#the person who sees that will hate you and book it is seductive and heady | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thepanicoffice · 4 years

Text

Erectionnearing

[...]

"I am a sick man...I am a spiteful man. I am a most unpleasant man." – Dostoevsky, Notes from the Underground

That quote says all that need be said about me and about why, on the eve of the 2019 General Election, I have produced this… this… obscenity; this affront to all decent people.

Regular readers will be keenly aware that I have form for unpleasant and painfully unstimulating erotica but even I thought I had some limits. In the end what makes us truly human is our capacity to learn new and distressing things about ourselves all the time.

Read on, poor fool, and you too may learn something new and distressing about yourself.

Consider this an early present – intended with malice and unleashed upon a world not equipped to cope with it.

Merry Christmas. May God spare us all another year.

[...]

Arabella walked idly down the long hallway of her Kensington flat. With each step she tapped her stiletto heels twice and listened to the echoes skitter ahead of her. She was always like this before seeing a client, pacing around her home; not nervous, exactly, but expectant. She had to gear herself up to accommodate the entire hideousness of the men that she serviced. She enjoyed her work at times but evenings like this one would inevitably test her resolve.

The doorbell cut through the silence like a knife; charged; almost erotic in itself. Arabella walked the corridor, still slowly but in a more direct line. As she approached the door, she straightened a framed photo of her mother that was slightly askew. The extra half second would, she calculated, bring her client’s desire to a rolling boil as he stood, perhaps with trepidation, perhaps just excitement, on her doorstep.

She opened the door. A pregnant moment for them both.

“Good evening.”

“Erm… Tally-ho!”

Arabella took a moment to drink in the sight before her, like a bitter draught of sewage.

“I’m here about the IT lesson,” he said in a loud and unconvincing voice, before whispering: “Could uh… I come in? I don’t want to be seen out here. I’m quite a… er… important person.”

Surveying him with a faintly scornful eye, she was surprised to hear that he was quite an important person. He was stocky but almost formless; like an overlarge large business suit stuffed three-quarters full of hay. This scarecrow appearance was compounded by the crown of piss-yellow straw carelessly scattered on his head. In spite of this inhuman physique, his face was a rudimentary sketch of features flanked on either side by distended, fleshy jowls that flushed a feeble crimson with faint embarrassment.

“You had better come in Mr…” The client hadn’t left a name when booking.

“Uhhh Gove. Michael Gove.”

Arabella wordlessly beckoned him inside. She walked in a studied seductive manner, while he audibly loped behind with heavy, graceless limbs. He knocked the photo of Arabella’s mother from the wall and it smashed on the floor.

“Oh crumbs, I er… do er… accept… sincerest apologies… humble…” he sputtered in a tedious approximation of Hugh Grant trying to swallow a plum without chewing.

“That’s quite alright,” Arabella replied. She would make him suffer for that.

With a hand gently pressed to his shoulder, she guided his corpulent frame onto the sofa. He collapsed with a weighty thump, accompanied by a chorus of springs groaning under his density.

She handed him a glass of white wine which he grasped in his pudgy hand.

“Thanks!” he gasped, before tilting it to his mouth and spilling much of it down his chin.

Arabella surfed the brief, hot waves of revulsion that pulsed through her.

“You know,” she said mischievously and with some relish, “you look an awful lot like the Prime Minister…”

“No!” the figure cried as though he’d discovered a wasp nest in his trousers. “No. I… I… get that quite a lot. Must be my… shoes… No, as I say, I’m Michael Gove.”

“What, former Secretary of State for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs and current Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, Michael Gove?”

“Not, uh… Not, uh… Not necessarily. Just a Michael Gove. Just if the press happens to ask.”

“Understood Michael. You can call me Mistress Thunderlash. Other than that, I would prefer it if you did not speak. Shall we begin?”

The honeyed sheen of arousal clouded over his tiny pink-rimmed eyes. He licked his lips.

“Cripes! Yes, please Mistress.”

She shuddered involuntarily at the thought of having to satisfy the carnal desires of this lazily-conceived Beano character, but she artfully transformed it into a sensual roll of her shoulder, before leading him with her gaze towards the Red Room.

Hoisted by his own lust, he leapt from the sofa and padded towards the door, effortlessly shedding his clothes en route like a snake wriggling from its discarded skin. She watched his surprisingly small buttocks as they meandered away from her with the kind of mingled disdain and nausea usually only found at a BMA committee meeting the morning after payday drinks. Reluctantly she followed.

By the time she caught up with him, he was spread-eagled on the bed, his promptly stiffened member jutting violently upwards, puce and tumescent, like a foul red beacon; already making love, as it were, with an easy arrogance, to the evening air.

In truth, this macabre sight left her nethergarden more parched than she could ever remember. She deftly moved to her dresser drawer and applied the artificial lubricant that she so sorely required. Saying a brief but directionless prayer for forgiveness – for whatever God or gods might exist, regardless of the articles of faith they embodied, they surely would not readily excuse her for what she was about to do – she ascended this hummock of bovine mass. And then, in a moment that she would recount to her therapist in years to come, an instant that would live long in her recollections of personal infamy, she invited the slightly crooked protuberance of the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom into her resentful cleft.

After several complex minutes of movement, gripping with her thighs and rolling her hips to try to maintain her shifting centre of gravity, she reckoned that she could commence the more enjoyable obligations in her remit as Mistress Thunderlash. She eyed his chest and the tender buds of flesh rising like islands from saucer-sized areolas. Readying her long, wine-red nails, she aimed a punishing flick at his large pale nipples.

“Yowee!” he howled.

“Silence, you unspeakable swine,” Arabella shushed, gripping one of the nipples fiercely. The man’s eyes rolled back into his head, imbibing the heady cocktail of pain and pleasure. His tongue lolled out over his wet, meaty lips.

Arabella dragged her neatly painted nails in scything arcs down his chest and heaving gut. He squirmed with a piggy glee, snorting with delight.

Without warning, Arabella dismounted, her enthusiasm for this grim task increasing. She walked over to the cabinet and took out something that the man could not clearly see. All he could identify at first was a slight glinting in the darkness; this proved to be a buckle on a strap. Then the faint outlines of Arabella’s body as she lifted her legs, first one, then the other. As she stepped closer, his eyes gradually made it out; the length of a forearm, topped with bulb the size of a fist; dark, a polished ebony so dark that it swallowed all light.

“By Jove! Jacob told me about this bit!”

Ah yes, Arabella thought, the man who looked like a haughty cadaver and insisted on calling her Nanny. She had wondered who had recommended her.

“I call it…” she said “…Black Rod.”

“Cripes,” he whispered, his voice clogged with desire, fear, and awe. He clearly struggled to break eye contact with the imperious device.

“Ready yourself,” she warned, simply. “This will be as long and as arduous as negotiating a free trade agreement with the European Union.”

In one fluid movement, she sank the prodigious length of Rod up to its hilt. The man tensed, gasped, before relaxing, allowing movement. He muttered guttural nothings under his breath, as though speaking some mysterious language of arousal. Arabella picked up speed, moving through the gears. She felt herself moving in and through the Rod; she became at one with it, remorselessly ploughing the furrow of national leadership; she was a piston, a hateful piston, hammering away; she had never felt so powerful; she had never felt so alive; she would cleave this worthless hog in two!

“I’m approaching…” the man rasped. “I’m approaching…” Runnels of sweat slid across his brow. “I’m approaching…” The final word was strangled, almost mewled: “…climax…”

She knew he was already over the brink; the gravity of his orgasm was drawing him on inescapably to the depths. Now was the time. She knew what she wanted him to hear as his body was wracked with grotesque pleasure.

“Oh!” she moaned, smiling to herself in triumph. “Oh, Michael Gove!”

“N-n-n-n…”

The man spasmed, tried to recoil, tried to escape. But it was too late. The Right Honourable Member for Uxbridge gouted thick ropes of oily sputum into the night, all the while tormented by the images of his colleague’s spite-mottled face. Arabella disengaged and heard him panting sadly in the dark.

“Leave now,” Arabella said, throwing his discarded clothes at his feet.

“I… you’ll ruddy well…” But he knew there was nothing he could do. One phone call to the press would be the end of him and his ill-deserved career. Even his uncanny ability for failing upwards in life despite no discernible talent would protect him here.

“Leave means leave,” Arabella said, pouring herself a glass of red wine. “Best of luck in the election. Consider that pre-emptive revenge for the country.”

He wandered out into the corridor. As Arabella shut the door, she heard the man say loudly, grimly, to no one in particular, “Thank you for the IT lesson. It was most instructive.”

#Maslin #Editor #I am so sorry #Politics #UK Politics #General Election #It will not surprise you to learn that my mother is not proud of me

3 notes · View notes