Affairs of State
Chapter One
Clive sat in his chair twiddling his pen in his fingers as he watched Beryl, his new personal assistant, tidying up the cups and left-over biscuits from the table after his meeting. The meeting had gone well; he had won most of the concessions he had been seeking without giving an inch in return. That was why he was sitting where he was now, a junior minister in the Defence Department with promotion to a more senior role all but assured.
As he watched Beryl move around his office his mind drifted back to his previous p.a. -- Sara -- who was now on maternity leave, about to have his baby. She had married her childhood sweetheart barely two months ago, having convinced him that the child was his. Clive had effectively been blackmailed into paying for the wedding, a lavish affair that had hit his pocket hard -- but it was better than the truth coming out, which might spell the end of his marriage and his career.
His wife, Rebecca, did not object to his extra-marital affairs; she was, after all, a confirmed lesbian who had only got married at the insistence of her father, Lord D’Estrage -- a bigwig in the party and Clive’s benefactor. It was her father who would insist on divorce and withdraw his backing for Clive’s rise through the ranks. It wouldn’t matter how good Clive was at his job, with Lord D’Estrage against him he could hope to go nowhere.
He looked at his watch and then checked his diary -- the rest of the afternoon was set aside for reading papers and signing correspondence -- mundane tasks that he could not be bothered to face right now -- he felt like going out and celebrating his success.
“Beryl -- I’m leaving for the day,” he called out to her, “if anyone asks, I’ve just had a pressing engagement come up.”
He put the papers he needed to read in his briefcase and marched out of his office, telling Beryl to tidy his desk and ensure that everything was put away before she left. Crossing the road and turning down a side street, he entered his regular watering hole “Number Ten”, where he approached the bar and ordered a double gin and tonic. The barmaid knew him well and went to the bottle of Tarquin’s that it seemed only Clive Samuels MP drank from. She noticed his glance down her cleavage as she handed him the drink and added the cost to his tab -- adding on an extra few pounds for a drink for herself when the shift was over. She knew that he only settled his tab infrequently and that he would never remember what it was he was paying for.
Clive leant with his back against the bar, surveying the other occupants of the room. There were a couple of other MPs he recognised and what appeared to be a group of tourists huddled in a corner. He turned his head and looked in the other direction, his eyes stopping at an attractive redhead, sitting alone at a table nursing a drink. Womaniser that he was, he was soon checking out her clothing, an elegant burgundy floral cocktail dress -- not designer, he decided -- but very attractive and defining her bust perfectly. Her legs, what he could see of them, were long and slender and his mind started wandering to the heavenly junction at the top of her thighs. He approached her table and introduced himself before enquiring whether he may join her. She looked at him and then lowered her eyes to his left hand.
“You appear to be married, Mr Samuels,” she said, “I do not encourage the attention of married men.”
“I’m only suggesting that we have a pleasant chat -- there is no intention for matters to go any further than that. I just prefer to have company when I am drinking rather than drink alone,” he lied.
She looked at him again, before offering her hand, “Anastasia,” she said, “pleased to meet you. But please, just call me Stacy.”
Clive pulled out a chair and sat opposite “Stacy” -- his eyes roving once more over her features and the upper half of her body, his member stirring in his boxers as he imagined her stripped naked.
“So, Stacy, what brings you to Westminster. I’m sure you don’t work in the House or I certainly would have noticed you?” he enquired.
“I’m new to London, here for a year and just wanted to get my sightseeing done before I go on a job hunt,” she answered, her ruby red lips opening seductively as she raised her vodka and lime to her lips, taking a small sip.
His eyes lit up as he heard that she was in the market for a job. “Well, Stacy, you make a very pleasant addition to the sights in this area, if I may say so.” He smiled at her and continued, “If you are at all interested, I have a vacancy for a research assistant in my office -- you strike me as the sort of young woman who would fit into the team nicely.”
“But you don’t know anything about me,” Stacy responded, “for all you know I might be a Russian spy.” A smile spreading over those luscious lips.
“Well, as I work for the Ministry of Defence you would be thoroughly vetted, of course, but you seem an intelligent woman -- I’m sure you would make an excellent assistant -- not to mention how much you would brighten up my day.”
“Now, now Clive,” chided Stacy, “no flirting was the first rule of the day, I believe.” Even so, she smiled at him and her eyes locked on his. “If you were not married, I would very much enjoy spending time in your company but, as I said, I do not make a practice of keeping the company of married men.”
“If I told you, married in name only?” he enquired
“How so? And why would I believe you?” she looked at him quizzically.
“My wife is a confirmed lesbian -- she would no sooner look at you than have her head under the table and between your thighs. We only married at the insistence of her father with the benefit to me that he would ensure I was a rising star in the party. If she were here, she would be happy to confirm everything I’ve said.”
Stacy studied his face, seemingly searching for any evidence that he was lying. “Well, Politics was my Major back home,” she said, “I’ve always had a fascination for the way countries are run, the different systems, capitalism, communism, democracies, dictatorships -- it sometimes seems to me that they are all as bad as each other -- the rich get richer, the poor remain poor. But I still have a yearning to see it in action, to work in that environment and see how the wheels of government turn.”
“Back home,” repeated Clive, “Where exactly is that? Your English is near perfect.”
“I was born in Nowa Huta, a town just outside of Krakow. English was my second subject at University and I passed with Honours,” Stacy smiled at Clive, fully aware that he was looking at the swell of her breasts in her dress.
“Well, well, that rare breed -- a red-haired Pole. I am truly honoured,” Clive joked, “Can I replenish your glass?”
“That would be kind. Thank you, Clive, -- I’m drinking Belvedere Vodka and lime.”
Clive went to the bar, thanking his lucky stars that he had decided to finish work early today. He ordered the drinks and looked back at Stacy, who was watching him. She smiled as he looked at her and, possibly unwittingly, licked her lips. The gesture sent a tingle down his spine and to his cock as he imagined those red lips around his appendage. He was brought out of his daydream by Claire, the barmaid, saying his name repeatedly until she got his attention.
Returning to the table with the drinks, he handed Stacy her glass and clinked glasses with her, “Here’s to your new job,” he said as he tilted his glass towards his mouth and swallowed about a quarter of his Gin.
