.”

“Has he never found your stuff and the tunnel?”

“No, Philip’s not the type to be curious. He’s never curious about anything, or me,” Teresa mused.

“Doesn’t know what he’s missing. I mean this body of your is so beautiful to me...”

“Oh come off it Mountsteady,” she joshed. “My old body is showing all the things I don’t want it to and it’s not beautiful. I mean look at Pippa Middlestump who got married last weekend, now she’s beautiful.”

“Rubbish on two count with respect maam, you’re not old and she’s far too skinny – well for me anyway.”

“I wish,” Teresa moaned. “I mean look.”

Teresa slid off the bed and posed at a full length mirror. Doug admired her as she twisted and turned in typical mannequin poses. His penchant for older women never understood and he’d had a fair fuck selection of many bodies. He summed her up.

Her hair, fresh not bleached and casual sort of bob. Not much facial sag, few eye bags yes and minor wrinkles, but good bone structure and that powerful look. Her jowls were there but not heavy and her well shaped chin held it’s own. Her teeth were perfect. Teresa’s tits were not big and full and sagged to the sides of her torso, but their curved upwards actual shape was not that of an old woman, but a mature, childless lady and as good a sign of the latter were her nipples, almost smooth to their matching pale aerolae. Doug had never liked large brutal stubs that permeated through everything worn, shouting here I am look at me guys, however hers could be teased by lightly fingering to shout as loud. She had a suggestion of an extra belly, just below her navel, which he adored as it was a button rather than in it’s own little cavern.

Under that - her main concern, as she had often moaned about it, was her lower belly, she put it down and was probably correct, to so many event and banquets. She had a definite crease to form another tummy bulge and swell down to a smooth pudenda and as she continued turning and posing, the little girl look of a simple slit held a certain fascination for him. The PM didn’t have protruding labia apart from lower down at it’s base were two lumps - yes he could call them lumps, of labial folds which when she spread her legs wide, apart from opening like a bruised flower to display the dark deep orifice behind, continued to meld into the knuckle like very very sensitive, extremities of her sphincter. For her fair colouring, she had a dark toned anal cavity, the ‘knuckles’ toned the same.

“Look at you again,” Teresa pointed and leapt on him grabbing his erection and gulping it’s stiff length, nearly deep throating at the first gobbled. She had confided in Doug that when Bill Clingon had visited, he’d instantly tapped her up and fancying the debonair US statesman had succumbed to his charms, but had been limited to a blow job in the back of a limo.

She straddled him and held his dick upright before lowering tentatively to coat it with her cunt juices before taking aim again and lowering even more gently, governing the pace it entered her bum. She sighed, grinning down at Doug’s happy face, as she sat fully embedded. The PM rocked at her own pace and pressure, carefully protecting her anal channel, but in charge – as she always is.

7.30am, Friday 19th May 2017, Downing Street, London

“You should be making love to nice young boys your age you know Ivanka,” Bert coughed.

“I don’t want nice and certainly not boys my age ... Urgh! They’re gross,” she replied washing her grandfather’s genitals as he relaxed on the bed. “You’re just gorgeous and I like mature strong men like you so there,” she added with a mock petulant scowl. “Look at these handsome balls, so big and heavy and as for this...” She stooped and kissed his cock knowing the soapy water had been rinsed off. “It does everything I ... we want to do and even Grandma doesn’t mind do you ... you agree?”

Edna nodded and offered a gummy grin, her teeth still in the jar at her bedside.

“He’s done me bum Gran. Think I’m coming on ... hey Bert shouldn’t you be getting ready for work?”

Bert assured the young girl he was still on late shifts. Her pert firm boobies with barely visible soft smooth nipples wobbled delightfully as Ivanka busied herself. She decided to insert a tampon, separating one from it’s wrapping. Bert watched the intimate scene as she bent her knees forward, placed a hand on her mons veneris and stretched her lightly haired pubic growth, peering down at the delicate slit he knew so well and eased the cardboard tube up her youthful twat, then discarding the same tube leaving a pristine white string hanging between her delectable slender thighs. He recalled the last time he’d seen a kid her age do the same, her best friend Ellie a black skinned busty kid, who had let him shaft her regardless of the bloody mess as she was safe. From his pillow he could look past her as she searched for her undies and see most of Edna’s, what he used to call paps – now flat, sagging, dollops of flesh under her armpits.

Ivanka stepped neatly into a pale mauve pair of briefs, with a cute little bow at top front, then became very fussy about fastening her bra straps, making sure they were the correct length and not twisted. What the hell for Bert mused, she had virtually nothing to support – women’s thing. A green plaid skirt followed. It was knee length, but soon it was a mini not far below her tender buttocks as she studiously rolled it up and hid the waistband under her shirt. Some knee length white socks, a pale grey collared shirt, a striped clip on tie, a smart dark grey jacket with maroon coloured trimming completed the total schoolgirl appearance and finally black sensible shoes. Bert clad in a pair of pyjama bottoms and a robe, sat on the edge of his bed and applauded, Edna copied grinning, reaching for a kiss and a hug which she got.

“Give our love to your mum and dad pet,” he said, at the servants entrance. “We’re coming over for a weekend soon and make sure you get that school friend Ellie sorted, the one with the big knockers,” he giggled, thinking ahead of Ivanka the tiny white waif and the bulky black together in bed. “The two of you are still a handful for an old git like me, but I’ll manage,” he chuckled, as a policeman arrived to exit her. Ivanka blew him a kiss as she turned a corner and he went back to his quarters.

From a window upstairs, standing back slightly behind heavy mauve drapes, Philip Mite watched the trim pretty school girl skip away and tucked away his fat cock sadly – they were only dreams these days.