Mr. Prime Minister

by Jessica Ashe

  I’m going to blame the massive breakfast. I usually settle for a granola bar or a banana. I ate more for breakfast this morning than I usually do for lunch and dinner combined. Apparently Emilia ordered a full English one morning after staying the night—while Wade slept on the sofa—and now the chefs always do big fry ups whenever Wade orders two breakfasts.

  If I stay here on a regular basis, then I need a lighter breakfast or I’m going to get fat, fast. I’m sure Emilia can eat whatever the hell she likes and not put on weight, but I’m not that fortunate. My ass gets notably bigger when I so much as think about eating a chocolate dessert after dinner.

  Just before lunch, I head down to the kitchen hoping to catch the kitchen staff before they get too busy with the midday shift.

  “Excuse me, are you one of the chefs?” I ask a man dressed like a chef.

  “Yes, Ms. Tucker. I’m Bradly. What can I do for you?”

  He knows who I am? Is that because I’m important? Or just because there are rumors I’m screwing the PM? Likely a bit of both. People always say you need to know the secretaries, so more people know my name than vice-versa. I’m cool with that.

  “The Prime Minister’s, uh, ‘close and personal friend,’” I say suggestively, stopping just short of winking, “would like to change the breakfast menu when she stays over.”

  “Is there a problem with the food?”

  “She doesn’t like the big fried breakfasts. Someone assumed she did, but actually she’s not a fan.”

  “Huh.” Bradley looks puzzled, as if it’s not possible to hate large fried breakfasts.

  “I’m sure the food’s great,” I add quickly. “No accounting for taste, I guess.”

  Bradley snaps out of his daze and smiles again. “Of course. Would you like to choose something else from the pantry for her future breakfasts?”

  “Yes, please. The friend in question gave me a list of suitable replacements.”

  Bradley takes me round to the pantry and I end up selecting a mixture of granola bars and fruit that will be good for early morning energy. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.

  I leave work a touch early at Wade’s insistence. Sex and I’ll be home by five. That’s a good day in my book.

  “Evening, ma’am,” the security guard says as I approach. Lionel is still on duty, but he’s monitoring people coming in not the ones going out. “I need to check your bag.”

  I hand over my bag, relieved that I decided to leave last night’s clothes hidden away in Wade’s bedroom.

  The guard starts rummaging through my possessions with more enthusiasm than most. He must be new.

  “If you find my inhaler in there, let me know,” I say to the guard.

  “You’ve lost it?”

  “Yeah. Must have fallen out of my bag.” Except I keep it in a zipped compartment, so it should have been secure. Oh well. I have another at home.

  “I don’t see anything, ma’am,” he says, handing me the bag.

  “Doesn’t matter. I never use it anyway.”

  I’ve officially had asthma since I was about eight years old, but I haven’t needed my inhaler for two years now. I’ve probably grown out of it, but I like to keep the inhaler around anyway, just in case.

  I walk through the exit, just as Lionel finishes up doing his security check.

  “Evening, Ms. Tucker,” he says, with a knowing smile.

  “Evening, Lionel.”

  I’m about to walk off, when Lionel looks around to make sure the coast is clear and then waves me over.

  “Something wrong?”

  “No, nothing.” He motions me closer, so I stand next to him. “If anyone asks, you came in super early this morning to prepare for an important breakfast meeting. That’s why the morning shift didn’t see you come in.”

  I should have known I couldn’t keep a secret from Lionel. “Thanks. Are people suspicious?”

  “The guy I work with in the mornings thought it was odd he didn’t see you. He’s only a part-timer though, so you don’t need to worry.”

  “This won’t stay secret for long, will it?”

  “Probably not. But I’ll cover for you where I can. Maybe talk loudly about needing to come in early more often when you next come through. It’ll slow the gossip down a bit.”

  I thank Lionel again and take a few steps away before stopping and turning back.

  “Do you disapprove?” I ask. I’m not sure why I care what Lionel thinks, but he’s always been nice to me and I’d hate it if he thought less of me. And he might represent public opinion more than someone like Terrell. If the entire population of the UK is going to hate me one day, then I’d like to prepare for that.

  “No,” Lionel replies without hesitation. “Why would I?”

  “I’m his secretary. It’s inappropriate.”

  “Not everyone meets over drinks in a bar or on Tinder.”

  “People are going to think I’m a gold digger.”

  “Probably. But it won’t matter to the Prime Minister and you’ll learn to live with it. I did.”

  “You?”

  I’m sure Lionel has a nice pension to look forward to in a few years, but I can’t imagine anyone dating him for his money.

  “I met my husband at work. I was one of the security guards at his house. I say house; mansion is probably a better word.”

  “Wow. So your husband’s rich?”

  “Minted.”

  I’m about to ask the obvious question, when Lionel does it for me.

  “You’re wondering why I still work here?” Lionel says.

  “Kind of, yeah.”

  “I was going to quit, but when I saw Wade get elected, I knew I had to stay. I’m serving my country, in my own little way. It’s not as dangerous as being in the armed forces, and not as glamorous as being an MP, but I’m contributing.”

  “And now you’re helping protect top secret information,” I joke.

  “Oh yeah. The press would probably pay me a fortune for this story. Good job I don’t need the money.”

  The press. Those words send shivers down my spine now. That’s me. I’m part of ‘the press,’ no matter how much I pretend otherwise. I’m meeting Stephanie on Saturday, and then it’s all over. The press has an important role to play, but so does the Prime Minister’s secretary. Like Lionel, I’m going to help in my own little way.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Wade

  The public uproar about the assassination of Zawahiri is far more timid than I expected. The UN had approved combat operations in Kurtmanistan, so the UK’s actions might not have been illegal. Ultimately though, it’s the hatred for Zawahiri that stopped this from escalating further. No one has avoided the images of the atrocities committed by Zawahiri, nor the rejoicing in Kurtmanistan since his death. I can’t escape criticism, and I don’t want to, but this issue isn’t going to define my time in office.

  Reporters gather outside 10 Downing Street for a press conference, which is going to be little more than me reading a pre-prepared statement. It’s nothing exciting. I’m essentially promising that the UK only took this step due to the drastic circumstances and to avoid the loss of countless innocent lives. It’s the sort of dry, cookie-cutter statement I hate hearing from politicians, but if it avoids me starting a war with a slip of the tongue then I’m all for it.

  The speech is displayed on teleprompters, but I have it memorized. My eyes move around the crowd as I talk, trying to make each reporter feel like I’m talking directly to them. Maybe they’ll go a bit easier on me.

  I’m two-thirds of the way through my speech when a nagging doubt creeps into the back of my head. It’s enough to make me lose track of my words, and I have to look at the prompter to pick up where I left off.

  What’s wrong? I saw something I didn’t like.

  I scan the press pool again. There are two rows of photographers at the front and then a gaggle of reporters behind them all sticking out their recording devices, even though the speech is be
ing filmed by every major network.

  They all look like they have a question on the tips of their tongues that they’re desperate to ask. The second I indicate that my speech is over, they will all start yelling in unison. There’s nothing wrong with that. They’re reporters, it’s what they do.

  Except for one.

  There’s one reporter who isn’t hanging on my every word. He isn’t recording the speech and he doesn’t look like he gives a shit about what I’m saying. He’s just standing there, right in the middle of the press pack, staring at me with a look that could cut glass.

  And I recognize him.

  I don’t know his name, and I’ve never spoken to him, but I recognize him. He’s the one who met with my Chancellor of the Exchequer the other night. He was there in Iraq when I found out about the weapons deal. He was one of DefenceTech’s hired goons. He didn’t see me that day. If he’d seen me, he would have killed me. Is he here to do that now?

  No, he’s empty handed and isn’t in a good position to get a shot off. He’s here as a warning.

  We know what you did and you’re going to pay.

  I end the press conference and don’t take any questions.

  I can’t pretend to be surprised at the man’s appearance. I’m going to piss off a lot of powerful people in the next couple of years, and eventually someone will try and kill me. That’s fine. Plenty of people have tried before. So long as I end the web of corruption, I don’t particularly care. Hundreds, no thousands, of soldiers have died because companies are profiting off the sales of weapons to terrorists. I’m going to end that, even if it means dying in the process.

  The good thing about being Prime Minister is you don’t get much time to dwell on death threats. The second the press conference is over, I’m bundled into a meeting with my education secretary, followed by one with my justice secretary, and a lunch with a group of teenagers to promote STEM education in urban areas.

  I only see Janie when she comes in to meetings to bring drinks and snacks. She’s not going commando today, but she subtly flashed the waistband of some delicate blue panties that more than made up for it.

  She’s staying late tomorrow night. It’s been a long three days since the last fuck, but we have to be careful. I didn’t even sneak around this much as a teenager. My parents are fairly liberal, so they were more concerned with making sure I used condoms than stopping me having sex.

  I don’t make it back to my office until after the lunch meeting, but Janie’s on the phone so I go straight to my desk and close my eyes. The more I try to clear my head, the harder it becomes. As much as I hate to admit it, the last time I truly switched off and stopped worrying was during the yoga session Janie prepared for me. I could do with more of that, although this time we might end up fucking instead. Janie will never let me live it down if I admit to liking yoga.

  A loud yawn escapes my mouth, and before I know it, my head dips down towards the desk. I’m just going to shut my eyes for a few seconds. Instead of landing on the desk, my forehead hits something sharp and plastic.

  “What the….”

  I open my eyes and find a blue inhaler on my desk. How the fuck did this get in here?

  I’m holding the inhaler when Janie knocks and walks into my office.

  “Sir, do you want to meet Wilson May tomorrow afternoon, or shall I tell him to….” She trails off as her eyes land on the inhaler in my hands. “Is that my inhaler?”

  “I found it on my desk,” I reply.

  “Looks like mine.”

  I throw it over to her. “Did you leave it in here?”

  “I guess I did. Weird though. I keep it zipped up in my bag. Oh well, clearly it fell out at some point.”

  Janie keeps the inhaler and leaves my office. Any other day, I would have ignored the inhaler completely, but today, after seeing that man in the crowd….

  This is a message. It’s more subtle than a horse’s head in my bed but just as effective. Someone working for DefenceTech has access to my office, and they want me to know it. Not just that, they know I’m seeing Janie. Janie’s inhaler on my desk tells me they can come and go as they please, and they know how I feel about her.

  Fuck. I want to slam my fist down on the desk, but Janie will hear.

  Who knows about Janie? Terrell, my driver, and a couple of security guards. My driver doesn’t have access to this office, and the security guards that saw me with Janie are on the night shift. I suppose they could have told someone else, but they’re usually discrete. Too discrete. When I wanted them to spread lies about a relationship with Emilia, they wouldn’t do it. Anyway, if you can’t trust people who are paid to take a bullet for you, then who can you trust?

  Then there’s Terrell. It can’t be him. DefenceTech hates him almost as much as they hate me. What would he have to gain from destroying me?

  I should be focusing on Gwen Yates. If I leave office, then the Chancellor of the Exchequer takes over. It’s like taking out a £10 million life insurance policy as far as obvious motives go. This one wouldn’t stump Colombo for long, and Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t even take the case.

  There’s just one problem—Gwen doesn’t know I’m in a relationship with Janie.

  Shit. Janie told me I need to trust people, but how can I? There’s only so many times I can be betrayed before I learn my fucking lesson and just keep things to myself.

  I’m running out of people I can count on. I should trust Terrell, but things haven’t been the same between us these last few months. We were equals in the SAS, but now he works for me. There has to be a bit of resentment there.

  That only leaves Janie. She’s the only one I can trust, and I’ve put her in danger. DefenceTech knows who she is and they might use her to get to me.

  I’m not going to let that happen.

  Chapter Twenty

  Janie

  Wade has retreated into his shell these last few days. He’d been smiling more and seemed to be approaching a normal, relatively healthy level of stress, and then everything changed. He’s quiet and tense again, although he does his best to hide it from me.

  He should be happy. Despite the assassination, his public approval is at an all-time high and, without wanting to be over-confident, I’m fairly sure he’s satisfied with what we do in the bedroom. There’s nothing from the last few days that would have caused undue stress, although I’m always getting him to sign documents I don’t fully understand. He could be signing death warrants for all I know.

  I free up another hour for him over lunch and get changed into my yoga clothes. I’ve kept the mats in the office, although they’ve not been used since the first session.

  “Yoga time,” I say cheerfully, as I walk into his office. He’s staring at his computer screen, but it’s obvious he’s in another world.

  “I don’t have time,” he replies.

  “You do. And I’m not going to listen to any arguments.”

  I’m expecting some anyway, but instead he smiles and starts getting undressed. This time I watch.

  Is naked yoga a thing? It should be, and if it isn’t, maybe I should start it. I look away from his glorious muscles before I get too excited. This yoga session is for him to relax and de-stress, not for me to have more orgasms.

  Our fucking has one drawback—it’s messed up my yoga routine. I haven’t done any in over a week, and I immediately feel it. My muscles are stiffer and I’m not getting the usual range in my stretches. Wade finds everything easier because he knows roughly what he’s doing this time. He’s going to be one of those people who finds yoga easy and ends up being better than the teacher. I should know—I am one of those people.

  Wade follows my instructions without any argument. He doesn’t even make lewd comments, although he still stares at my tits. I’d be worried if he didn’t.

  We practice crow pose again near the end. He falls over again, but he’s getting closer. Once he can balance, he should be able to hold the pose thanks to his upper arm strength. I need to
practice; I want to be better than him at something.

  “Now go into happy baby,” I instruct.

  “Which one’s that?”

  “You hold your toes up by your ears. Watch me.”

  Wade sits up and watches as I lock my fingers around my big toes and bring them up above my head. Instead of laying on his back and doing the same thing, he stays sitting on the mat, watching me intently.

  “Your turn,” I say, holding the pose.

  “I’m done,” he replies.

  “Okay, I guess it’s time for a rest anyway.”

  I rock forward until I’m sitting cross-legged in front of him.

  “No. I’m done, but you’re not. It’s my turn to give the orders.”

  His cock is rock hard and pointing up through his shorts. I know exactly how he intends to end the session, and I’m not about to argue.

  “Yes, Mr. Prime Minister,” I say weakly, pretending to be nervous of what is to come.

  “Start in downward dog and move through to baby cobra.”

  I slowly push myself up into downward dog and hold it while Wade stands and walks around me. He doesn’t touch me, but murmurs of appreciation escape his lips. From there, I move through to plank and then lower myself to the ground before pushing up into cobra, thrusting my chest up and out as much as possible.

  “Hold it,” he orders.

  I stay still as Wade squats down in front of me. He leans over and kisses me firmly on the lips. I don’t kiss back. His hand slides down my top and squeezes my sweaty left breast before his finger and thumb pinch the nipple tightly. I’m trying to breathe through my nose, but I whimper in pain and pleasure before he moves over to the other breast and does the same thing.

  “Sun salutations,” he says sternly.

  I stand up and move through the sun salutation routine we practiced before. Wade walks around me, examining me closely from the front and the back. His hands occasionally wander over my body, sliding across my chest, or stroking my thighs and ass. I never flinch, even when his lips graze the back of my neck and his fingertips lightly flicker against my pussy.