They are All At It

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

***

"Must admit to being a bit partial to a touch of the tar brush in those days," Teresa called from the bathroom. "Bernie Grant, Paul Boating and not one of those- but a big favourite of mine was dear old Clement Fraud -- huge cock. Do you know I actually overheard that Enoch Parcell describe me as a right old cum bucket."

"Good grief Teresa, that was disgraceful," Doug called out, thinking that's what she is, slowly dressing, having sluiced his lightly stained tool earlier. "Did you have a go ...I mean report them?"

She rejoined him the bedroom, wiping a towel through her crotch and reaching further to dry her ring piece and surrounds. "No course not, how could I ....anyway it was true," she snickered. "And luckily still am."

"Well of course long time before my time, but you know ...."

"You couldn't have done anything Doug," she told him, ignoring the reference to their disparate ages, fishing a pair of black big knickers out of her coat pockets and stepping into them, pulling the elastic high to her navel. Then she pulled them back down a little and from her handbag fished out a plastic wrapper and from that a panty liner. She stuck it in the knicker gusset and hauled the undergarment back up.

"Just in case there's still a residue up both holes," she chuckled, meeting Doug's knowing grin, dragging a non-descript colour and shaped top on. Her coat came last as she looked around..

"No bra?"

"Didn't wear one and what with these?" she giggled, lifting her splayed mamms. "Waste of time really, but the paparrazi will find my nipples somehow, so when needed yes."

"You're too hard on yourself, I love them...."

"And so would the great British public if they're in the Daily Mail."

"So I'll sort out yesterday's little incident but as I said there's likely to be a pay off."

"Bring it on Mounsteady. I can do my bit, you do yours."

11am, Saturday 20th May 2017.

RAC club, London

"How's the missus?" asked Clyde Montessori, swigging back a hefty gulp of Glenfiddich 12 at the private club, in the city, Philip favoured when not - as he put it - on show.

"Fine spiffing thanks, in rude health," answered the PM's husband, sipping his gin and tonic.

Bet she is rude, mused Clyde. How the fuck doesn't he know that Teresa Mite is known in the city as the Square Mile bike. Wouldn't mind a go myself.

"That video I sent you ... good eh?"

Philip pondered for a while, trying to recall the porn stuff Clyde sends him regularly.

"The one with the St Bernard and the fat black woman ...? Yes top oh thanks...great. Lovely dog."

Stupid old fucker, Clyde thought, eyeing a not very attractive fair haired, twisted mouth woman, no not a fucking hells chance of screwing her he thought, entering behind Philip, trailed by a large mixed race burly handsome man and Douglas Mountsteady.

"Anyway nice chatting Clyde, on the first tee at two at Wentworth ...catch up again, said Philip."

The Tea Merchants Bar,

Docklands, London

"She wants a blanket on the whole incident, you know what she's like about what's broadcast -- paranoid, and who sees anything untoward." said Doug as the found a corner sofa and table.

The waiter brought a round of drinks -- courtesy of the Special Branch.

"Thanks guys for keeping it under wraps, but when she makes her statement about the meeting, she wants no negative stuff and what you've got on on video is what you might call negative."

"So I get to watch John and her do it in return for the video?" asked Laura Koonsberrg. "I mean I am now the flagship political reporter for Aunty and Mrs Mite's prepared to let me watch and satisfy her lust for big black buggers like him?" she snickered. "Sorry John figure of speech you know."

He waved her apologies away with a big cheesy smile over his handsome beaming countenance.

"Hey Laura, we're all going to get what we want, should I worry what you slur me with," he chuckled. "S'not the first time ... remember when I called you a jumped up, jumped on Scottish slag."

They all cackled until Doug asked. "Can I see what you have Laura ...no not that," he snickered as she started to open her legs. He admitted to himself he wouldn't mind a look ...oh OK feel ......Oh OK then - a shag with the snotty faced, persistent nag, political bag, but she retrieved an Apple tablet, from her capacious handbag, clicked buttons and leaned over to show him the screen.

As they crowded round it Laura wondered if he'd spotted her pink suspenders. She followed her mother and grand mother's taste in underwear and whilst not needing the support, her collection of vintage girdles with suspenders, some complete with gussets, had been a surprising attraction in her dating days - and still were.

The video showed Teresa exiting her Jag and ascending steps, turning to pose for the uninvited press and rabble, then into the foyer and her mishap. She had caught her Beverly Feldman kitten heel black mules with a rose pattern, on the edge of the second step and stumbled, Doug leaping in to help the stricken PM. A brief glimpse of six inches of her upper thigh via the rear slit skirt was there but minimal.

"That's nothing I know in this day and age but you know what she's like," said Doug, having see the video twice with further revelations. "She'll go ape shit if it's on the news."

"That can be edited out easily," scoffed John. "That's what all this fuss is about?" he gulped his Carling lager.

"Easy boy," said Laura, her mouth in over-twist mode even when drinking her Moët et Chandon Dom Perignon, which eventually dribbled down her chin, making her dab it with a tissue. " It's not your decision, not mine either, but I can make it happen, deal?"

"You shagging the news boss these days?" asked Doug, finishing his Abbotts Ale and signalling for another round.

She stuck her tongue out at him, the little group of conspirators shook hands and left after downing the next round. On the way to HQ Laura mused if she had tripped, the press would have had a field day, remembering the occasion, because she'd worn ultra long retro suspenders, with the welt of her pale grey stockings only inches above her knee ....Phew!

9.20am Monday. 22nd May 2017.

Downing Street, London

"Excuse me Bert, who was that leaving, by the servants entrance on Friday. Seemed to be a young girl? Very young to be an applicant for a job, I saw you waving," queried Philip, catching Bert feeding the cat in the back yard while having a cigarette. "Don't tell the boss," he chuckled indicating the smoke.

"Safe with me Mr Mite," Bert retorted. "Mums the word eh? That was our grand daughter Ivanka. She stayed the night with me....with us. Me and Edna you know," he corrected himself. "Light of my life."

"I'll bet - she looks charming, although I only saw her from window up there," Philip pointed up the building. "We never had children and I do wish we could have. I love young people round me, especially girls. How old is she if you don't mind me asking?"

"Ivanka's eighteen, going on old age like us," Bert laughed, shaking his head and coughing as the cat in his arms, hairs irritated his sinuses. "I mean the stuff she says, knows and does. But I love her in that college gear, brings her back to earth. How they get away with their skirts like that at class, must drive the men teachers crazy .... I mean all that ...er you know -- leg." The cat leapt to ground.

"Yes must be very revealing, I've seen them in town, quite disturbing too," chortled the PM's husband.

"Revealing? Think what it's like to have her in our flat ...just for a night. Between you and me, her mother is a noody, you know, takes her clothes off....what's the word...no ...not a stripper....."

"I wasn't going to say that Bert, maybe a nudist or naturist as it known," offered Philip, interrupting, his interest perking. He got a nod and more coughing.

"Yeah ...cough....cccooouuuughhhhh sorry 'bout that, that's right Mr Mite. Her mothers German Polish and trained her, well not that, but she likes it and it was OK when she was young but these days ...I mean she's a woman, know what I mean?"

Philip was very interested and knew exactly what the old geezer meant.

"She does it here? I mean when staying with you? Nowadays?"

"Cor yes. We've told her," he lied. "Her parents have but now and then she forgets, you know the young'uns, head in the clouds. Luckily these days her head's more in these things," Bert gestures a hand held device. "Like all of them, so she doesn't do it much now."

"Yes yes, do you know, I was walking in Oxford Street, not often I do that," Philip chuckled, not saying the only reason to, was to ogle the young talent parading mini skirts and bouncing tits. " the other day and this gorgeous young lady crashed into me, I couldn't avoid her in the crowds, you know what they're like, doing all that," he repeated Bert's gesture. "Her boyfriend stopped her falling, apologising at the same time because he was doing...you know," gesturing again. "Both American, Californians as it happened ...I chatted to them for a while, they insisted they bought me a coffee in Starbucks, Yanks politeness personified. Old ... what's his name ...Terry, you know my bodyguard wasn't pleased. Must admit .... going back to the young girls, she was wearing, " he chortled. "Well not wearing a skirt that came up to her ... you know ...."

"Pussy," Bert offered the word, not invited, but feeling the conversation was developing onto a subject he enjoyed talking about.

"Yes exactly Bert thanks, I mean when she perched on a stool, what I could see - well," Philip chuckled and gestured his arms up in despair, remembering the thrilling vision of a tight white gusset.

Bert shook his head, grinning agreeing. "Nice eh Mr Mite. Us old gits don't get ...sorry no offence, us old chaps, don't get to see that sort of thing much these days."

"I wish Bert, you're right. I suppose you do with little Ivanka staying and ...you know, what you said like being a naturist .... you're so luck ....." his voice drifted.

"Lucky? Yeah that's it, just little old lucky me. I guess you would call your self lucky if it happened to you."

"What the American girl again?" suggested Philip, playing dumb -- the chat was getting interesting.

"Nah, if you had Ivanka ... well not her, not had, but you know, a young'un staying."

"So if you and Edna are tired or something, she'd be welcome ...that's if the boss," Philip shrugged and rolled his eyes. "if the boss agreed, most unlikely anyway."

The two elderly men drifted in their own dirty dreams and wishes, until Bert's mobile trilled. He was on duty and needed.

3pm, Saturday 3rd July 2017

Safe house, London

"I chose this place as it's a bit roomier than the others and decent parking, although I notice you had cabs or drivers," announced Doug. "It is very very safe and pleasant."

Teresa, John and he were assembled in a large, well and tastefully furnished airy first floor room and essentially, a tray of assorted drinks he'd provided courtesy of Special Branch. It was used primarily as the venue for a honey trap, to capture sex between dignitaries, hookers and the like. Laura had arrived at a pre-arranged time earlier where he'd set her up in an adjacent, thickly carpeted bedroom with discreet spy holes through to the main bedroom, which had an en-suite bathroom. She had objected forcibly to Doug searching her hand bag and even frisking her to seek covert cameras and devices, finding only her phone, which he'd hidden, telling her he would call it when the PM and John had left to reveal it's place. He had expressing interest in what he thought were curious lumps round her thighs under her trademark slim, light suit, which turned out, delightfully for him, to be the clips and hooks on her retro suspenders ...not bad legs too.

The PM and the political reporter were totally at ease, considering the reason, sex was the main, in fact only menu, they were present. They lounged and sipped their choice of drinks, chatting freely about political people.

"I'm leaving you here and going out, so help yourselves, If you don't mind maam, can you text me when you're ....er, finished you know," Doug chuckled. "Hope everything is to your liking."

Grinning widely he left the apartment.

Laura heard him leave, saw him drive away, and opened the window a little, lifted her blouse and out of her 36 B brassiere, which Doug had felt, she dragged out a long string of fine cotton. She lowered an end out of the sash window and waited. Two minutes later, she felt it twitch and looked out of the window. A car was pulling away, but the cotton was now heavier and she hauled it carefully up. She unfastened the video camera from the cotton, grinning with that twisted mouth and prepared for a long stint -- a hopefully long stint.

"My you're a chunky beast," simpered Teresa as John peeled off a grey tee-shirt. She had worn her usual disguise, but Doug had allowed her to go straight to the bedroom to make herself look more presentable and sexy, she'd said.

John and her had discussed they liked to watch their sex partners undressing and although it wasn't a dare situation, they removed a piece of clothing at a time. Her plain, shapeless, beige top was dropped to a chair.

"Always thought you were were in good shape Teresa," he told her, admiring her plain white bra.

"What do you mean -- were?" she giggled, posing hand on hips and twisting as she'd seen in magazines. Her belly had flab but so did his, however hers showed the onset of the dreaded cellulite. Admiring John's light chocolate beefy but gone to seed torso, with it's beer pouch sagging over a leather belt, Teresa thought of Philip's dreadful stance and carriage, especially his undercarriage, which although thick couldn't satisfy her libido. Age concern, not the charity - both of their worries had dampened Mr Mite's appetite, so like her life before rising through the political ranks had to be weighted in favour of getting good shags, basically from where she could.

John dropped his dark blue chinos and the prize she had asked Mountsteady to provide was snugly tucked in a pair of black briefs. It looked good. Teresa returned his smile, clipping her brassiere free, making him quietly gasp.

"Oh yes, perfect Teresa," he murmured stepping forward and taking the undergarment. Their proximity did for the rest of a controlled strip. They clinched, no kissing, her face on his shoulder, the same height as locked together then shuffled, dropping her skirt and fell onto the bed.

Black lace trimmed panties were rolled off, his briefs too and the OM grasped his erect cock and guided it into her achingly hungry snatch.

'Fuck' Laura mouthed finding the video camera was not as small as a human eye and that was the sole purpose for the two peep holes between the rooms. Of course Doug hadn't warned her, she hadn't asked, cameras were strictly off limits as she had found at the expense of the not altogether unpleasant feel from him earlier. She peeped as had been done for many political, royal, business, sporting, oligarchs and celebrity scandals to be proved. She watched the urgent fuck fest as John Pinass the renowned political reporter on the main terrestrial channel in the UK went down with his bristly grey moustache on the held open wide juicy fanny of the British Prime Minister.

Laura mightily experienced being a true voyeur, capturing the scandalous coupling, particularly enjoying John's meaty swinging balls slapping against Teresa's winking sphincter, as remarkably for her age, Laura thought, the PM flung her shapely legs high, wrapping round him, letting John ease up more and grind the root of his cock high on her clitoris hood. She could see how wet Teresa was. Laura felt her pussy juicing but didn't play with it, knowing hos dramatically noisy she was when cumming and that was dangerous in her secret situation, because she climaxed quickly. Remembering how her husband James liked his arsehole licked, which she did because she loved him, she mused on the fornicating man in her reduced vision, thinking his bum looked quite tasty too, in a purely sexual way.

The shag duo had another try, but he couldn't. They had a 69 and then relaxed, chatting on the bed until Teresa checked her wrist watch, they washed and showered and left. Doug watched from a convenient pub across the road, getting the PM's text, confirmed by her shuffling disguised gait round a corner and hailing a cab. John strolled away next. He called Laura's phone which she found silent by the time she located it. She retrieved it and left.

10am, Monday June 5th 2017

Conisborough College, Catford, London

"My Grand dad's coming to stay next week ....grandma too. He's looking forward to seeing you," giggled Ivanka as she and Ellie stripped off for a rehearsal of the college drama unit.

"Cool," muttered the chunky black girl, without humour, who was her best friend. She was trying to get her polo shirt over her head and struggling. Ivanka spotted the problem, which was the tight cotton material, well tight on Ellie's big frame, caught below her white 38 BB bra and helped snickering.

"They're the reason he said to tell you," she shrieked, playfully cupping her friend's big knockers and getting a slap from a black hand which was palmed with a pink orange skin tone.

"Shut it Iva, people are looking," retorted Ellie, dropping her skirt. "Ooh! You've on the blob."

"Yeah and I get them heavy," Ivanka explained in hushed tones. She peered between her slender eighteen year old legs and saw the tell tale dark red stains on her knickers and giveaway edge of a panty liner. "Typical - we ran out of sanitary towels, only got these liners." She quickly pulled on her skirt, then took her shirt off. She looked cautiously around and put her face close to Ellie. "He did my bum the other night, when I stayed there after that concert, when Cindy's dad dropped me off there."

"Gonna let him do you again? " she continued. "He's so lovely and gentle ....I mean for a really old man, he's beautiful really. Not fat, not skinny, always clean -- not smelly like. I know he has the odd fag, Mrs Mite doesn't know, but he's healthy, when you think what yours is like ..I love him, his body, everything....Ooo mature, lovely."

They walked out together - Ellie agreeing in general and not willing to tell her best friend yet about her arse hole being a regular sperm bank. A large group of colleagues had gathered, to play various roles and the inseparable two giggled at the drama teacher in charge who was fat and wheezy. Ellie's thoughts were still on the unhealthy state of her grandfather, and his beautiful long black cock. Her dad and brothers had nice ones too.

"Hey Els, don't let those tits get in the way in that action scene today, they'll knock everyone out," a lad shouted raucously. His mates guffawed grouped in a gaggle of crowd non-speaking extras near the fat teacher.

"Fuck off," the black girl sneered back, giving them the finger.

11am Monday June 5th 2017

Downing Street, London

"Doug, can I have a word please?" said Teresa as members of her security team left after a monthly review meeting.

He hung back, concern writ large on his handsome features and closed the door after the last exit, worried that there was a problem after his set up on Saturday. He had already had a roasting over the phone from a seriously dischuffed Laura about the tiny spy holes, she omitted the fact that she had smuggled video cameras in to the safe house and they would not fit.

"Don't worry Mountsteady, everything is fine. John was perfect as I expected, and the arrangements up to your usual standard, well done."