Politics Ch. 01

What he would give for five minutes alone with this one!

Her long chestnut brown hair bounced on her shoulders as she tossed her head back. It framed her beautifully sculptured cheekbones, large eyes and voluptuous mouth. Why didn't women look like that when he was her age? What was she… around thirty? The women were all frumpy when he'd been thirty.

Yes, no doubt about it. He'd be masturbating again as soon as he arrived home later that evening. Watching for the usual, warm smile she shot in his direction before slipping money into the parking meter, he turned back to his young customer, anxious to complete the transaction before Miss Katie arrived. Within a minute, he had him served and was reaching for the sandwich that was his dream woman's preferred choice.

Katie Nichols glanced at her watch. Eight o'clock in the morning was her usual time but today she was a few minutes late. Heading across to the small takeaway café, she felt the surge of adrenalin that invariably lodged in her pussy muscles when she walked in there.

The small, South American owner may have been in his sixties, but he reminded her so much of her first time, all those years ago…

"There you are, Miss Katie," the thin man said, bringing her out of her thoughts as she made her way through his door. She pushed up her large, dark sunglasses, using it like a headband. Her eyes adjusted in time to see him handing her the prepared breakfast wrap. "You shouldn't rush breakfast," he continued, heading for the cappuccino machine. "It's the most important meal of the day. Take your time and eat it here, work can always wait."

"Oh, yes, Eduardo," the psychiatrist laughed, her wide smile hitting both sides of her lush mouth. "I can see that going down well with my patients. 'Don't worry about your problems, I'm having breakfast.'"

For a second, her heart missed a beat as she gave in to the forbidden thought that always lurked at the back of her mind. If she missed an appointment, it wouldn't be because she was having breakfast here. It would be because she was sliding the café owner's South American 'snake' into her mouth, just like all those years ago! The thought sent shivers down her spine.

The sixty-year-old smiled at her as he poured the large cappuccino into the takeaway cup, fitting the top onto it with all the panache of someone who'd been doing the same for the last ten years of his life.

His smile froze as he glanced at her. It was there again! He could see it in her expression, in the twinkle of those dark eyes. He knew women and this one was, unbelievably, attracted to him. If only he could get her alone...

"Then come earlier for breakfast, beautiful woman," he craftily suggested as he recovered his poise. "I'll open my café just for you!"

Katie felt herself grow moist. It had been some time since she'd had a man in her mouth, let alone a comparative stranger. The thrill of giving head to someone she didn't know was a weakness she just had to live, and cope, with.

"Can't do that, Eduardo," she answered with a grin, taking the coffee he handed her to go along with the tuna melt wrap. "A girl needs her beauty sleep."

"You don't need beauty sleep, Miss Katie. You beautiful enough."

Katie shot him a dazzling smile over her shoulder as she headed for the door. God, why did she keep going there? Was it because he reminded her so much of that man at her prom night?

Walking the short distance to her clinic, she knew what the reaction would be when she arrived. The matronly receptionist would be appalled. She always was when Katie walked in with her bought breakfast. How many times have I told you? I make better coffee than that. And as for that breakfast sandwich… well…

She laughed aloud as she headed towards the plush offices, ignoring the puzzled glances of a passing couple. She'd had a similar conversation with the middle-aged receptionist every single morning. And Diana was right; it was hardly in keeping with their surroundings.

The Henry Moore sculptures and modernist paintings gave an understated opulence to the state-of-the-art offices and a takeaway breakfast meal had no place there. But somehow, Katie just couldn't break the habit.

The dark haired woman was so fortunate to have gained a junior partnership in the West End psychiatric practice at such a young age. Hard work and determination, yes. But it was an opportunity that had arisen out of the blue and she'd taken it with both hands.

Perhaps it really was time to dump her early morning breakfasts and act like the professional she was?

***

The lunch in the House of Commons Members Dining Room had been a treat. Not only had the meal been of a much higher quality than he'd anticipated, but Alistair Brinkley-Jones had been an excellent host.

The charismatic Tory Party leader had insisted they kept the conversation light until they drove to what he called his Campaign Headquarters. But by the time they'd finished the meal, Alistair knew everything there was to know about Thomas and his background.

Only once they'd travelled across the City to reach their South West London HQ in Millbank, did the Conservative Party leader allow Thomas to ask the question they'd both been waiting for. "Why me?"

The black politician smiled confidently as he lit a fat cigar, allowing the smoke to float into the air like pollution from a chimney. "How many reasons do you want, Thomas? Who was the key man behind the scenes in Tony Blair's second election campaign? No one had heard of you, but Tony is unstinting in his praise. Why did you call it a day after that? You could have had a key job in Government."

"I'm strictly impartial as far as politics is concerned," Thomas softly responded. "I'd never work in any Government."

Brinkley-Jones laughed. "Impartial? Yes, I heard that. So… that means there's nothing philosophical that would prevent you taking the job I'm offering, I assume? Working for Labour doesn't rule you out from taking a job with the Conservatives?"

Thomas shook his head as he pushed his back against the uncomfortable leather couch. "I work for people, Alistair, not parties. People I believe in. That's what turns me on."

"Yes, I heard that, too," the Tory leader responded with a warm smile. He tapped the ash from his cigar into the clear glass ashtray on the coffee table. "I guess that's why you've been working for Barnardo's these last three years?"

"In a way, yes."

"But you're ready to move on now?"

Thomas shuffled in his seat and took a sip from the glass of water in front of him. "You're remarkably well informed."

Alistair Brinkley-Jones gave one of his trademark grins. "That's what you would expect from someone in my position, isn't it? Why move on now?"

Kincaid ran a hand through his golden farmboy hair before responding. "Not that well informed then," he said, raising his eyebrows in a playful gesture.

He wasn't usually into scoring points, maybe it was just the thought of getting back on the political bandwagon again? He was playing hard to get, but was only too aware that he was ready for another dose of that unique adrenalin. "I took a three year contract with the Charity, and have delivered everything the project demanded."

"And more, from what I hear," Alistair said with a grin. "My sources tell me that conservatively, you've brought in around five million in that time. Impressive stuff."

"Thanks," the young man modestly responded, almost bashful in his tone. But he wasn't willing to give more away.

Brinkley-Jones just nodded. "And you're ready for a new challenge?"

"Yes, if it's the right one."

"It is," the Conservative leader responded with a smile. Persuading people was his territory. "The country needs you."

Thomas shot him a rueful look. "The country? Or you?"

"Same thing," the dark haired man replied, stubbing out the cigar in the ashtray and pushing forward in his chair. "You know the state of things, Thomas. You're an intelligent young man, everyone tells me that. The country needs a kick-start again. The Conservatives are the party to do that."

Kincaid shook his head. "You're telling me the Tories are that much better than Labour? And Labour tells me they're so superior to the Conservatives! In my view, you're much the same."

It was true. Those were his thoughts. But he left out one crucial element. And Brinkley-Jones wasn't too modest to introduce it.

"The parties may be similar nowadays," he conceded. "Not that I'd admit that in public. But there is a difference and you know it. That's why you're here. You're looking at that difference, Thomas. Given the opportunity, I'm the person who can change things. You know that."

"I do?"

Brinkley-Jones refilled their glasses from the water jug in the centre of the oval table. "You do. Why else would you be here? You do your homework, Thomas, just like I do. That's what makes us both successful. You know I can help this country. So can you. Help me get elected."

The blonde haired young man sighed thoughtfully, glancing around the room. All around them, people were beavering away, extra busy as a result of the forthcoming election. Yet in the small recess at the back of the main room, the two of them were in their own oasis.

He glanced back at the Conservative Party leader. "Why now?" he simply asked.

Alistair smiled. "I'm sure you'll have worked that out, too," he told the young man. "But if you want to hear it from me, here goes. Because we're neck and neck with Labour. It's touch and go. For the final thrust of the campaign, I need someone to help me. I have a lot of campaigning to do and I have to find a way to take the pressure off. To support me. To handle the press. To come up with ideas. You're that man."

"I'm that man?"

"Yes, and you know that, Thomas. You did it for Tony. You helped him secure a second term. I need you to help me win a first term. There's no one else who can run a General Election campaign like you. I need your skills, Thomas. I need you! Dammit, the country needs you."

"The country can survive without me, Alistair," the younger man dryly said. "I came here to get a feel for things."

It was only partly true. Thomas knew that. So, probably, did Brinkley-Jones. The opportunity to play a key part in the election of the country's first black Prime Minister was too good to pass up. Barrack Obama had done such a wonderful job across the pond, and everything the potential new recruit had heard about Brinkley-Jones indicated he was from a similar mould.

That was high praise!

"Feel away," the Tory leader said, holding out a long arm as he jumped to his feet and executed a three-sixty-degree turn in impressive fashion.

Kincaid's gaze followed the sweep of the arm, staring around the heartbeat of the Conservative Party Headquarters. He'd been so focussed on their conversation; he only now appreciated the sounds going on all around them. The young men and women were different, yet so familiar as they worked the phones and punched the laptops. The main difference was that they nibbled from the platters of fruit scattered around, rather than the junk food being consumed during Blair's re-election campaign.

The memories flooded back, reviving the adrenalin that had lain dormant inside him for far too long. The familiar buzz was exciting, there was no doubt about that.

"So," Alistair Brinkley-Jones said, reminding Kincaid that he was standing by his side. "From that familiar look in your eye, I'd say you were on board!"

"Well…"

"Hey," the black man laughed, picking up a bunch of grapes from a platter on the table behind him and popping one after another into his mouth. "Don't play hard to get, Thomas. This is too important. There's too much to be done. Just tell me you're with us!"

As he spoke, he grasped Thomas's hand in his vice like clench and threw his free arm around the younger man's shoulders. "History, Thomas. Electing the first black Prime Minister is history. Don't you want to be part of that?"

"Is that all it means to you," the golden haired young man asked before he could stop himself. "Just history?"

"Just history?" Brinkley-Jones repeated, a frown covering his handsome features. "For a start, that's very important, my young friend, just as Obama's election was. Just think what message it sends out to the country, to the world. But it's so much more, Thomas. I can influence things. Change things. I can make this country great again. I can do that, Thomas. Others can't. Help me!"

Kincaid smiled. How could you not smile in the face of such rhetoric, such enthusiasm? Instinct suggested this was going to work out well.

"Let me tell you something, Thomas," Brinkley-Jones continued, taking hold of Kincaid's forearm through the dark blue suit sleeve and pulling him back down onto the couch. This time he sat beside him. "Want to know why I'm the right man?"

Kincaid nodded. Listen carefully, he told himself. This has to be more than rhetoric. "Yes, I'd like to hear that, Alistair."

Brinkley-Jones nodded. In that moment, his piercing smile and wavy black hair gave him a movie star look. "Two reasons, Thomas," he said with that toothy smile, right out of some Hollywood blockbuster. "First, I've liaised closely with Barrack behind the scenes. I know what's making his tenure successful. His initial problem was that he came in and learned as he went along. That's tough, y'know?"

Kincaid did know. Tony Blair had confessed the same about his first term. And it had been a rocky few months after his re-election, with the thoroughness of his approach being counteracted by the state of the economy, the state of Britain—hell, the state of the Europe.

"Surprisingly for a Tory leader, I've been closely in touch with Tony, too." He smiled at the widening of the young man's eyes. "Oh, yes," he confirmed, "Tony and I are good friends. Listen, Thomas, I know what worked for him, and I know what didn't. I know what worked for Barrack when he first took over and what didn't. I have that knowledge through my long conversations with both men…"

"So…" Thomas began, but Brinkley-Jones arm around his shoulder stopped him.

"I don't need to make mistakes to learn lessons," the Tory leader continued. "I'm already ahead of the game, Thomas – I've already learned from Tony's mistakes, and Barrack's too, not that there were too many!"

The listening man nodded thoughtfully. "So Britain is getting another Tony Blair?"

The politician gave one of his engaging little cackles as he uncrossed his legs and swung face on to Kincaid. He peered at him intently, as if he was expecting the younger man to know the answer without answering the question. "No sir, I'm no Tony Blair. Nor am I Barrack Obama, Thomas. Some similarities to both, yes, but we're different people."

"So…" Thomas began again.

"D'you know what I believe, Thomas? I believe I have a great intellect. I believe I have the capacity to persuade, the ability to integrate. What I can do Thomas, is help Britain lift its sights to match my vision. We didn't quite get there with Tony, and Gordon has taken us backwards."

"That's true enough," Thomas acknowledged.

"So tell me, do you want George Blair as your next Prime Minister?"

It was a well-made point. There'd been rumours for some time that Blair had been connected to Dominic DeVere before the businessman's death. All of DeVere's shady dealings had come out after his murder, but despite the whispers, no one had been able to make a firm connection. With George Blair threatening legal action against anyone attempting to link the two of them, that had been that. But still the rumours persisted…

"Come on, Thomas," Brinkley-Jones said. "The country doesn't need George Blair. It needs a fresh start. I can give us one…"

The young man nodded. Given a choice, there was only one way to go. Besides, it wasn't just Alistair's words, it was the way he relayed them. He realised he was suddenly a believer. "What do you want me to do?" he asked, feeling the excitement flowing through him. He was on the team, no doubt about that. But only if he could make a difference.

"Tell me, Thomas," Brinkley-Jones responded with a smile. "What exactly did you do for Tony in that campaign?"

"What did I do?" the fair-haired man repeated. He began to explain the specifics of his role, only to be stopped by the politician's shaking head.

"No," the black politician contradicted.

"No?" Kincaid asked. He was missing something here, but wasn't sure what. Brinkley-Jones helped him out.

"You're telling me your duties," he softly responded. "That's not what I want to hear."

The penny suddenly dropped. "I looked after him," Thomas grinned.

"Exactly!" Alistair almost shouted. "Whatever he needed, you made sure he got. You opened doors. You closed doors. You made things happen. You created the platform that allowed him to concentrate on being elected! All those other pressures, you took away. That's your job description with me, Thomas. Let me concentrate on being elected! Up to it?"

Kincaid smiled. This was what he was good at.

***

Rebecca de Santos was on a high after her morning session with Thomas. Sex always left the young Brazilian beauty that way. It was what she lived for.

Settling down with the young Englishman had been a major decision in her life. After all, her past wasn't exactly littered with monogamy. So far, it was everything she'd hoped it could be. Thomas was intelligent, funny, sexy, and kept her satisfied in the bedroom. Or anywhere else, for that matter, she had no inhibitions as far as fucking was concerned.

In some ways, she thought of her aerobics class like sex. Working her athletic body to its maximum. Enjoying the illicit sensations that came with the different positions. Watching the contorted faces in front of her as she pushed her regulars to their absolute limits.

There were some attractive faces there, too. Some of her faithful followers were quite stunning young women. Deus! She'd better not go there again, wondering what it would be like with another woman. Not the best frame of mind when you ran an aerobics class full of them. It was about the only thing she hadn't experienced, but the idea was forbidden in Sao Paulo.

Okay, put that thought out of her mind! Back to work…

The stunning young woman's focus returned to the class in front of her. Time to up the pace. With a grunt, she found another ten percent, adding to their pain as she slipped into top speed. Maybe she was pushing too much, but she felt the need to burn the image of sweaty, naked women from her mind.

Throwing back her raven coloured hair, the twenty-two year old pushed harder, her protesting muscles screaming back at her with each new step. Pain and ecstasy, ecstasy and pain. She had to feel it too, if the class were to believe in her.

"Higher. Get 'em higher!" she insisted in that sexy accent, straining to make her voice heard against the insistent beat of the stereo.

This was better. She could feel the arousal in her loins, just as she did when anticipating sex. Thomas was in for another treat tonight, but that was invariably the case after one of her aerobic sessions. Deus, she didn't need an aerobics session to fuel her need for sex, but it did make the feeling more acute.

The airwaves of the small, stuffy gym reverberated with the driving music as she pushed harder, forty pairs of track shoes beating out the rhythm with her. The movements intensified as every woman searched for their deepest reserves of strength to help them through this most punishing of routines.