In Memoriam

I have to admit that when I looked round the congregation at the Memorial Service I had to wonder. How many were there simply to pay tribute to a remarkable woman they had admired? How many were there with more intimate memories? The eulogy sketched in the public details of what had been a very public life. Married at twenty, divorced at thirty-five, twenty years in politics, seven years in the City, tireless work for charitable causes. A career that seemed destined for further distinction until it was suddenly ended at the age of sixty-two. Heart failure, they said, but doesn't everyone die of that? Unexpected in this case but apparently due to some congenital weakness.

Well, that was the public image. Having worked for her for an important part of that career, my thoughts during the Service strayed to much that wasn't even hinted at from the pulpit. I certainly didn't know everything; her ability to compartmentalise was remarkable. But our professional relationship meant that inevitably I had a number of windows into her private activities, some of which I had shared. I knew enough to look across the packed pews and identify many present who would have been there for entirely personal reasons. They were those, male and female, who had enjoyed, albeit briefly, the privilege of her sexual favours.

Perhaps, after a suitable lapse, some future biographer will be able to tell the full story . For the present, I must warn that many persons in the following narrative will have to be disguised to protect them from infamy, and to protect me from legal action. I shall call her Fay Middleton. That bears no resemblance to her real name but keen students of politics and the financial world may well put two and two together. And, of course, there will be others who will read this and add a private reminiscence or two of their own.

I went to work for Fay shortly after she was first elected to Parliament. Originally, I was hired as a researcher but my ability to organise an office and to get on with all kinds of people earned me swift promotion. As Fay's PA, I came to understand that maintaining her diary, making her appointments and travel arrangements, keeping on top of her correspondence, preparing her daily briefing, and a myriad similar tasks, was much more than a nine-to-five job. I didn't mind because, despite the twenty years between our ages, we were two of a kind; rather than employer and employee we developed a relationship that was much more than that, hard though it is to define.

There was an evening when we had been working late to clear a backlog of correspondence from her constituents. I was tired after a lengthy spell at the computer. A headache was coming on. Fay, who had a genuine instinct for the mood of those around her, came and stood behind my chair, resting her hands on my shoulders.

"You're very tense," she said.

"A bit weary, that's all. We need to get this done. I'll be all right."

"There's not much now that can't wait until tomorrow." Her fingers gently massaged the back of my neck. "Let me relax you for a moment."

Her voice, often strong and strident on the hustings or on the floor of the House, was calm and soft. I'm not one who needs a lot of cosseting but just at that moment I was ready to welcome a little respite at the end of a hard day. The fingers moved more firmly across my shoulders. I closed my eyes and leaned back.

"That's better," Fay said. "I'll just unfasten these." When she began to open my blouse, I felt no urge to protest. Fay had just turned forty, almost a mother figure or elder sister for me.

Her hands continued their manipulation, inducing a gradual lessening of the tension. My head began to clear. Inch by inch, Fay's fingers worked their magic down my chest, across the swell of my breasts. I have never needed a great deal of support; I know now that my bra, flimsy and lacy as it was that evening, concealed little. More to the point, as Fay told me later, it revealed nipples she was sure would respond to stimulation. At first, the contact was so minimal I almost ignored it as accidental. By the time it became clear it was more than that, I was past resisting. I was being seduced by another woman, and I wanted it to happen. Perhaps, never having known the experience before, I had subconsciously invited it.

"My dear Pam," she murmured, moving round to remove my blouse and bra, bending closer, "You can't imagine how much I've wanted ot do this ever since you came to work for me."

Her lips closed round a nipple and teased it, drawing it out. It was as though she knew without asking how quickly I respond to being aroused by a clever mouth and fingers. And now I was discovering how much more erotic it can be when the tongue and fingers are another woman's. I could have taken as much as she cared to give, but Fay had other ideas. She turned my swivel chair away from the desk, knelt, pushed back my skirt and parted my knees. Her hands reached up round my thighs.

"Lift up, dear," she said. "We mustn't be too long." When I complied, she slipped off my knickers in one swift movement. For a moment she paused, contemplating my pussy, her face so close I could feel the warmth of her breathing. When her fingers parted my lips and the tip of her tongue fluttered across my clitoris, I bucked as though I'd been given an electric shock.

"Stay still. I'll make it good for you. No more tension." While I tried to do as she wanted, it was impossible. The unprecedented nature of the situation was blowing my mind; at the same time the skill of her application was producing physical responses I couldn't control, nor wanted to. Her tongue delved, my hands clasped the back of her head, my bottom rose from the seat to force us closer together. At some point she contrived to insert two fingers. How and when it happened I don't know bur it was the trigger point. My orgasm exploded, huge and all encompassing. When it eventually began to subside, I slumped back into the chair, panting.

Fay swayed back on to her haunches and looked up at me. "First time?"

she asked. Once again she seemed to know.

"Yes," I said.

"It needn't be the last."

A ll I could think was that I wanted what had just engulfed me to happen again and again. But this was Fay Middleton, Member of Parliament for Backwater South, my employer, old enough to be from another generation.

"How can it?"

"Be patient, Pam dear, and be discreet, . You know how this place gossips. Well, make sure we give them nothing to gossip about. Trust me, and there won't be a problem as long as I can trust you. And I believe I can." She said all this with such confidence, I couldn't find the words to express my apprehensions.

I nodded. "But what about you now? Do you want me to - "

"There's probably nothing I'd enjoy more, but not this evening. I have to vote in the Division and after that I've promised to have that supper with young Mr Spender, haven't I?" J T Spender was the latest recruit to the Correspondents' lobby. Thirty-six, tall, very self-confident, the subject of much Westminster speculation. He'd approached Fay for an interview to do a profile and they'd agreed the supper date. It was in the diary. "My guess is our Mr Spender is after more than just an interview, and in that case I don't want to disappoint him. I wouldn't want you to take the edge off my appetite. But next time - I promise."

In twenty minutes I had learned a lot about Fay Middleton. First and foremost that she was an expert lover who could have me at any time she wanted. But secondly, she had an ability to close the door on a relationship, not permanently, but until she was ready to open it again. I had never encountered anyone like her before and I guessed no one had written a guide book. I knew I would succumb next time she beckoned; but I knew, too, I had to be very wary and prepared at any time to be either exhilarated or disappointed.

The following day, Fay left a message to say she was going straight into a meeting in one of the Committee Rooms without calling at the office first. I was not short of work: in any quiet moment I was gradually transferring Fay's personal contacts records from an old card index to a proper data base on the computer. It was necessary but boring and I was just taking a break with my salad lunch when Fay breezed in. I brought her up to speed on the calls I'd taken during her absence. She nodded and began returning them. No reference had been made to what had happened between us the previous evening.

During a lull between calls, I tried an oblique approach. "How was Mr Spender?"

"Satisfactory." Fay's expression gave nothing away. "Yes, you could say very satisfactory. On the LBW scale, B."

At that time, I didn't understand these coded indications that were appended to some of the names of Fay's contacts; I just added them as instructed. Though I soon noticed the subjects were all male, I doubted they had anything to do with cricket. Some time elapsed, and our relationship had developed from that first strange encounter, before I learned the secret. One day when I was updating the records, Fay casually offered the explanation. L equalled 'long', and W equalled 'wide.' B meant simply 'big.' "Hey," I thought, remembering the attractive lobby correspondent, "Hey, Big Spender."

****************

I've jumped ahead of events somewhat, but I've already given some indication of the mercurial mood changes that governed Fay's private life. Professionally, in her political aims and responsibilities, she was focussed to the point of being single-minded. Her appointment as a junior Minister was acknowledged on all sides as the reward for a keen intellect and hard work. Not to mention fierce ambition. She applied herself no less determinedly to satisfying her physical needs, and it was here that she was unpredictable. Whether she wanted to fuck or be fucked, whether she wanted a man or another woman, whether she wished to consult the LBW register or ignore it, seemed to depend only on the whim of the moment. For as long as I knew her, I was unable to detect any pattern to these activities even after I came to play a significantly greater, though far from exclusive, role in them.

Not long after she had seduced me so expertly in our office, we were on a weekend visit to her constituency. It was the first time I had been asked to accompany her. Ostensibly, I was there to get to know the area and to make notes during her surgery interviews and meetings. Valid reasons, certainly, but, as I grew to understand on further trips, a smokescreen for what she had in mind for me after working hours.

There was no clearer demonstration of Fay's clinical approach to a situation than her purchase of a house in the Backwater area even before she had been adopted as a Parliamentary candidate for the constituency. The locals lapped up that sign of her commitment. The by-product was that now, on our visits, it was quite natural for her to save me the expense of a hotel by offering me the use of her spare bedroom.

We were at the end of a long day made more tedious by the pettiness of many of the problems brought to Fay for her consideration. We were relaxing in her sitting room with a glass of wine. "I'll be glad to get back to London," she said, "but not before you and I have had the chance to enjoy some time together."

I guessed - hoped - where that remark was leading but chose to say nothing.

"We do have some unfinished business, don't we?"

Curious, I still waited but I was feeling the delicious tingle start to build.

"No need to be shy, Pam. You made me an offer which I had had to decline because of JT Spender. I admit he wasn't exactly a disappointment but I did regret leaving you at a particularly interesting juncture. It was, wasn't it?"

This time I nodded.

"I know." She got up, took my glass and led me to the stairs. "We'll finish these up there. Unless we find something more exciting to do." As she gave me back the glass, her hand brushed across my breast. A promise.

By the time she had guided me into her bedroom I had lost all ability to play Miss Cool. I knew where this was heading and I couldn't wait to get there. Slightly to my surprise, Fay - masterful Fay - was as eager as I was. All pretence abandoned, there was no initial subtlety. We stripped and threw ourselves on to the bed. "My turn first. You owe me," was all she said as she turned on to her back, opened her legs and thrust my head between them. Inexperienced though I was with another woman, I learned quickly, latent instincts surfacing, guiding my tongue between her labia, lapping at the wetness. And she really was wet, ready to surrender herself. I sensed that somehow she had been building all day towards this moment.

Suddenly, she cried "Wait", pulled away from me and twisted to open the drawer of a bedside cabinet. Taking out a long black moulded penis with ribbed edges, she pushed into my hand. "Use this," she gasped. "Inside. Fuck me with it." When I moved to do so, she fell back, murmuring, "Lick me, too. Get me off."

It was easy, needing little or no skill on my part. When I eased the phallus into her receptive pussy, she asked for it harder. When I changed from licking her clitoris to nibbling at the distended tip, she pulled me round at right angles to her and began to squeeze my left breast. Her body was almost impossible to control as she lunged up from the bed to force the black cock deeper and deeper into her innermost recesses. The nearer Fay came to her orgasm, the more vocal she became and the more basic her vocabulary.

Fleetingly, I had a mental image of this woman standing in her dark business suit at the Despatch Box making a formal statement to the House, and tried to reconcile that with the woman crying out, "Fuck me. Fill my cunt. Make me come!" while writhing under the promptings of my mouth and my frenzied insertion of the rigid prosthetic.

The hand that had been massaging my breast began to dig into the flesh, the grip tightening until it hurt me. I tried to prise her away but it was impossible. Her climax was upon her and there was nothing to be done now except to let it take its course. When it came, she gave a long, wailing cry and clapped her hand to her mound as I pulled away. As one woman observing another, knowing in my own body what she was experiencing, I could only watch in envy as, slowly and deliciously, the suffusing electricity drained from her and she fell back on a pillow, momentarily exhausted.

"Pam, my darling," she said as her composure began to return, "I'd been waiting a long time for that. But it was even better than I had imagined it would be."

"You've been thinking of me - doing that?"

"Sometimes I've watched you at the computer and been so tempted to ask you to do it there and then. I knew I would be wet and ready for you, but it wasn't right. Not there. Not then. I wanted there to be time. And now there is. Because we've only just started, haven't we?"

I nodded, unsure what to say.

"Let me look at you, then. We've been so involved, I haven't really had a chance. But let's get comfortable first." She asked me to stand while she removed the bed covers and turned back crisp white sheets. Then, after placing a pillow against the headboard and making herself comfortable against it, she motioned for me to join her. "I like small tits," she said, caressing mine. "My own are nothing special, are they?"

It's true they were not large but their shape, more pointed than round, gave real prominence to dark, unusually long nipples. Tentatively, I put out a hand to touch and felt them instantly spring to life. "That's nice," she murmured, "but you've already looked after me, at least for the moment. We need to think about you." She looked own. Her hand traced a path across my groin. "You don't have to shave, do you? Not the way I do. You're lucky not to be dark." Her pubic mound, which I had already discovered was quite pronounced, was bare while mine never displayed more than a light fuzz as fair as my hair.

"Do something for me," she said. I looked into her face, needing more encouragement. Not having come down fully from our earlier exploits, which had been largely for her benefit, I wanted to go on but I wasn't sure how. Looking back, I can see that from the outset I always acknowledged that Fay would lead and I would follow.

"Touch yourself. Show me what's good." She took my hand from her breast and placed it at the top of my pussy opening. After what had gone before, I had no reason to be shy but I felt awkward, hesitant. Fay soon realised she had to take charge. Propping herself on one elbow she used her free hand to begin manipulating my tits, first one, then the other, working the nipples. "Please, Pam," she murmured, "Show me what's good for you - so I'll know what to do."

I let my finger slip inside me. As I'd expected, I was already wet. My normal means of getting myself off is with my middle finger (I'm left-handed), although sometimes I need to use my first and middle fingers, one each side of my clitoris. Because the latter always works, and because I wanted to please Fay, I went straight away to the two-finger method. Fay pushed herself up and leaned in to see exactly what I was doing; satisfied, she lay back and looked intensely into my face, all the while offering soft words of approval and encouragement.

Soon I began to relax and concentrate on the warm glow developing between my legs. Fay suggested I should go faster but asked me to tell her when I was getting close. That wasn't necessary. The way my breathing grew heavy and irregular, combined with the movement of my hips as my groin rose to meet my fingers, told her all she needed to know.

"Nearly there?"

"Yes." My voice was almost a groan. My fingers were taking me where I needed to be. But on the point of reaching a wonderful orgasm, I felt my wrist gripped firmly by Fay's hand. "No, Pam, not yet. I want to help you. Will you let me?"

Stopped like that in mid air, I would have agreed to anything. Fay knew that and didn't wait for my approval. I felt two fingers slide inside me. She had changed position and was kneeling over me so that she could still watch my face. Her fingers curled inside me, exerting subtle pressure, sometimes no more than a caress, at others moving in and out, finger-fucking. "Both of us together," she said. "Keep touching yourself."

My fingers resumed contact with the most sensitive spot, almost as though they had a will of their own. The inexorable build-up quickly returned, never having completely subsided. But again, when it seemed it was about to burst through, Fay contrived to hold it at bay. The fingers inside me were still. Her other hand arrested my own contribution.

After perhaps thirty seconds, she said, "Wait, let's see if this helps." She delved into the bedside drawer and produced a small pot of white cream. Scooping a tiny amount on to the end of her finger, she dabbed it on to the tip of my clitoris and gently rubbed it in. The result was strange: a kind of cooling effect without in any way impairing sensitivity. "It's quite harmless," she said. "It just has a mild anaesthetic effect. It'll slow you down ever so slightly. Give you more control. All right now?"

"Yes, I'm ready." In truth, I could hardly wait.

"Good. Spread wide for me." Her fingers suddenly rammed into me, starting a fiercer finger-fuck. With the hand that had previously prevented me me from continuing, she turned her attention to my nipples, tweaking them, squeezing them, hurting me. "Can you take this?" she asked, smiling down at me without breaking rhythm. To my surprise I found that not only could I bear what she was doing, it seemed to add to my pleasure. The cream was having a beneficial effect, too. The build-up was undeniably slower but it was even more pleasurable. Encouraged by Fay, I began yet another drive for fulfilment with my own fingers. "That's lovely, Pam. Go on."