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***As always, all characters involved in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years old (or older). Also, all the characters in this story are purely fictitious and are not based on any real people. I should warn you, this is a tale set in the UK, written by a British author. I like to believe the story is understandable and accessible, but there may be some terminology or idioms, non-British readers might not understand.***
It was nearly three in the morning when the small convoy of cars reached Number Ten. The summit in Brussels had dragged on late into the evening, as was always the case, and he had to do the usual post match press conference and a round of interviews before he could fly back to London. Someone had briefly floated the idea of staying overnight at the Ambassador’s residence, but Henry wanted to get home. And he was the boss, so he got to have the final say.
They touched down at RAF Northolt just after two. One of the advantages of being Her Britannic Majesty’s Prime Minister and First Lord of the Treasury, was you didn’t have to hang around at passport control or customs. Once you were on the ground, you could get off the plane and just leave. His car, a specially-adapted, armoured Jaguar, was waiting for him on the tarmac. Behind it were a row of black Range Rovers. These would ferry officials, special advisers and the prime minister’s personal protection unit.
Northolt was actually the oldest RAF base in the country. It was only around ten miles outside central London, and was used by members of the Government and the Royal Family for official trips abroad. The rest of the time, the politicians had to slum it on commercial flights, with the proles and the hoi polloi.
Henry Sellers greeted his regular driver, a young man called Chris, and climbed in to the back of the car. There wasn’t a huge amount of room. The armoured plating, plus various other security gadgets, meant the vehicle was actually rather cramped inside. American presidents had The Beast, the giant stretch limo that looked a bit like a tank. But British prime ministers had to rely on a slightly more modest form of transport.
“Everything go according to plan, Prime Minister?” Chris asked.
“A bit too early to say, I think.” Henry replied, with a sigh. “It’s over, though. That’s one thing to cheer about.”
With that, Chris drove off and spirited his very important passenger away in to the night. Henry took a phone out of his jacket pocket, and switched it on. He actually had three mobile phones. One was for official business, anything connected to his governmental work. Another one was for party political purposes, and couldn’t be used when he had his prime ministerial hat on. The third was a private phone that only a handful of people even knew about, let alone had the number for. This was the phone he always turned on first.
It lit up, illuminating his face in the darkened rear of the car, and after a few seconds, it beeped. The text message icon appeared. He pressed the screen, knowing with cast iron certainty who the sender was likely to be.
Hannah. His daughter.
He opened the message.
Hey, it said. Text me when you land, so I know you got back okay.
He typed a quick reply. I’ve landed.
After a few seconds, another beep: Yippee, I’ll still be up when you get home.
Go to bed, it’s late, he told her.
No! I want to kiss you goodnight.
Okay. I’ll be back soon. Love you.
I love you too, Daddy. xxx
Henry stared at those words until the screen went black. A powerful sensation of warmth and contentment washed over him. All thoughts of the previous few days disappeared from his mind. Suddenly he couldn’t care less about EU rebates or agricultural subsidies. None of it mattered. Not now. Everything else was irrelevant compared to her. She was his rock, his support. His life. He smiled to himself contentedly as the car sped through the quiet streets of London, and on towards Downing Street.
Sir George Downing had clearly been a survivor. He was a soldier – and a spy – who had served under Oliver Cromwell and Charles II. He also knew how to make money. He’d bought the lease to a patch of land just east of St James’s Park in 1654. There’s been some speculation it had formerly been the site of a brewery. Sir George built a cul-de-sac of town houses and promptly named the street after himself. Eventually, in the early 1730s, three of the buildings were knocked into one and given by the King to Sir Robert Walpole as an official residence. From then on, Ten Downing Street became the home of every subsequent prime minister.
Up to and including its latest occupant, the Right Honourable Henry Sellers MP. He’d been living there for more than two years now, after a narrow and somewhat unexpected election victory for his party. He was one of the younger occupants of this house, having only canlı bahis recently turned 45. He still couldn’t quite believe he had the job. Every time his car came to a halt outside that famous black door, he felt like pinching himself. This can’t be real, he’d think. It’s a prank someone is playing on me; it’s a dream and soon I’ll wake up.
But reality it was, and yet again he found himself clambering out of his armed Jaguar and walking into Number Ten.
The house was relatively quiet, but there were still a few people scurrying around. This wasn’t just a home, it was a working office. The heart of Government no less. During the day, the place could be absolute bedlam, with secretaries and officials running round; diplomats and dignitaries being entertained.
As Henry walked through the door, he was met, as always, by his Cabinet Secretary, Sir Angus Stout. Sir Angus was a civil servant, not a party political figure. He was in fact the top civil servant in the whole of government, and had an army of people under his command. Henry had always found him to be a loyal and dedicated figure.
“You have to understand the nature of my role, Prime Minister,” He had told him on the day Henry got the job, and walked into Downing Street as his nation’s leader for the first time. “It is my task to serve you with absolute commitment. It is the job of the civil service to support and facilitate the Government in every way possible. And then, come the next election, if you were to lose, we would offer the exact same support to your political opponents.”
“That’s good to know.” Henry had replied, somewhat sardonically.
Tonight, or technically this morning, Sir Angus smiled serenely and welcomed his boss home.
“Prime Minister, I trust your experience with our Continental cousins wasn’t too awful?”
“No, Angus, it was just about bearable.”
“Well, that is good news. I imagine you would like to head upstairs and get some sleep?”
“That is the plan.”
“There might be a slight hiccough with that, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, the Prime Minister of Canada would like to discuss an issue with you.”
“Now? It’s three o’clock in the bloody morning! Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”
“Yes, she is aware that her timing is not exactly perfect, for which she offers profuse apologies, but she says it’s rather urgent. Ms Sawyer is in the middle of an election campaign, and that does rather focus one’s attention. Nothing can wait when you are running for office.”
Henry sighed. He had wanted to go straight up to the Flat and see Hannah, but he well understood the hazards of the job. When you are prime minister, you never have enough time. Someone always wants something. Demands were always made, even in the middle of the night. He was sorely tempted to tell Sir Angus to tell the Canadian PM to fuck right off – well he might not use those exact words – but she was in theory an ally. So, instead, he headed to his study and prepared to take the call.
Forty-five minutes later and Henry was finally heading upstairs. His phone call had been tedious and unnecessary, but that was true about a lot of what he found himself doing. His job could be so frustrating. He was in a position where he could make a positive difference in so many people’s lives, but actually making the levers of government work was unbelievably difficult. Finding a way to implement the changes he wanted, sometimes seemed impossible. He felt honoured being prime minister, but it depressed him plenty of the time too.
The Flat was the name everyone gave to the small apartment at the top of the building where Henry lived. It astonished almost anyone who ever set foot in the place, to see how small and cramped the living quarters were. Most world leaders had a palace or a mansion; the British prime minister had to make do with something a lot less grand. Sure, he had Chequers, a large house out in the country, but he spent a lot more of his time here.
This place was a refuge. An escape. Throughout the rest of the building, he was almost always accompanied by other people. Officials, security personnel, ministers, MPs. It sometimes felt like he could never get away. But in the Flat he could be alone. Alone with his daughter. There were strict rules in place. No one was allowed to just come in unannounced. Even Sir Angus. You had to be buzzed in. The door was locked. Entry was barred. Henry had good reason to insist on his privacy.
And that reason was fast asleep in the living room.
Hannah was curled up on the sofa, snoring away quietly. She was wearing her white silk pyjamas. They consisted of a pair of shorts and a buttoned up top. He stood looking at her for a moment, just soaking up her appearance. His beautiful, darling daughter. Twenty-one years old and the most important person in his life by a country mile. Ever since her mother’s death, she had been the absolute centre of his world. The bahis siteleri fulcrum around which everything revolved. He couldn’t find the words to express how much he loved her. Needed her. Now, more than ever.
After a few moments, he dragged himself away and poured a glass of scotch. Then he sat down in a big leather chair opposite his daughter and let his head fall backwards on to the shiny upholstery. He closed his eyes and he could feel himself drifting away. But then…
“Hey, Dad.” Hannah said softly.
He looked up and she was now stood in front of him. She had a huge grin on her face, the joy in seeing him again was palpable.
“Hello, darling. Why didn’t you go to bed?”
“I told you, I wanted to stay up and give you a goodnight kiss.”
She sat on his lap and wrapped her arm round his shoulder. He rested his hand on her naked thigh, tracing patterns on her soft, smooth skin. She gave him his kiss, gently on the cheek.
“How was it?” She asked.
“Your goodnight kiss? It was fine.”
“No, you dope. The summit?”
“Oh, the usual dreary shit.” He replied. “Twenty-eight arrogant, egotistical dickheads sat in a room for two days solid, spouting cliched pablum at each other.”
“You’re not an arrogant, egotistical dickhead. Well, not much.”
“Thank you, my love.”
“Was President Roche there?”
“Yes. He asked after you, of course. How iz your bootiful dotter?” Henry said, faking a comic French accent.
“He is quite a hunk, you know.”
“He’s old enough to be your grandfather. Well, he would be if his family came from a particularly run down Parisian council estate and he started having sex when he was pretty young.”
“It sounds like you’re jealous.”
“Very.” Henry said, without the slightest trace of sarcasm.
“You don’t need to be. You know that.” She said, softly.
The two of them looked at each other, sharing a moment of mutual understanding. Then Hannah reached up and grabbed hold of his shoulder, squeezing it firmly.
“You feel so tense.”
“Yeah, these summits can take it out of you.”
She looked him in the eye.
“Do you want me to help you relax?”
Henry paused for a moment.
“It’s late. You don’t have to.”
“But I want to.” She almost whispered.
“Well…if you don’t mind, darling.”
“Of course not. It’d be my pleasure, Daddy.”
With that, she leant forward and kissed him softly on the lips. Then she slowly slid off his lap, pressing her body against his as she moved, sinking down until she was kneeling in front of him on the floor. He spread his legs apart, to give her some room. Her long red hair had been hanging loosely round her head and shoulders, but she took one of the scrunchies she was always wearing on her wrist and she tied it up into a ponytail. Brushing a few errant strands behind her ear, she smiled at him playfully.
“Don’t want you to miss the show, do I?”
She lifted her hands up and began massaging his thighs. Despite his busy schedule, Henry still managed to keep up a fairly regular exercise regime, so he was in pretty good shape. His legs were muscular and powerful. Hannah spent a minute or two stroking the tight material of his trousers, just revelling in the touch and feel of him. She loved his strength, his warmth, his sheer physical presence. She remembered what it felt like when she was a child and he would tower over her. He was like a mountain, a force of nature. He was so big, and she was so small.
She remembered sitting on his lap as a little girl, as he would read her stories. She could vividly recall the smell of him, the rough texture of his stubbly chin, his huge arms holding her tight. Her tiny frame enveloped by his. She felt so loved. So safe. After all, she had always been a daddy’s girl.
Now, that was true more than ever.
“What do we have here?” She said to herself, as she reached out and rested her hand on his crotch.
Her palm lay flat on top of his twitching, pulsing mound. She rubbed gently and he almost growled at her in response. The sensations he was feeling were maddening. Amazing. The friction against his cock, the pressing weight of her hand. She unbuckled his belt and undid the button of his trousers. Then she slowly pulled down the zipper of his fly. She reached in and pulled out his dick. It sprang out suddenly, like a joke shop snake, popping out of a can.
Both of them looked at it, as it swayed and bobbed between them. She looked beyond it, staring up at his face, and smiled. She reached out and wrapped her delicate fingers round his meaty pole. It felt a little clammy and sweaty to the touch, but she didn’t care. She began tugging on it, squeezing it, fondling it.
“Do you think President Roche’s daughter does this for him?” She said, as she masturbated him steadily.
“I…uh…I fucking doubt it.” Henry stammered in bahis şirketleri response.
“Or this?” She leaned forward and took a long lick of his shaft. Starting at the base, her tongue drew a line all the way up to the fine strand of skin that connected his foreskin to the head of his cock. He groaned, his head falling back on to the chair.
“Let’s take these off.” She said, as she grabbed at his trousers. He lifted his body up and she started pulling off his clothes. She took off his shoes and threw them across the floor. Then she did the same with his socks. After a few moments, he was completely naked from the waist down.
“Now, where were we?” Hannah said.
She resumed her tender ministrations, wrapping her lips round his balls. She sucked on one, then the other, rolling her tongue round the wrinkly skin of his hairless sack. Hannah knew that her father preferred it if her twat was completely waxed. She didn’t mind, she liked the feel of it herself, but she made no secret of the fact that she wanted him to do likewise.
“What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.” She had told him one night, as his fingers toyed with her then neatly trimmed ginger pubic hair.
“You’re joking?” He had said in an increasingly disbelieving tone.
“No, I’m absolutely serious. You want your little girl’s snatch to be baby smooth, you have to do likewise. It’s only fair.”
To his credit, he had gone along with the idea, and they had spent an evening waxing each other. He had screamed so loudly as she had ripped off those strips of hair, it was a surprise his protection team hadn’t burst into the room, fearful of a possible assassination attempt. After she’d finished, he bent her over a desk and spanked her arse until she was red raw. Then he had fucked her like a savage lunatic, his hairless, tender groin slapping against hers.
Now, she was licking at his balls. She did this for a minute or two, before turning her attention elsewhere. She’d sucked her daddy’s dick enough times now to know exactly what he liked. And since she was down there, why not go exploring? Her head dropped further down, her tongue moving below his balls, licking at his taint, then his anus. She burrowed in to this hot, humid hole, exploring with lusty abandon. He ran his fingers through her hair as she began eating out his arse.
“My good girl,” He moaned. “My good little girl.”
She kept this up for a while, all the time continuing to jerk him off. She put a couple of fingers in her mouth and licked them. Then she slid those digits up into his rectum. Henry gasped as she penetrated him. His cock twitched in her hand and he squirmed in his seat. She finger-fucked him for a while, licking his balls as she did so. When Henry had first started sleeping with his daughter, he had discovered, much to his surprise and delight, that she was a truly filthy little bitch, who loved playing with her father’s bum. He blamed internet pornography for making her so naughty.
After a while she quit with the anal stuff, lifted herself up a little and wrapped her lips round the head of his cock. Her tongue licked the ridge of his glans, before teasing his piss hole. Then she opened wide and swallowed his dick whole. Hannah had sucked her dad’s cock a lot in the last two or three years, and she had become an accomplished purveyor of the sloppy blowjob. She was showcasing her skills to full effect now. Her head bobbed up and down, as his prick glided in and out of her mouth. The muscles in her throat relaxed, to allow him all the way in. Every so often, she would pull back, gasping for air, his dick glistening, covered in her saliva and his pre-cum.
“You’ve got such a lovely cock, Daddy.” She told tim.
“And you’ve got such a lovely mouth.” He replied. “Now, why don’t you come up here?”
She smiled and stood up, quickly unbuttoning her top, before climbing out of her pyjama shorts. She stood in front of him, naked and glorious. One of the finest physical specimens you could possibly imagine. Long, shapely legs. A flat, washboard stomach, with a cute little stud in her bellybutton. Large, teardrop-shaped tits. She clambered on top of him, on top of her father, grabbing hold of his dick. She lined him up with her vaginal lips and then sank down on top of him. He grabbed hold of her breasts and began kissing and sucking on her nipples. Slowly, she began to ride him, his dick sawing through her tight, wet gash.
Henry knew he wasn’t going to last all that much longer. He wanted to cum, and he wanted to cum inside his little princess’ cunt. And very soon he would. Their illicit and illegal assignation continued, right in the heart of British government, as London slept.
Well, most of London.
Not so far away, a few miles to the west, was the borough of Shepherd’s Bush. Like a lot of places in the capital, it was a weird mixture of wealth and poverty. Ethnically and culturally diverse, there were Halal supermarkets right next door to chic wine bars. It had once been a pretty rundown sort of place, but gentrification was relentlessly working its magic – or its curse – depending on your point of view.
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