10 comments/ 17902 views/ 1 favorites Sexual Politics By: neonlyte This is a Romance between a heterosexual couple, it contains some sex and some rude language. If your preferences lie elsewhere, I suggest a back-click. Copyright: neonlyte-06/2006 * Jack had whisked her away from England almost before she'd had time to blink, and certainly before she had time to reconsider the decision she'd taken and the career she'd chosen to abandon. He hired a small business jet for the short flight, for expediency rather than to impress. "Why Dinard?" she asked as the plane began its descent. "It's traditional," he answered, holding her hand across the narrow gangway. "How so?" "It has long been a refuge for the fallen. In the late nineteenth century it was the home for failed politicians," he paused, "and for adulterers, bankrupt aristocrats and swindlers. Mostly English," he added, "it was known as the 'Brighton of Brittany'." She laughed, "And which of those am I?" "Dinard became a great favourite for European gentry in the early twentieth century," he said, avoiding a direct answer, "the fallen could continue mingle with their peers in holiday mansions they had constructed along the cliff tops. Off limit soirees — even the disgraced had their uses. The people who own homes here will surprise you." She caught the hint. This escape wasn't to be entirely a holiday. "Jack, you've brought me away without a thing to wear." "We'll shop. I'll enjoy buying clothes for you. Lingerie, it's high time you wore French lingerie." She slapped the back of his hand playfully, pleased he'd remembered, and sat back in her seat, ready for the landing. "Nowadays Dinard is famous for its Film Festival," Jack continued, seemingly oblivious to the wind buffeting the small jet on its final approach to the airport, he sensed her nervousness and wanted to distract her, "Hitchcock used to holiday here, on the river Rance, he filmed 'Psycho' at a villa overlooking Plage D'Ecluse. It was not filmed in America, as most people believe." Jack had booked a suite at the Grand Hotel overlooking the bay. She didn't know whether to be impressed by the greeting he received as a well known guest, or jealous of whom he might have brought with him on previous visits. They shopped, spent time on the beach; he hired a launch to take her down the Rance for a lunch at the medieval town of Dinan. And they spent a great deal of time in the suite, familiarizing at leisure, reclaiming territory. "So... I'm to be some kind of trophy." She framed the words as a statement freed of indictment or malcontent, but still delivered with a slight intonation, and managing almost — if not quite — to question him. Jack didn't answer immediately. He remained uncertain as to the extent of her complicity and whether her willingness to accommodate his escalating requests was a measure of her security of their union, or whether she agreed to his suggestions by way of recompense. She raised her head from the cotton pillowcase covering the duck-down filled pillow, took her weight on her forearms, and turned her face toward him, her grey eyes alerted into attentive wakefulness by his request. In the ensuing silence, he imagined he could hear the air sucking into her pillow as the duck-down strove to assume its natural shape. And she watched him, as his eyes irresistibly wandered from hers beguiled by the relative novelty of her complete and relaxed nakedness, across the tanned skin of her shoulder, to the angular protrusion of her shoulder blade. She monitored the direction of his gaze, down, across the concave expanse of her back, pausing at the base of her spine, hesitating over the dimpled hollows each side of her spine marking the spring of her buttocks; and she smiled, as his eyes rose, crossed the curve of what might be described as an ample bottom, and his tongue dabbed anticipatively at the corner of his mouth. She involuntarily pushed the recently shaved mound of her pubis — another of his recent requests — against the bed. He smiled. "You want to show me off," she said, with the same soft cadence, her voice calling his eyes back to hers, "some kind of trophy?" Her quietly spoken words almost made him feel guilty, though it was guilt entirely without a hint of remorse. He regretted nothing, except the wasted years. Only the two of them knew the true extent of the banality forlornly masquerading in public as 'her life'. They had tried to stay apart. Their relationship, sexually driven from the outset, spanned two decades. It began at university, Cambridge in England, and consummated — despite their political polarities — at snatched moments across the intervening years. Their passion spanned two broken and childless marriages. Jack's marriage had been no more than a failed diversion, an attempt to wean himself from desiring to possess her; and her own, had been loving to a degree, but lacked the compulsion that might have made her wish to bear her husbands' children. She used politics, her career, as her excuse to remain childless, always aware of the price required to have Jack's child growing in her womb. Her husband had the good grace to ask her for a divorce, honourably citing his own infidelity, which only served to raise sympathy with the voting public and her stock in the political arena. Some people — people to whom she had once extended the courtesy of friendship — judged hers and Jacks to be a sordid relationship. They condemned her, behind her back for the most part, since none of her former quasi-friends rooted in the collegial bonding of high office had the nerve to confront her face-to-face. These so-called former friends conducted their pillorying through the media, as if the squalid media had a reputation to uphold! A divine hypocrisy, she mused, a media with morals, almost worthy of an opera. The 'red-top' newspapers accused her of sacrificing a life that most of her genre would metaphorically kill to achieve. Betrayal was the word of the moment, though one of the 'high brow' newspaper editorials had penned her as 'perfidious'. She'd taken exception to the description, had reached for her telephone intent on extracting an apology, treachery had played no part in her decision to abandon her career. 'They are trying to tease out a statement,' he'd said, 'playing to your intellect. Don't give them the satisfaction.' "No," Jack said, finally answering her question, . . yes... but... . . not a trophy. I explained that." He was beginning to think he shouldn't have mentioned it, and after all the years, the subterfuge, the wooing, the snatched frantic lovemaking, the fumbling with zips and buttons and clasps and tissues, now that they'd found space, and found time, and shared more than bruised lips stained with desire and genitals swollen and slick with the sheen of lust... now he'd grown uncertain, cautious, frightened her permanent presence might turn out to be no more than temporary, his plan, his request, would ensure there could be no going back. "Hmmm..." she murmured, recognising the hint of insecurity in his voice. An insecurity he'd displayed from the outset of their relationship, rooted in his erroneous perception of 'his humble background.' He compensated by moving toward the outrageous — in all things — including sex. Not that she minded his wanting to possess her, his demands of her body that bordered tantalising close to the obscene. Surrender was her choice, if he needed for her to do this 'parade', so be it, she had, after all, kept him waiting longer than he deserved, but he'd have to earn the prize. She turned to face him, lay on her side, brushed strands of dark silky hair from her face, and hooked them behind her ear. She raised a knee up and across the bed, stopping where she could feel the heat of his penis glow against the taut skin of her kneecap, wondering if he'd move to touch her, if his penis would stretch out to caress her, knowing both would happen. "But you want to show me off. Mark my conformity to your desires for the world to see. You want to show the world that you won the prize." "I'll be naked as well!" She let his words hang between them, mocking him with her eyes, until she took pity upon the extent of his exposure. "Ah! . . Why Sir, I suddenly feel foolish. Forgive me for my lack of comprehension." She lowered her eyes in sham humility, just far enough to fix on his penis marking the staining from their earlier lovemaking, wanting him in her again, from behind, like last night when he took her like an animal bending her body to receive the spray of his passion just as he did the first time, when she was barely out of her teens. "Self deprecation is not your strongest suit," he said. "Public nudity is neither a desire nor an ambition." "You go naked on the beach." "No darling, I go topless on the beach. Perhaps you didn't notice the cerise adornment between my legs. . . You're a breast man! . . I'd never have taken you for a breast man!" she laughed, "I'd always imagined my bottom to be the object of your desire." Again, they let her words hang in the air buoyed on the sparkling shine of her eyes as if she'd discovered the greatest secret that invisibly joined them, gently mocking the indecision in his eyes as he switched between each breast and the crease between her legs... was he expecting cerise she wondered. "I was concerned..." "I noticed." "I thought they might burn." "What with your hands, and the sun lotion, my breasts were in no danger of seeing too much of the sun." She studied him as he watched her nipples stiffen, the memory too fresh to ignore. The bulbous end of his penis nudged her knee... then discovered the enveloping caress of her fingers. "Tell me again why I should be doing this Nude Day thing, and this time, try not to make it sound like a triumphal parade." "It's about freedom... " Her fingers pulled back his foreskin and continued down the length of him massaging gently at the base of his penis and his balls, filling him with a sensation he'd never previously known to exist. "... freedom of expression." She shifted to within intimate reach of her objective, her nose catching the musky scent rising from the heat of him. "Continue," she said glancing back along the length of his body, though her purpose was to make sure he had ample view of the curve of her hips, the plump globes of her bottom and the openings made for him to fill. The twitch of his penis spoke volumes, "... justify your request." "It's to return to nature... " "Mmm... I like nature," she said, momentarily releasing his penis from where it pulsed between her lips. "Ohh... naked like the Lord intended... ohh... ohh... " "No fig leaves?" she asked, easing the length of him from her mouth. She moved to straddle him abandoning the damp folds of her sex to his gaze, swamping his thoughts with fragrance redolent, and bent forward to her task, displaying herself to his eyes with rapine intent. "Touch me you bastard. Don't make me beg," she said, enveloping him again in the portal of her lips, feeling his involuntary thrust, his craving to enter into her body, his need... her gift. He knew what to do, she was nothing if not blunt in telling him of her needs. Her voracity surprised him; her lust frightened him, what came easy in deception grew difficult by demand, failure could no longer be lost in the busy streets of the city and the halls of power. He traced the boundary where white skin replaced cerise into the crease of her buttocks, moving inward to the beckoning dilation of her anal fissure drawing a finger nail lightly across the opening, teasing, keeping distance as she eased back against his fingertip. Later, she eased into sleep, her body still trembling from the shock of his assault and the liberties he assumed he could claim and plunder now she'd agreed to share a bed. - - - - - Twenty years before, in the University debating chamber, argument had replaced debate. Reasoned position abandoned to political ideology separated by an unbridgeable chasm. She was possibly, he thought, at her most vivacious when angry, he was enjoying himself, he found her easy to goad and easier still to embarrass, though perhaps he shouldn't have called her 'one of Thatcher's Whore maidens', the chair 'person' had made him apologise, which he did graciously, adding before the entire assembly, that he was more than willing to be seduced to join the Conservative Party, if she were doing the seducing. He'd be in the Student Union bar, he said, to laughter from both sides of the chamber, if she wanted to try her luck. "Very funny," she called out as she passed him in the bar. "Have a drink?" he invited. She hesitated, "with a Socialist?" He gestured with an upturned outstretched palm to the group surrounding him, "you'll be safe; one or two are Liberals. What do you drink?" "I'll have what you're drinking," she said, anxious not to have him accuse her of drinking some bourgeois cocktail. He raised his eyebrows and passed her a freshly pulled pint of Burtons bitter, ordering another for himself. Eventually he managed to steer her away from political argument, separating her from the gradually dwindling assembly, curious as to what background had sharpened her political focus, learning she was conventionally middle-class, small business father, school-teacher for a mother, typical Conservative Party grounding. "No boyfriend then," he stated. She smiled, wrinkling her nose and briefly glancing away, "I knew you'd get around to sex eventually." "Stands to reason. Never seen you wear anything other than a dress... " "Oh... you've noticed that have you?" "I've seen you around, you're not easy to ignore. You cut quite a figure across campus." "So you think my wearing a dress, displaying my femininity, is solely to attract men." "Or women. What ever turns you on." "You should stick to politics, that's my advice." "Christ woman! Surely you don't think I'm trying to chat you up. I could no more sleep with a Conservative than I could sleep with my mother. But I'll give you some free dating advice; if you are going that dress again, leave your knickers off, either that or buy some French underwear, I'm sure you can afford to, the line of your knickers show through that dress — it looks like you are inviting someone to take them off." She coloured, nostrils dilating, angry, "Suddenly you're an expert of French lingerie... " "No... I'm an expert on women who sleep around. Sluts. And the dividing line, judged solely at the level of appearance, is mighty thin. If you were my girlfriend, I'd never let you out of the house dressed like that, you look ready to fuck the first bloke that comes along." "And you'd like to be the first bloke... " "I told you... I don't fuck Conservatives... or virgins." "I'm not... never mind. This is the '80's not the God-damn '50's! I can dress how I like." He shrugged his shoulders and sat, chin resting upon his hand, looking at her until she became uncomfortable. "It's late. I'd better go before I'm locked out." "I'll walk you," he said rising, "Pembroke is on my way." She was pleased to be out of the Student Union, she needed the fresh air, drinking beer had not been her idea of an ideal evening, it was stronger than she'd thought and she'd striven to keep pace with his consumption. "Tell me why you are a Conservative," he asked. They walked and talked, and argued. Stopped and argued. Walked some more... and argued, and when they reached Pembroke College, they found the gates, as both had long since guessed, closed for the night. "Bugger! I need to pee," she exclaimed. Jack laughed. "Come on. I live down here. You can pee, and stop over if you want. I've a spare room." She looked at him quizzically, "You've a spare room? In Cambridge?" He shrugged, and led the way. She looked around the small terraced house in silence. This was not a rental, it was a home, and it exhibited design, style, and taste. "Don't tell me this is yours." "I know. I try not to let people visit." "I can imagine! A property owning son of a miner — it blows the cover a bit." "The toilet is upstairs, middle door. Tea or coffee?" "Tea, please." From the kitchen, he could hear her investigating upstairs. He should have been annoyed that she took it upon herself to enter his rooms uninvited. He heard her footfall on the stairs. "Can I stay here next year?" she asked, "it's perfect." "I don't like to share." "You won't be here after graduation. And I somehow don't imagine you selling this house." "You," he said, "are very presumptive." He passed her a mug of tea, and pointed to the milk and sugar on the spotless worktop. She shook her head and turned heading down the short corridor past the stairs to the sitting room. The green silk skirt of the dress flared off her hips, he noticed she had removed her knickers. "What do you want to know?" he asked, realising he'd have to offer some kind of explanation for his capitalist acquisition. She sat across the room from him, preferring the floor, leaning back against the sofa. "Everything. Why are you a capitalist property owner and espousing socialism?" "The house was largely paid for by an inheritance," he sighed, "and in case you hadn't noticed, I'm a few years older than you. I worked before starting University... so that I could pay my way. As for being a socialist — I don't need to explain that to you." She shook her head. "No you don't. You can clearly afford to be a socialist, while I have to work at being a conservative. So... where is Miss Socialist?" "Gone," he sighed again, "how did you know?" "The house is just a touch feminine. I'm struggling to imagine this is entirely your taste. Is she coming back?" He shook his head. "She didn't like the University lifestyle. Moved back home, to Nottingham." They sat drinking the tea, each taking measure, weighing up the odds. She moved, not much, but enough to let the silk slide and expose part of her thigh. They both looked at her pale skin. "I told you... " "You don't f u c k conservatives," she said, "yes I remember. I could pretend," she added after a brief pause. "I don't play games either." "I wasn't thinking of playing a game. Life is too short. You are the one that proposed seduction." He didn't take the bait, simply sat watching her... intently, succeeding in making her feel foolishly young. "I'm going to bed. Which room, you decide," she said, not quite willing to give up the chase. She stood and walked toward him, holding a hand out for his mug. He passed her the mug then grabbed her above the wrist, and pulled her toward him. She looked down at him as he ran his hand over the silk touching the warmth of her body through the thin material. She tried to remain impassive, determined he'd have to make the running, and sensing any encouragement from her would dissuade him. "If you were mine, I'd never let you wear knickers," he cupped her bottom, squeezing gently, "why did you take them off?" "You... were right," she shivered as his hand moved down into her skin, his fingers slowly began to draw the silk up her thigh, "they spoilt the line." "Turn around," he instructed. She looked around for somewhere to place the mugs. "Keep hold of them, you won't be needing your hands." She felt the cool air caress her skin as he exposed her, his hand on her hip, then sliding across the small of her back, then down, across her buttock, nudging at her inner thigh for her to part her legs. She hesitated. "Do you want me to stop?" he asked. "I... I don't want you to hurt me." He brushed the curve of her bottom with his lips, inhaling the mixture of womanly scents gracing her skin. "You're beautiful... " Sexual Politics Jim and Nancy and Hank and Marcia are neighbours. They live on a very nice street in the best neighbourhood of a fine Mid-Western town. They have absolutely nothing in common. Jim and Nancy are Democrats, Hank and Marcia are Republicans. Jim is a lawyer who represents citizens who are prosecuting large companies who have defrauded or otherwise cheated them. Hank works as an executive for a large company and before that he was an officer in the military. Nancy works for a charity that promotes participation in the arts for deprived children. Marcia is a housewife and volunteers once a week for a group of women that raises funds for a local organization that promotes and provides weapons training for women. Both couples are in their late-forties and have two children, a boy and a girl each, and all of the children have left home and are at college. The town is Republican, and strongly represented in various national and regional conservative organizations. Hank and Marcia are prominent and respected members of the town community. Jim and Nancy are liked, but thought of as outsiders and a bit suspect, and there are rumours about some of their weekend activities. Despite the conservative tone of the town and the county, there is still a community of more liberal people of Jim and Nancy's type, and Jim and Nancy are well connected in it, and within that liberal community there is a swinging community, and Jim and Nancy are well connected in that too, and there are very active in it. Relations between the two couples, as neighbours, were civil, at least on the face of things, as relations between middle class neighbours are. Behind the mask though, Hank did not like Jim and suspected him of communist sympathies. Jim found Hank amusing in a slightly patronizing way, and held a good humoured dislike of him. Marcia sort of liked Nancy, but disapproved of her, or feigned to, and suspected that underneath his frequent criticisms of her, Hank fancied Nancy. Nancy liked Marcia and saw her as a woman who should come out from beneath her husband's shadow and blossom into the woman she really was beneath the housewife, mother and loyal wife. Nancy also suspected that Hank wanted her, and Jim, who she had told, found this amusing too. Hank and Marcia had, of course, hard the whispers about Jim and Nancy' 'un-American' hobby and were shocked by them. The swinging group to which Jim and Nancy belonged was a loose association of about thirty couples, mostly middle aged and a smaller number of select singles, mostly women, mostly in the thirties, and a few very choice young males; the possession of good looks and large cocks being the 'membership' criteria. Beyond the group, Jim and Nancy also occasionally spent time with groups of young black men, who they met over the internet, or even more occasionally, picked up in bars. Nancy is an ardent worshipper of the 'BBC' and she liked a group of three or four, though on one memorable occasion she had taken on a gang of ten. They also sometimes met a Hispanic couple from the city, also in their late 40's, and also met online. Jim had a thing for Hispanic women and the man of the couple had a very large and very hairy tool, which very definitely tickled Nancy's fancy. Beyond their swinging, they had kept up a very active, mutually satisfying and very healthy sex life, had sex on average about four nights a week and often the odd afternoon quickie too. Their sex life had its kinkier side too. Anal sex almost always featured, they both enjoyed watersports and practiced it often and indulged in a little light bondage too, with Nancy in the dominant role. Hank and Marcia's sex life was rather different. They had sex once a week, always at the same time; at precisely ten in the evening on Fridays. The light was always out. It was always loving, and awkward. Nancy would stroke Hank to help him to become erect and he would enter her. Hank always felt embarrassed that he could never stop himself from grunting when he came. Marcia was always completely silent throughout the business and afterwards, before they went to sleep, she always said 'thank you, dear.' Both of them found sex an embarrassing necessity and neither of them was satisfied with their sex life, though both pretended to the other, and themselves, that they were. Marcia's suspicions that Hank fancied Nancy were not unfounded. He never missed an opportunity to spy on her and Nancy pretended not to have ever noticed and sometimes accidentally on purpose flashed a bit of tit when she was sunbathing in the garden with the big fence with the little holes between herself and Hank's beady peeping eye. Nancy had phenomenal tits. Nancy did not really fancy Hank, but the exhibitionist in her enjoyed being watched, and sometimes she wondered what it would be like to be fucked by a repressed republican conservative who liked guns and freedom, and church and apple pie on Sunday.. The release of all that repression and anger and angst through his prick into her pussy would have to make for a pretty decent fuck, she thought. She liked it aggressive and rough when she was in the mood. She had joked about it to Jim and he liked the idea. Watching her with other men was one of his pleasures, and he thought she was right about Hank. If he put it in Nancy, the guy would explode. While Hank was banging her, Jim would tell him about all the black cocks that had been there before him and then he would explode again. Jim did not much fancy Marcia. It was not that she was not an attractive woman; she was, but she was too meek and mild seeming and too housewifely looking for him. She was blonde, she was about five seven, and very thin. She was so thin; she looked like she had not been properly nourished, not only by her diet, but by life itself. She was still sexy, or she could have been, to the man who likes his ladies on the skinny side. Jim liked a woman curvy and voluptuous, and he preferred dark to blonde, just like his Nancy. A little more of the joy of life, some make up, some sexy outfits, and Marcia would be transformed into quite the MILF. What a waste! He joked to Nancy that he would have a poke at her at a swinging party, but only after the homeboys had had their turn on her. And he used to say that Hank really should give poor Marcia want a woman needs. Jim's little joke was apposite. Marcia did not fancy Jim, but secretly she thought him a good looking man. More secretly, she harboured very colourful fantasises about groups of black man. Her imagination ran so wild sometimes when Hank was at the office and she was home alone all day long, it frightened her and made her feel that she was a bad woman. She would never have dared confide any of it to Hank and he never suspected any of it for a moment. It all happened over the course of a couple of weekends early last summer. It was Sunday, late morning and Hank and Marcia were back from church. Marcia was in the kitchen. She had just put the chicken in the oven to roast and she was beginning to roll the pastry for the Sunday apple pie. Hank had gone out to the backyard. He said he was going to mow the lawn. Jim and Nancy had got up at around the same time Hank and Marcia got back from church. Nancy and woken Jim with one of her special Sunday morning blow jobs. They had got home late. It had been a good night. They had been to a little party at a friend's house in the next town, just them, their friends; a couple, and four young black friends. The husbands had watched the two ladies service the homeboys for three hours solid. They had coffee and then Nancy went to shower. Nancy dried herself off and took a look out of the window and saw the warm sun shining down and she saw Hank in his yard fiddling with his lawn mower. She was still high from the night before and wicked impulse took hold of her and she followed it. It was warm enough to lie out in the sun before lunch and get to work on the summer's tan. She put on her bikini, skimpy of course, and went down to the yard. She picked up her lounger and carried it to a spot level with the hole in the fence that Hank usually peeped through. She sat facing right at the little peephole, about ten feet from the fence. It was less than two minutes before she heard the brushing of leaves that told her that Hank was getting into position. He was buried in the bushes on his side of the fence and Nancy could see his eye through the little hole by slightly lifting the magazine she was pretending to read. Hank thought she didn't know he was there. She didn't make a move for a couple more minutes. She looked up to the house and saw that Jim was at the window, looking out. She caught his eye and signalled by nodding her head in the direction of the fence from behind the magazine. Nancy and Jim's ability to understand each other was close to telepathic. He understood what she meant immediately and he knew that if Hank looked up, he would see that Jim could see him at the fence. Jim stepped back quickly and pulled the curtain across the window a little to conceal himself. Nancy made her move. She put down the magazine, took care not to look straight at the hole and took her bikini top off. Her heavy, voluptuous tits tumbled out. They had a little sag to them. That was her age, but with their dark and broad areolae and their long, and thick and dark, dark nipples, they were a glorious pair of tits that Nancy had. Hank certainly thought so. His prick had been throbbing in his trousers since the moment he had started watching her. Now it felt like it would bust his shorts open. He was wild with lust and almost as wild with fear. He never usually peeped at Nancy when Marcia was home. Nancy had never taken her top off before when she sunbathed in the yard. It was more than Hank could bear. Lust overpowered him and with guilt and shame and excitement, he pulled down his zipper and took out his prick and began to rub it furiously. Jim was up at the window. He had been stroking his cock since before Nancy had taken her top off. Watching her give Hank a show excited him greatly and he felt proud to have such a wife as her as he masturbated slowly at this rather unusual suburban Sunday lunchtime spectacle. As Hank rubbed away furiously and Jim stroked away slowly, Nancy ran her hand over her stomach and down onto her crotch. She let it sit still there for a moment, to give Hank enough time to start praying for her to start rubbing herself and then slipped a finger under the gusset. 'Go on baby. Show it to him!' Jim almost shouted it out loud, but he managed to control himself. At that same moment Marcia suddenly noticed that she had heard no sound of the lawn mower. She decided to go out to the yard to see why Hank hadn't started mowing the lawn yet. If he doesn't start soon, he won't be finished in time for dinner, she thought, as she went out into the yard. There was no sign of him. 'Hank!' she called. He was too lost in the sight of Nancy masturbating herself to hear is wife calling his name. By now Nancy had pulled her gusset aside and her pussy was fully exposed to Hank's wanton gaze. Her middle finger was deep between her pussy lips and she was moaning softly to herself. Suddenly Marcia heard a rustling in the bushes. Hank was in the home straight and as he neared his climax his arm moved back and forth ever more quickly and his elbow shook the branches, but Hank was too far gone to notice. 'Hank! Hank! Where are you? What are you doing in those bushes? They don't need cutting.' Jim heard her and he saw in that moment a glimpse at the very near future. 'Oh God! Yes! He gasped to himself. She walked over to where the bushes were shaking. At the very moment she arrived and saw him, Hank roared 'Yeah, you commie liberal whore, work that pinko pussy. Here's Hank's all-American dick for you!' and with that he shot his load oto the fence. 'Sweet Lord Jesus!' shrieked Marcia,' what in the name of God are you doing Hank?' Jim roared with laughter. Nancy giggled to herself. Hank nearly had a heart attack. Marcia just about gathered the strength to stop herself from fainting, grabbed Hank and pushed him aside and took a look through the hole in the fence to confirm what she already knew. 'Get in the house Hank,' she cried at him. Hank walked back across the yard like a death row inmate to his execution. He looked up to the sky in search of God and forgiveness, but all he saw was Jim at the window, laughing. 'Lord forgive me!' cried Hank, tears in his eyes. 'That Whore of Satan tempted me and the Devil took possession of me....' She's no Whore of Satan, she's a slut, but Satan has nothin' to do with it; and the Devil didn't take you either. Hank, you are the Devil.' 'No, Marcia, no!' 'Yes, Hank, yes, for years you've been lusting after that woman, and ever since we heard those stories about her and him, you said she was the Whore of Satan, but all along you wanted her. You said it too many times; Whore of Satan, Whore of Satan. Maybe you wished you didn't want her, but you did. You do!' No, no, Marcia, no!' 'Well Hank, you're not the only one that has ideas and thoughts. I'm going to my mom's. You'd better go to church again this afternoon and pray to the Good Lord for His forgiveness.' With that she left. A quite different scene was taking place next door. The lovely jilling that Nancy had given herself and the knowledge that Hank had watched it all, had lit the fire in her and when she got back into the house and found Jim with his erect cock poking out of his shorts, she leapt on him. 'Fuck me baby! Fuck me!! And as Jim fucked her, all through it she kept saying 'He was jacking over me, he was jacking over me, I showed him my pussy and he was jacking for me. I wanna suck his big Republican, National Rifle Association, Gung-Ho, Yahoo cock and I want him to fuck my wet liberal Democrat pussy with it and I want you to watch! Jim was up for that. Marcia did not come back from her mother's until the following evening. She didn't speak a word to Hank all the next day. On Wednesday Hank had to go to a business conference out of town and he would be away until Sunday. It was probably just as well. Marcia had been full of the worst of feelings, but as the days passed the desire for revenge came to dominate. She had decided that she was not going to leave him, but she was going to make him suffer for a long time, and she was going to pay him back, but she could not think of how. She didn't want to have an affair. She just wanted to do something. Her mind kept going back to one of the things she had said in her anger; 'Well Hank, you're not the only one that has ideas and thoughts.' She had had no idea what she had been thinking of when she said it, but now she knew what those ideas and thoughts were. They were about young black men and their shining and athletic ebony bodies and their rippling muscles, and most of all they were about their big black cocks, and for the first time those thoughts did not make her feel guilty. Her anger and the hurt made her feel good about having them. But how could she make that happen? She didn't even know any black men. The only black person she ever spoke to was the woman who served her at the check out at the grocery store. That night she found some porn sites with pictures of black men fucking white wives and she masturbated to them for hours. It was a new world. The following morning Marcia was leaving the house to go to the grocery store when Nancy came out of her house too. They eyed each other uneasily until Marcia said 'Nancy, can we talk? 'Sure,' said Nancy. It didn't seem to Nancy that this was going to be an unpleasant conversation. Marcia did not seem like she wanted to quarrel. 'Come in to ours,' said Nancy. She made coffee and they sat down. 'I wanted to say sorry for what Hank did. It was so awful.' 'It's me that should apologise,' said Nancy, 'I encouraged him.' She told Nancy about the argument he had had with Hank; what they said, everything. 'Whore of Satan!' she giggled. I can live with that. In fact I like it. I guess it's what Hank likes too, underneath it all, if he'd let himself.' Marcia was about to protest and the rage was returning to her and she was about to burst forth, but Nancy, who had a way of mollifying any situation, said 'Hey, forget it. It's no big deal to me, and it's only a big deal to you, if you make it one. Men are men. Hank's a guy, I'm a woman and I was pretty much naked in the garden. If it was you naked out back and Jim wasn't spying on you, then I'd be worried.' Marcia looked shocked and embarrassed, but then her face broke into a sad smile. 'We're so different;' she said. 'Are we?' said Nancy, 'on the surface maybe, but underneath. We're both women, neighbours, same age more or less.' Then, as they seemed to be connecting, rather than just neighbours being polite, as it had always been before, she decided to be a bit provocative. 'Jim thinks that underneath you're the same as me.' Thoughts and half-thoughts whirled in Marcia's mind. 'What do you mean?' 'Well, he thinks that really you're not as conservative as Hank. He thinks that underneath...' It was the nudged she needed. Anytime up until the previous Sunday, she would have got up and marched out at a remark like that, but now everything was different. No more meek and mild apple pie housewife. 'He's right, I am; and I don't want to pretend anymore that I'm not, and I want to get Hank back for what he did. God, I can't believe I said that.' Nancy laughed. 'What did you have in mind?' 'I heard rumours,' she said. 'What rumours?' asked Nancy, pretending not to know what she meant. 'That you and Jim go to sex parties and that you do it with other couples, and..., and black men.' 'Yes, we do.' 'I want to have one. Hank's away until Sunday. I want one at my house. Me and you and Jim, and I want black men, young ones; a whole group of them. I've always wanted black men, even though I told myself I didn't.' Nancy could not believe what she was hearing. 'Arrange it for me, please, before I lose my nerve.' 'Are you sure?' 'Yes.' 'Think about it a bit.' 'No, if I think about it, I'll back out. No, arrange it, at my house, so I'll have to do it. You and me and Jim and black men.' 'Ok.' Saturday evening came around and Marcia and Nancy and Jim and five young homeboys, who Nancy and Jim knew from the scene, were having drinks in Marcia's living room. Nancy said 'Ok, let's go upstairs.' In the bedroom Nancy got things going. She stripped off and danced for the boys and then one by one she took out their cocks and stroked each one. Then she went down on her knees in front of the biggest of those five very big cocks and started to suck it. Jim sat and watched with a big hard on of his own and Marcia stared in shock and awe. Nancy came up for air and told the gang 'Go get her boys, but be gentle, it's her first time!' The pack were on Marcia, hands and cocks everywhere and in no time she was down to the crimson red peephole bra and crotchless panties that Nancy had helped her to buy the day before. Within two minutes she was on the bed straddling one giant black cock and another was reaming her ass. A third was in her mouth and she had one in each hand. It was a wild and mystical experience as she discovered sensations and joys she had never suspected could exist and her soul was transfigured by it. Jim and Nancy sat on the dressing table chairs watching. Nancy stroked Jim's cock and fingered herself. 'I wish that was you in there,' said Jim. 'You love to see me getting blacked, don't you baby?' she said, 'but tonight is Marcia's night. She might not have known it, but she had waited all her life for this. This is her conversion experience. Here baby, let me suck you off while they fuck her. Later I want to see you fuck her too.' Sexual Politics "I'm fat... ooh," she gasped as a hand snaked around onto her tummy. "Not fat, voluptuous maybe... but not fat. Open." She parted her legs slightly, waiting for him to touch her again. "Are you going to make love to me?" she asked. "No, I'm not your lover... but I am going to fuck you since you so clearly want me to, and you'll remember it for the rest of your life. Wider." "Can't we go to bed? she asked. "Jack? This is a little humiliating." "No. If you wanted to fucked in a bed, you should have stayed upstairs. This is your choosing, you took your knickers off, and you came back down here. Now be quiet." She couldn't imagine what he was doing, he wasn't touching her. And then he touched her, and she jumped. He was kissing her buttocks, firmer now, his moustache tickled, she felt his hands move onto her hips, easing her toward him. He began kissing the small of her back, the dimples each side of her spine. He moved a hand between her legs, she knew he'd find her wet, but he ignored the obvious, twisting his hand and cupping her sex through her legs and with the inside of his wrist massaged at her wetness. He placed his other hand on her back and pushed gently across the room, toward the sofa. "Kneel down and bend forward," he instructed, guiding her. "Jack... " "Shhh... I'm not going to hurt you." He separated the plump globes of her bottom, blew gently into the exposed valley, watched as her anus twitched, she muttered something inaudible. He followed with a finger, hesitating at the smaller opening, curious as to her desire. "Not there... Jack, please." "But isn't that what you imagine from a socialist, we're all sheep shaggers and deviants? Tell me what you want." "Don't be stupid! Will you please get on with it, before I change my mind... oh Christ!" He'd plunged deep into her with barely a warning other than a quick separation of the folds of her lips, and stayed deep inside her while she adjusted to his presence. Reaching around, he began a slow deliberate grind against her slit with the heel of his hand, nothing delicate, and the effect was to haul him deeper inside her. She struggled to move, wanting to feel him penetrate rather than just fill. He held her firm, continuing to massage with his hand. "Work for it," he said, "use your cunt." His use of the word shocked her, "how?" she asked, grimacing against the pressure front and back. "It's got muscles. Find them, work along my shaft... and then I'll fuck you." "You're a bastard, Jack," she said, and set about discovering what he was asking her to do. "You won't say that by morning... that's better." She found the set of muscles he was talking about, discovered she could ripple them along his shaft and the effect was to magnify his size, he seemed to grow within her, more than filling her. Jack eased the pressure of his hand, letting her begin to move in rhythm with her grabbing muscle contractions. Her breath sharpened. "Fuck me now," she screamed. He moved his hand and gripped her each side by her buttocks, digging his fingers into her flesh, hearing her whimper as he began to move inside her. "Faster," she cried. He started slamming into her, crudely, almost brutally, his thighs slapping against the cheeks of her bottom. Later, in bed, they were gentle with one another, and made love. She stayed for the weekend. Their love making, during the remaining weeks of the Easter Term, fitted around bouts of political argument, they used sex as a diversion from argument; often violent sex, as if each believed they could achieve domination through sex where rhetoric failed. At the end of the Easter Term, Jack told her he was leaving Cambridge. It wasn't exactly unexpected news. "What are you going to do?" she asked. "I'm going to the States for a few months, then possibly Australia." "My God, you are so conservative. English speaking countries... " "Don't start... It is not linguistic laziness. I want a better understanding of their respective political systems." "I know. I'm teasing," she leaned back against the kitchen unit quietly thinking, her arms folded under generous breasts still tingling from his earlier suckling, dressed in one of his shirts — her now habitual Sunday morning wear. "Will I see you again, or is this it?" "Come with me?" She shook her head, "I can't. Don't ask me to do that." "I've been offered a junior lectureship, here, at the University, I'll take the job, and stay... if you agree to marry me." She looked away, trying to disguise her shock at his proposal, not letting him fence with her eyes, knowing he'd win that battle; and also knowing he was serious. He never wasted words. "We can't... you know that. You... you shouldn't ask for things you can't have, Jack." "It was a long shot," he said, opening his arms to her and holding her while they both shed tears. He took her to Little Shelford for a largely silent lunch; and after lunch, they walked along the riverbank, conducting their particular style of dating out of sight of the observant fellows and undergraduates. "When are you leaving?" she asked. "Tomorrow." She stopped walking and shook her head in disbelief. He knew damn well she had tutorial commitments; she couldn't spend the rest of the day with him, or that night. "Shit, Jack!" He stopped a few paces on and turned to face her, mindful to keep distance between them, the anger in her tone more than evident. "Why for God's sake can't you behave normally? Why are you punishing me? You bastard!" - - - - - Two days after he left Cambridge, she received a letter from a Nottingham solicitor. The letter granted her a notarized Power of Attorney over the Cambridge house and details for accessing 'the house' bank account, there was also a note, from Jack, 'Look after the house, only one rule — never sleep with anyone in 'our house'. Love, Jack.' She phoned the solicitor. A very 'put-out' solicitor informed her the house was effectively hers, evidently the solicitor did not concur with Jack's instructions and wasted no time in expressing his concern and reminding her of her responsibilities. Jack had given her total control over the house, with the single exception that she could not sell the property. He'd left enough money in the house account to cover all the house bills for her remaining two years at Cambridge. She didn't see him for five years. He sent a single rose each Valentines Day, at least, she presumed the roses were from Jack; there never was a message. Jack was in the hall, in 1987, when she won, at the age of twenty-four, her first parliamentary election. She caught a brief astonished sight of him before the television company whisked her away for interview. She appeared nervous to the interviewer who put it down to her being the second youngest woman, after Bernadette Devlin, ever elected to the UK parliament. Her nervousness had nothing to do with the election result, and her disturbed state continued across the next few days, until Jack called her. "Jack! Where the Hell have you been! Why haven't you called?" They met very late that same night at Cambridge. Jack arrived first and walked through the spotlessly clean house. She had changed a few things, marked the house with more than ethereal presence. He found some of her clothes hanging in his wardrobe; a rare picture of the two of them on the bedside table, and a few items of her underwear in the dressing table drawer, his nervousness, heightened by memory, steadily grew as he waited for her to arrive. He was in the kitchen when he heard her key in the door, and walked two paces to the kitchen doorway where he could see her as she quietly closed the door to the street, and turn to face him. She wore a pale blue knitted top over a simple black skirt, and shook her hair loose to cascade onto her shoulders, it was longer now than five years ago. Her eyes betrayed her anxiety, no more than he felt, and immutable desire. She didn't move, she leaned back against the door, waiting for him, arms by her side, fingers spread, palms pressed against the door shutting off the world outside. "You look... beautiful," he said, moving slowly toward her, his eyes searing her. "I haven't forgiven you," she whispered as she blinked back the threatening tears, "you left me... " He moved a hand to her hip, lent forward, his lips brushing her neck. She ducked away. "No! We're not starting that that again, not unless... " He grabbed her wrist and turned with her, pinning her to the hallway wall. He moved to kiss her; she pulled her face away, and felt him ease his grip. She looked up imploring him with her eyes to make sense of how she felt. On the drive north from London, she'd tried to instil in her mind the idea that Jack was out of her life. The close she came to Cambridge, the wilder her thoughts became, and her desire. Finally, as she parked the car, she resolved she'd never allow him to dominate her again, but that was before she saw him, before she tasted his breath and smelt his skin. "Unless what?" Jack asked. "Did you send me roses?" He nodded. "Why?" "You know why. "Kiss me," Jack asked. His dark eyes sparkled dangerously, spilling answers to unasked questions. She shook her head slowly. "No, I'll not kiss you, you'll mess with my heart. You can mess with my body, but I'm not letting you back into my heart. Fuck me, Jack. That's all you really want." Jack released her and walked away to the sitting room, shaking his head. She breathed deeply. 'Round one to me,' she thought as she ran her fingers through her hair; 'strange, before I arrived I had no idea how to play this, and now... ' She walked into the sitting room and found Jack sprawled on the sofa, looking more than a little despondent. "I'm going to bed," she said, "I'd like it if you came to bed too." He looked up, "You know that I still love you." "Yes," she sighed, "you just have a funny way of showing it. Come on," she held out a hand to him. She made him lay on the bed and undressed him slowly, exploring his body, refreshing her memory, searching for signs of damage or adventure. Then she undressed for him, sensually and, she hoped, erotically. She passed him her top, then her bra as she undressed, letting him smell on her clothes the imprint of her body, then slowly, kneeling alongside him, she unzipped the side of her skirt, shimmying it down her hips, no panties. "You see," she murmured, "you didn't have to try to re-claim me. Make love to me, show me you still need me." - - - - - It didn't last. In '88 the United Kingdom imploded economically and whatever personal hopes they may have clung to, collapsed with the political fall-out. Jack had returned to the UK not just to try to win her heart but in a vain attempt to try to steer her away from politics. He'd seen the pending economic disaster, easier to spot from afar, and tried to convince her to quit politics and marry him. She faced a stark choice delivered to her by the Chief Whip of her governing Party, either to fall in line, or quit politics; her dalliance with the increasingly outspoken Socialist son of an ex-miner was deemed by her masters to be a luxury the Conservative Party could not afford. Jack could afford to be outspoken, he had made millions leveraging to buy gold shares in an upstart gold mining company in Australia and sold out to the avarice of clambering buyers before the peak — and the subsequent share collapse after the reported gold findings were certified as less than projected. When he returned to the UK, he began investing in run-down coal mining properties. He bought vast tranches of land in the Midlands at rock-bottom prices following the stock-market collapse in 1988. He married his old girl-friend in 1990, and divorced her two years later, before too much damage had occurred, recognising the mistake of marrying for revenge. He spent quiet years obtaining planning consent for his land-holdings, and began selling and developing when the economic climate recovered, increasing his already large wealth. He became a major contributor to the now governing Labour party — though bitterly disappointed by they adherence to the former Conservative government economic plan — and slowly he shifted his focus from commercial development to providing the socialist infrastructure he perceived the New Labour party to be ignoring. He cast his first social project, a welfare centre for the disadvantaged, with an adjoining youth centre, in her constituency, knowing she would be unable to ignore him. By this time, she was a Junior Shadow Minister for Health and Welfare in a stripped apart Conservative Party, a party barely able to keep its head above water. Jack invited her to 'open' the Centre. They slept together at the Cambridge house on the way back to London. She told her party officials, as she set off with him in his car, that she was hoping to persuade him to financially back the Party. She'd been married a month and still, within a few miles of joining the motorway, her underwear was in her handbag, and her skirt hitched up to give him free access as he drove through the night. By the time they reached Cambridge, she'd have agreed to anything, almost, and attacked him as soon as he'd closed the door. She fucked him on the hallway floor amid the debris of free newspapers and pamphlets before letting him lead her upstairs. She cried most of the night, partly in pleasure and mostly in frustration, for not having had the courage to surrender to his love. Jack told her to use the Cambridge house as a refuge. He wouldn't be using it. He told her the time would come when she need some place no one knew about to escape the glare of publicity. He told her he would come to her side whenever she called. And he told her he would wait for her, for as long as it took. Increasingly, Jack found himself invited to Conservative Party functions, he was now a financial contributor to both major political parties, arguing publicly that he divided his political stipend equally between them, as they were, in every substantial detail, equals; he gave a larger financial contribution to the Liberal Democrat Party. Inviting him to functions was her way of maintaining contact. He was discrete, maddeningly discrete, often arriving with an escort guaranteed to raise her jealousy. Once, in the Houses of Parliament, during a party following a re-vamped political manifesto launch, she swept him off to her office and they'd made frantic urgent love on the carpet, the excitement heightened by the risk both knew they were taking. They contrived to meet at Cambridge a few times, even managed to spend a long week-end hidden in the terraced house, but as her stock within the Party grew, such trysts, infrequent as they were, became impossible to arrange. Following defeat in the 2001 General Election, the Conservative Party decided on an entirely radical approach to their party leadership. She was one of few Conservative Members of Parliament to increase her voting majority in the election, owed in no small part to Jack's pioneering educational programme in her constituency, the benefits of his programme now evident in higher academic standards and achievements. The Party elders invited her to meet with them. 'Monty' Montgomery chaired the meeting. The same 'Monty' who'd delivered an ultimatum to her in 1988 over her publicly scrutinised affair with Jack. He'd invited her to his rooms before the meeting, wanted to 'go over' a few matters with her. "Of course you are not married. That might be a disadvantage," he said. "The public set great store by stable relationship," he looked at her questioningly, "no hubby on the horizon? Anyone we should know about?" "No. I think that opportunity has passed me by." "What about Jack," he asked, "is he still sniffing around?" She didn't answer, not at all comforted by his probing. "He might be an answer to all our problems. Jack would help unite both sides of the Party and he'd be hellishly important to you with the voters. Of course you couldn't have children, that would be quite out of the question. No one wants to see a potential Prime Minister weighed down by the burden of children." He continued in this vein for some minutes more, talking down to her, letting her know that if she were to become the next PM, she could not expect to enjoy the free-reign of the Maggie Thatcher era. In the ensuing committee meeting, he reassured one or two wavering Members that there was no danger of children interrupting Cabinet meetings, that she were past the age where children were a consideration, assuming that is, that she did the decent thing and persuaded Jack to make a respectable woman of her. - - - - - "Jack? It's me. Can we meet? I'm in Cambridge. I'll be here all week-end. I need to talk with you." She disconnected the call wondering if he were even in the country. It was almost two years since they'd had any chance to be alone together, though they spoke telephone or managed to contrive a meeting most weeks. He arrived shortly after nightfall on a wet early October night; she had made lasagne, figuring it would be easy to re-heat in the microwave. "Something smells good," Jack called from the hallway. "I do hope you mean me," she called. "I'm in the kitchen." Jack kissed her tenderly, then pulled her too him, wrapping his arms around her, hugging her tight. "God, I've missed you," he said. "And me, you," she answered, kissing his neck. "Are you hungry? It's ready." "For you... or food." "Food, you fool. I expect you to be always hungry for me." They ate in the kitchen, practical and quick, catching up on news and gossip, steering clear of politics. She felt relaxed, warmed by his presence and more certain than she'd ever been about anything. Jack opened a second bottle of wine and brought it, with their glasses, as she led the way to the sitting room. "So what's the emergency," he asked, "can't make up your mind now the moment has come? You know I'll support you as much as I can." "What have you heard, Jack," she asked, curling her legs onto the sofa alongside him. "That they are going to offer you the leadership of the Party. Too early in my view, shouldn't make you opposition leader with the best part of four years before the next election. Are they going to hold a 'beauty contest', or will it be a unanimous election?" She looked at him for a moment; nervous now she needed to broach the subject. "What... do you think I could win the beauty contest, the leadership election, if I were pregnant?" "This is a hypothetical, I take it?" he asked, looking distinctly anxious. "Might be." "Might be what... hypothetical or pregnant," his voice raised a notch, "I didn't think you were seeing anyone." "Jack, don't look so alarmed. I'm not seeing anyone, and I'm not pregnant." She moistened her lips before continuing, "However, if I were pregnant, do you think I'd win the 'beauty contest'. Be honest. It is important." Jack raised his eyebrows, furrowed his brow, stretched his face, recently acquired traits, she remembered he used to shoot from the hip. "Honestly? No. You wouldn't even be nominated. You couldn't run for Prime Minister with a babe in arms. The Party wouldn't stand for it." "That is also what I think." "What is all this about, Maddy?" "Christ! You must be worried, you almost managed to use my name," she smiled. "I'm thinking of having a family, before it's too late. I'm thirty-eight, I can't leave it much longer. "The Party thinks I stand a much better chance of winning the next election if I'm married. It has been suggested to me that you would make the perfect husband." Jack sat grim faced. "Apparently, you have the necessary attributes to unite both wings of the Party and your philanthropic work will reap a harvest of socialist voters. I'm supposed to seduce you; though it has been discretely pointed out to me that it wouldn't be for the first time. There are micro-cameras in my office. Sexual Politics "For security purposes," she added. "Naturally, we won't trouble ourselves with raising a family, in fact, they rather insisted on that point." She watched the rage build in him, knowing just how much he would rue the wasted years. "Bollocks! Who's behind this," he said angrily, "I'll have their balls in a wringer by morning." "It doesn't matter — though it is pretty much the same people who instructed me to stop seeing you in '88. Times have changed, Jack." "Monty! Is Tim Montgomery pulling the strings?" He rose from the sofa and headed out of the room. She didn't need to answer, other than through her expression. She heard him speak on his mobile from the hallway, heard Montgomery's name a few times; then he came back into the sitting room. "What have you done?" she asked, actually past caring. "You'll hear on the news. He's been doing favours for people, nothing too serious but it will douse any plans he had for leading the Party. I take it you've turned them down." "No. I told them I needed the weekend to think it through; I wasn't certain you'd agree." "I haven't agreed to anything, Madeline," he said, deliberately. She raised her eyebrows, "Nice to be on first name terms... after twenty odd years." "It's such a bloody pretentious name, I swore to myself I'd never use it... not unless... " "Unless what?" "Unless you agreed to marry me... then it might seem churlish not to call you by your christened name." "Is this your idea of a proposal?" she asked, probing his skin between the buttons of his shirt. "Well... no. I've already asked once. I don't recall you actually saying 'no'. You said, 'we can't', well now we can. And I'm not asking again." "And that's it?" "I suppose... though we ought to get a move on if you want to have children." She laughed, "Is sex all you think about, Jack?" "Yes... but only with you. Are you going to resign your seat?" "No, but I might join the Liberal Democrats. Put some effort into where your money is going. Do you think they will let me breast feed on the front bench?" "Either way it will cause a hell of a stir, long overdue. I keep telling people, but no one wants to listen. Parliament is a 'gentlemen's club', always has been. It is time for a change." "Before I let you have your way with me," she pushed his hand away from where he was trying to determine if she was wearing underwear, "I need to ask you something. While I was making the lasagne, I tried to work out how many times we've made love... " "Christ... you do like to keep busy." "Shut up. This is serious. Best estimate is short of a hundred, most in those few weeks when I was nineteen. Thing is, Jack, we've never used contraception... " "Ah... I can assure you, all in working order." She looked quizzically at him, actually dreading the news. "I had a son, in Australia. Unfortunately, he died at a few weeks old... " "Jack... I'm so sorry," she said, squeezing his arm, "I didn't know." "He contracted meningitis, with babies it is difficult to tell. But the time the doctors had worked it out, it was too late." "What about the mother... I'm sorry to ask." "She's fine. We were not serious about one another; the pregnancy was a mistake. She's married now, with a family. You and I have been lucky, that's all." "I think we were lucky I didn't fall pregnant when I was nineteen, and I also think we've been unlucky over the years since." He looked at her, his face beaming a smile. "You can have me now... if you want to," she said, "I mean, you don't need to wait... " Jack was both crude and considerate in his lovemaking. He was on her almost before she'd finished speaking, hungry, animalistic in his urgency. She enjoyed him like this, relished in being swamped by his lust, confident that he'd never hurt her, not intentionally, and aware of some primitive instinct that urged him to possess her. She liked to remain passive during these assaults, let him take full control, bend her body to his desire. His strong hands molded her limbs and her torso into near contortionist form and he'd enter her deep and hard, not caring at that moment for her pleasure, anxious only to take her, and for his own satisfaction. Most of the time she managed to orgasm simply from the excitement of his desire; and always, after he'd unloaded, he'd then turn his attention to her pleasure, and make love to her gently, slowly bringing her simmering to a shattering orgasm that she struggled to prolong until it burst uncontrollably upon her. That night, he barely let her sleep. It was as if he had every intent of making up for the missed years in a single night. She didn't mind, she'd made her decision before she'd even called him. Maddy was happy to surrender herself to him, she wasn't prepared to do the same for the Party, and their even thinking that she might told her how far they needed to travel before being eligible to assume the mantle of high office. - - - - - - She knew she would walk naked with him in Nude Day parade and to do so would not signify her surrender but would serve to bind him irrevocably to her, her lifetime partner, the pretence finally swept to one side. More than that, her doing so would signify to all women their right to choose. The leaders of the Lib Dem's took the news stoically, knowing the glare of publicity she would bring now to their Party would re-new at election time and trigger the long needed debate over the functioning of parliament. They would take some flack from conservative minded voters, but still, having Maddy in their Party, vastly outweighed any adverse risk. She made the main television news just as she knew she would, walking proudly amidst hundreds of equally naked people across the grass. Once her presence at the parade was confirmed it was natural for the cameras and reporters to seek her out; the real surprise, for both her and Jack, was the protective shield of those equally naked who gathered around her keeping the curious, inquisitive and bluntly rude media cortege at bay. The warmth and affection afforded by those walking with her was not quite her resurrection, but it certainly marked the point of her political re-birth. I hope I've entertained, and equally hope you will vote and/or send feedback. Thank you for reading