Hannah Armstrong's political career had progressed splendidly over the past 18 months. That was the length of time for which she'd been sleeping with the Prime Minister. Well, for the first few weeks of their relationship, after he'd appointed her as his Parliamentary assistant, she'd just sucked his dick on a regular basis. The first time they'd actually fucked had been on a trip to Gstaad in Switzerland for an international economic summit.
Hannah felt no guilt about her deceit of her husband, Gareth. She still very much loved him, and he knew nothing of her affair. She rationalised that in their long, languid, affectionate sessions in bed they made love to each other. What happened with the PM had nothing to do with love; she considered that she was simply helping Martin manage the pressures and frustrations of his post – almost, in fact, screwing him in the best interests of the country, she thought with a giggle. Though they frequently spent whole nights together, Martin's preference was for rough, dirty sex, pushing her fully dressed up against a chest of drawers, dragging her panties to her knees and fucking her from behind, that sort of thing. Hannah told herself she didn't like that sort of short, sharp, aggressive approach; but in truth she got a fierce secretive thrill from it, shagging the most powerful man in the country with his secretary or his police bodyguards just the other side of the door. He liked to take her up the arse too, something she tolerated rather reluctantly – fortunately, although his prick was long it was quite slim. She revelled in the sense of power she felt when she forced him to beg her to let him cum as she teased his shaft and balls with her fingers, lips and tongue. Despite that, he had refused ever to go down on her. When she had asked him he dismissed the idea with a weak laugh and the words, "I have to suck up to enough cunts on a weekly basis as it is."
Hannah was widely regarded as one of the rising stars of the House of Commons. With her intelligence and ability – not to mention her striking good looks and curvy figure – she certainly didn't need to be humping the PM to ensure career success, it had just, well, speeded up the process. She'd spent only eight months as his Parliamentary Private Secretary before being given her first ministerial post, a junior one in the Department of Health. She'd made a success of that and now, after barely three years as an MP, at the tender age of 34, she was being tipped for a seat in the Cabinet in the re-shuffle that was to follow the annual Party conference.
That was where she was now – lying in bed in her suite at the five-star Marlborough Hotel in Leeds, gazing through the window at the full moon, recalling for the umpteenth time the warm applause the nearly 2,000 delegates, Party Workers and Parliamentarians had given for her speech earlier in the day. Even the media had said she'd done well. After such a triumphant day she would have liked nothing more than to end it with a lovely fuck, but there was no chance of that. Gareth was away at a sales conference somewhere overseas; and with the huge glare of media attention on the Prime Minister during the conference there was no possibility of even a quickie with Martin. Besides, his frigid wife was constantly on his arm.
Martin's wife – Saint Jenny, as Hannah tended to rather bitchily think of her – was considered to be a major asset for him, a consultant biologist much beloved of women's magazines, political seminars and shows like Woman's Hour and Question Time. She was Swiss by birth and had met Martin when they were both at Oxford. Apart from being the same height, five-nine, had virtually nothing in common with her husband's mistress. Hannah was considered beautiful, with a naturally rosy complexion, honey-blonde hair, full breasts, wide hips and lovely legs. Jenny wore her black hair short, making no effort to hide the grey hairs which had started to appear, and was pale and slim, with little sign of a bust. With her dark eyes and pointed nose she lacked Hannah's prettiness, and never showed off her legs, always wearing calf-length skirts or, more usually, trousers. Terrifyingly intelligent, in private she had a reserved, slightly icy personality; the first time Hannah had been introduced to her, Jenny had managed a cold smile which didn't reach her eyes, and had looked at the younger woman as if she were a mildly interesting sample of bacteria under a lab microscope. Martin had told Hannah that he and his wife hadn't had sex in years, and not regularly since the birth of their younger son, now in his mid-teens. Poor sod, with the pressures he faced in his job, and with that iceberg waiting at home for him, screwing Hannah was probably helping him retain his sanity!
Just as she was about to fall asleep, Hannah heard the door of her suite rattle. Sitting up and switching on the light, she saw that a piece of paper had been pushed under the door. Intrigued, she padded across the deep pile of the carpet and sat on the end of the bed, opening the envelope she had picked up. It was printed with the hotel's crest, and inside was another piece of hotel stationery, bearing a message written in fountain pen:
Room 406, 6.30pm tomorrow,
M xx'
She knew who was in room 406. Everyone in the hotel knew. It was the Prime Minister's suite. Hannah stared at the door in disbelief. Surely Martin hadn't risked bringing this not himself? If not, had he revealed their secret to someone? Of course not, she decided, it was hardly unreasonable for the PM to want a private meeting with one of his ministers, especially one he was expected to promote in the near future. She returned to her bed thoughtfully. Martin had obviously managed to get rid of the Ice Queen for a while – probably off to patronise some conference fringe meeting – but even so, shagging at conference, surrounded by hundreds of colleagues, delegates, journalists, would be awfully reckless. Hannah felt her pussy twitch with excitement at the outrageous naughtiness of the prospect, and as she closed her eyes, smiling like the Cheshire Cat, her hand slipped under the covers, her finger settling on her slick, inflamed clit...
The next day Hannah was seated in the second row of the audience. She tried to catch Martin's eye a few times but although he beamed down from the platform at his ministerial team several times he avoided focussing on her, clearly playing it safe. Her heart thumped as she eagerly awaited their evening liaison. Finally, back in her room, she began to prepare herself. After a relaxing bubble bath she chose her outfit with care. She needed to look professional, as she would for a business meeting with the PM, but at the same time she wanted stuff that undid easily, to avoid fumbling and time-wasting. She settled on a blue business suit, the skirt secured by just a zip and a single button. Beneath it she wore a white blouse with only three buttons, and beneath that a lacy half-cup bra which fastened at the front. After thinking for several seconds about her panties, Hannah giggled naughtily to herself and decided she didn't need any at all. Then, enjoying the feel of the cool air on her uncovered pussy, she strolled along the corridor and down two flights of stairs to the fourth floor.
At suite 406 Hannah nodded to the duty bodyguard, who she knew by sight, knocked and slipped inside the room without awaiting an answer. The room was subtly lit and at first glance appeared empty. Then, hearing a slight rattle behind her, she turned back towards the door, her sexiest smile on her face. Hannah's expression slipped, though, to one of shock and confusion as she saw it was not her lover Martin slipping the security chain across the door but his wife, Jenny. She was dressed in a black sweatshirt, jogging pants and Scholl sandals. Smiling at the look on her visitor's face, she said, in a soft, almost accentless voice, "Thank you for coming Ms Armstrong. Please, have a seat."
Hannah's first thought was to tear the door open and leave; but it was locked, Jenny was blocking it, and she didn't want to compromise her dignity in the face of her rival. So, her pulse racing, feeling slightly dazed, she walked towards the plush armchair the other woman had indicated, sensing Jenny's eyes burning into her back. Her stomach felt leaden; clearly there was only one thing this could be about.
As she sat a thought occurred to Hannah. Unable to stop herself, she mumbled, "But the note, it was in Martin's handwriting."
