Political Affairs

"I would be lying if I said that the coming days would not bring pain. I would be lying if I did not say that necessary correction must take place. I would be lying if I said that it was not necessary to accept and submit to the inexorable process. But I am not lying when I say it is for your own good. For your benefit. That through this suffering will come joy, and future bliss. That only this path can promise you the greatest happiness you will ever know". He was addressing Penelope directly, but the camera was full on him so that he seemed to be speaking to every viewer.

"Just as a loving parent must make hard choices to ensure the healthy and happy future for their child - and you know that I am a loving parent - this government is ensuring future prosperity and world-beating status for this nation. Submit to loving, strict government, obey and trust those in power over you, and you will thrive. And you know this is the truth, don't you?"

Now he really was speaking directly to Penelope. "My darling child, you know how you -- and the country - need my parenting? That Daddy knows best?"

Penelope simply nodded, as emotion flooded through her. She knew exactly what he was referring to.

"Daddy knows best" He repeated.

It was not a question. But she felt unable to resist answering. Again, those legs crossed and uncrossed and recrossed, but this was no artifice. She squirmed, fighting against the feelings going through her, the excitement and thrill of submission. She almost came then and there. She was under his spell, and all she could do was surrender to his will and whisper submissively on screen for all to hear:

"Yes, Daddy!"

The interview was over. Sir Malcolm had won.

Timothy, prompted by his producer's voice over his headset, hastily brought things to a close, thanking the Minister for his time. The microphones went off as Sir Malcolm got up. As Timothy shook his hand, he curtly told the younger man under his breath: "She'll never shag you again, boy!" To Penelope he merely smiled triumphantly, enjoying her defeat.

As he was about to leave the studios, a runner attracted his attention, mumbled that "Miss Forster was asking for yer, Sir". He looked and his lover was waiting at the door to her dressing room. She had regained her bright professional demeanor.

"Ah, Minister! I just need to confirm one or two things before you go!" She said. Malcolm followed her into her dressing room.

As soon as he was In with her, Penelope slammed the door closed on them, shutting them into the small square room with its big mirror and dressing table. Malcolm reached for her, but she pushed him away.

"Ah-ah, Daddy! Wait!"

She sinuously stripped off her clinging dress in one swift move and flung it aside. Then she stood akimbo and enjoyed the look of depraved lust on his face as she stood before him. Her body was glorious, almost naked but for her heels, black hold-up stockings, and....the red bikini from their first erotic encounter! She had never worn it since that morning, but the memory of her in it had stayed with him and now it was reality again!

"Unzip!" She commanded. And he did, taking out his huge cock for her.

"Mmmm! Yes! God, I need it in my mouth! But first..."

Penelope sat on the dressing table chair, slipped out of her heels, and in a stripper's move raised a leg to peel the stocking off. Then she got up, approached her lover and seized his wrists, lashing them together behind his back with her still-warm stocking.

"Learned a few new tricks since the island, Daddy! Hands to yourself! The only parts of our bodies that will touch are your cock and my mouth!" She breathed into his ear.

Then, as he stood hands bound, Penelope went down on her knees before him and opened her luscious lips to take him into her mouth and begin to suck him off. She worked him expertly, softly, wetly, sucking him deep into her mouth, even deeper until he was down her throat, then sliding back to work his cock-head with her tongue and lips again, until he was overwhelmed by pleasure. It was the inevitable reward for his verbal domination of her and her professional submission. Now she was submitting sexually. He could see her bikini-clad body performing in the mirror, and it added an extra erotic charge to the scene. Penelope was slurping and moaning, stimulating and exciting him, until he climaxed and flooded her wide open expertly sucking mouth with his spurting spunk.

*

Sir Malcolm left the studio, his phone already ringing with his colleagues' congratulations and messages of admiration. And Fiona's text was deliciously provocative: "Daddy is it? Shall I call you that next time?"

Penelope went home to find a package had been couriered to her door.

"You really were sure of yourself, Daddy Malcolm" she purred as she opened it to find a set of clothing -- well, a partial set of clothing -- for that evening. She ran her long fingers over the expensive black designer gear and fetishwear, and felt herself becoming aroused by the knowledge that she would be wearing it to demean herself willingly for her powerful lover that night.

That evening the beautiful reporter showered, bathed, and prepared herself. She dried herself, powdered her naked body, applied her most expensive and erotic perfume. She looked at what she had been given, and brushed her lustrous hair then plaited it into a thick braid, pulled back from her face. She put on her make-up, choosing a pale foundation and dramatic dark eye shadow and red blusher. She toyed with black lipstick, but chose instead a deep crimson, highlighted with lip gloss. Looking at herself in the mirror, she saw a beautiful, flawless fantasy woman, a sex doll. She smiled inwardly -- that was what she was going to enjoy being that night.

She put on what she had been given, buckling the leather tightly in place. She slipped on the Jimmy Choo stilettos and the Burberry trench coat. All in black. The last piece. she left for now.

She drove to the suite Sir Malcolm was renting for the conference. A very discrete address, where she was able to enter the building unseen from the private car park and gain access using the pass code she had been given.

The suite occupied the whole top floor. Once she was out of the lift, Penelope took the soft black leather hood from her coat pocket and slipped it on, threading her braided hair through the space at the crown. She felt it close snugly over her face and zipped it tightly up the back. Then she took the orange ball gag and buckled it in place, sealing her mouth and stretching her jaw wide. The thought of what else would be stretching her open, using her eager mouth and even more eager pussy, almost made her orgasm there and then.

The door was also opened by the pass code. Penelope entered. She could see candlelight from a room at the end of a corridor and padded in her heels down the thickly carpeted hall.

There, Sir Malcolm was waiting. He wore only a short silk robe, black and decorated with a bold red pattern.

The room was lit by many candles. A large circular bed was at the centre, and a range of whips, restraints and other intriguing implements were laid out on a side table. Another table had iced champagne in a bucket and cocaine on a silver mirror.

Penelope unfastened her trench coat. Beneath it, she wore only a harness of thin leather straps, concealing nothing and emphasising her superb breasts, pert buttocks, narrow waist and her wet, shaven vulva. Otherwise, she had on only the leather hood and gag, and her brand new high heels.

She gracefully went down onto her knees, thighs apart, wrists crossed behind her.

"Do you come here willingly?", Sir Malcolm asked.

Penelope nodded submissively.

"Do you surrender yourself totally to me?"

Nod.

"Are pleasure and pain mine to inflict upon you?"

Eager nod.

"Do you exist for any other reason than my pleasure?"

Vehement shake of her head, causing that braid to whip about.

"Good...then we shall begin, my girl!"

Malcolm strode over, pulled Penelope to her feet by her hair, causing her to whimper masochistically. His hand reached for her pliant, magnificent body...

At which point two phones went off, buzzing and chiming almost simultaneously. The lovers both snapped out of their game at once, reached for their respective devices.

"Oh my God!" Cried Sir Malcolm.

"Mfff! Mmmf! Mff!" said Penelope through her gag. She was hastily unbuckling it, and once she was free of the ball she exclaimed: "the Prime Minister's died!"

*

The Prime Minister had indeed died. The official report said it was a heart attack from overwork in service of his country. Those in the knew were aware that it had been a heart attack brought on by the sexual athleticism of his huge-breasted blonde twenty year-old niece with whom he had been having an affair.

Penelope played her part in maintaining the official story, of course. And the Cabinet maintained a dignified and united front, even while the leadership contest was beginning before the funeral plans were made.

It was noted as one of the most vicious contests in a century. Early front-runners were used as stalking-horses; allowed to thrive, then undermined by more canny rivals. Alliances were made then betrayed. Steadily the field narrowed to the two most resolute hardliners, the two who promised to make the country great again, the two least tolerant of dissidence. Fiona Fenchurch, the Wicked Witch, and Sir Malcolm Pike, the nation's daddy.

Their affair ended as they became enemies. They turned all their dark arts on each other. Pet journalists and favoured newspapers or TV programmes were given leaked stories. Supporters of their rivals were threatened with blackmail or seduced with promised gain. And both politicians increased their personal competition. Where Fiona blamed immigration, sir Malcolm blamed benefit cheats. Any group who could be seen as different, any group that was vulnerable was fair game. The rivals exaggerated their personas to appeal to their core voters. Fiona took to wearing only black leather, doing a photo shoot for a high-end society magazine that verged tastefully on outright eroticism, in skintight black leather jodhpurs and sleeveless leather biker jacket, wielding a riding crop. Sir Malcolm took to wearing his old army jacket and always seemed to be surrounded by adoring, fawning much younger women whether they be uniformed nurses or servicewomen, his loyal young MPs or his constituents.

Penelope, while maintaining a veneer of impartiality, was one of the most effective of Malcolm's campaigners. She subtly pretended to be challenging him while feeding him the lines he wanted in every interview, she made no secret of her dislike of Fiona.

At last the final round of voting was due. The votes from the party faithful came in, while each faction waited nervously. Eventually, at nearly midnight, the officials read out the results:

"Fiona Fenchurch, 43,968 votes. Sir Malcolm Pike, 49, 720 votes. I therefore declare Sir Malcolm the new leader of this great party and the nation's new Prime Minister!"

*

Sir Malcolm had left the victory party and returned to his office. He finished off a few bits of business, including collecting the considerable win on his bet placed nine years before hat he would be Prime Minister within a decade. He was deciding whether to celebrate his victory that night in the arms of Penelope Forster or perhaps those of Millie Fortescue his newest MP, a recent Oxbridge graduate with flaming red hair and very long legs.

The door burst open, and there facing Malcolm was his defeated rival Fiona.

"I thought I should congratulate you in person!" She announced. Like Sir Malcolm, she had clearly been drinking. "You've beaten me fair and square..."

Fiona reached to her side, and Malcolm heard the whirr of the zipper as she undid her tight leather miniskirt. She let it fall to the floor. She stood before him, in a black leather blazer buttoned up to reveal only the top of her impressive cleavage, her thigh-high stiletto boots, and sheer black stockings with suspenders. No panties to conceal her wet, shaven pussy.

"And to the victor, go the spoils!"

She unbuttoned the jacket, opened it to reveal that she wore a black leather bustier buckled across the front, cupping those firm, glorious breasts deliciously. Leather straps held up the stockings, and these tautened as she reclined on Sir Malcolm's desk, legs opening wide, offering her nubile body to him as she had before but now with a total sexual surrender he had not expected.

"Have me, Daddy!" She cooed.

Sir Malcolm smiled in conquest. He unzipped his fly and his huge member sprang free. As he thrust into his newly submissive lover, he groaned in pleasure at the feel of her tight, hungry pussy engulfing him. Fiona gasped and cried out: "Do me, Daddy! Do your little girl HARD!" And thrust up at him hungrily. As he started the first of that night's fucks, he took out his phone and called a number he had on speed dial:

"Penelope, darling, I'm afraid I won't be seeing you tonight. Something has just come up, and I have to attend to the first of my duties as the country's new leader..."

*

After the leadership contest came a general election. The Opposition attempted to point out that two decades of mismanagement, corruption and incompetence had all but bankrupted the economy and reduced much of the country to poverty. Against the charismatic incumbent's paternalistic confidence, this meant nothing. Also, the television networks happily parroted the government line, the newsstands were full of propaganda for them.

It was a landslide. The headline from the most popular tabloid the following morning was: "Daddy DOES know best!"

*

Fiona Fenchurch had been Sir Malcolm's most enthusiastic supporter throughout the election, and was rewarded with the post of Home Secretary. On the night of her appointment, she visited her leader. She wore what Sir Malcolm had sent to her earlier. She unfastened the black Burberry trench coat to reveal her voluptuous body in the harness of leather straps. On her feet were new Jimmy Choos. She was hooded and gagged. She knelt before Daddy.

And then she heard footsteps as another person approached. Another woman. Dressed identically to the new Home Secretary. Even hooded as Penelope was, Fiona recognised her most hated rival for Sir Malcolm's sexual favours. Penelope knelt at Fiona's side. As Malcolm smiled smugly down at both of his lovers, Fiona realised what was to come and she knew then that she had never hated him so much as at this moment -- but she had also never desired him so much.

"I know from our pillow talk that you have never been with a woman, Fi. Penny, on the other hand, has. Yes, those rumours about her and that lovely Welsh weather girl are quite true. And tonight, you are going to be introduced to lesbianism while I watch. If you agree that Daddy knows best, you will bow your head then remove Penelope's gag."

The Wicked Witch bowed deeply, submissively, surrendering to her master's will. Then she reached across and freed her rival's mouth. Penelope gently but firmly pushed the busty blonde down and onto her back, and began to kiss her way down from her neck below the hood, her throat, her breasts -- and here, Fiona began to moan as she discovered how intimately a woman lover understands how to excite another woman -- and down further. Despite herself, Fiona opened her thighs as wide as she could to allow Penelope's skilled fingers and expert tongue access to her most intimate places. She was soon moaning then screaming into her gag as the more experienced lesbian lover brought her on to climax after climax. Sir Malcolm watched as his sexual playthings performed for him, stroking his mighty cock slowly as Fiona clutched at Penelope's head and the two beautiful, powerful women demeaned themselves in their leather gear like whores for his pleasure. He enjoyed it when Penelope made Fiona prostrate herself and walked over her back in her heels. He liked it even better when she deigned to remover her gag and had her perform all the acts she had done to her. By the time she had done with her, Penelope had tamed the Witch quite thoroughly. As Fiona licked her out for the fourth time, she moaned to Sir Malcolm: "We are your bisexual slut daughters, Daddy, Use us for your pleasure as you desire..."

Hours of being teased by his two lovers had aroused the Prime Minister to incredible stiffness. He stood up, the two leather-clad women crawled from the bed to kneel before him, and began to worship his cock and balls, their expert tongues snaking out from their hooded mouths and their plump lips sucking greedily.

As Penelope took his bulbous cockhead into her wet, hot mouth and Fiona teased his balls one by one with her tongue, Sir Malcolm wondered which of the two most desirable women in the country he would be fucking first that night...

*

It was Fiona. He had her up the arse, while Penelope pinioned her down. Then, after they had drenched each other in champagne foam and licked it off, he had Penelope ride him to orgasm while Fiona caressed her full supple breasts from behind. Their debaucheries continued through the night, then they slept in a dishevelled tangle.

In the morning, Sir Malcolm announced to his exhausted and satiated lovers: "You know, I rather think that as I'm now Prime Minister I ought to get married? What do you think?"

"Fiona beamed. "I can finalise my divorce quickly now I'm home Sec!"

"What makes you think it would be you he marries?" Snapped Penelope. Despite their newly discovered desire for each other's bodies, the two women remained rivals.

"Oh, my dear, I'm not thinking of harming our wonderful working relationship by tying the know with either of you. I was rather thinking of the Princess Geraldine!"

"What? The heir to the throne?" Gasped Penelope. "My God! And she's only eighteen!"

"I know. But when we met at the Palace, she really did seem a sweet child. Rather spoiled, and in need of a truly strong father figure..."

"You're serious?!" Cried Fiona.

"Oh, yes..." Said Sir Malcolm.

*

The nation was at first shocked, then delighted -- thanks to the press getting behind the story -- to hear of the courtship of the virginal young Princess Geraldine by the Prime Minister. The engagement caused ripples, but anyone with the power or influence to disrupt it was mysteriously silenced or suddenly changed their mind publicly. The wedding was a huge occasion, and did wonders for tourism. There were dark rumblings abroad that this had the hallmarks of a banana republic -- an impoverished country now ruled by a one-party state, with the royal family suborned by the ruling elite. But no such stories appeared in this country.

*

On her wedding night, young Princess Geraldine, now just shy of her twentieth birthday, readied herself for her bridegroom. She had kept on the white lace basque she had worn beneath her bridal gown, and the sheer gossamer-thin white stockings attached to it by frilly suspender straps. She had swapped her satin wedding shoes though for white leather knee boots with spike heels, and wore shoulder-length white leather gloves along her perfect slender arms. She wore a white leather choker too. Part bride, part whore -- the lissom young redhead knew she was desirable, but she also knew that her new husband was an experienced womaniser. She was determined not to disappoint him.

She entered the bridal suite at the most expensive, most discrete private hotel in the city. There waiting for her was Sir Malcolm, the newly-created Duke of Northernsex. He wore his ermine robe but was naked beneath, strong and erect.

Princess Geraldine approached, enjoying the experienced older man's appraisal of her youthful athletic beauty, his lustful smile. Then she gasped, as from behind him, one to his left and one to the right, stepped two more people. Fiona Fenchurch and Penelope Forster, each clad in skintight black PVC leotards and matching thigh boots with sheer black hold-up stockings.