The Politicians Wife 2

The gravel crunches under my high heels and the sound of girls' laughter drifts down from the bedroom window as I walk up the drive. At least someone had fun tonight, I think. The night is hot and airless and I can feel the sweat beginning to bead on the small of my back under my ballgown. Surely the storm must break soon. I raise one gloved hand to mop my brow, flicking a stray lock of my long auburn hair out of my eyes and brushing a bead of sweat out of my neatly plucked eyebrows.

My head feels woozy with the champagne. I'm not meant to drink much of the stuff, just raise a toast for the photographers then discretely dispose of it but there are only so many of these charity dinners I can take. I care about their causes but I grew up dreaming I'd be manning the barricades, not listening patiently to blue-rinse old dears who want Ray ask the Prime Minister about funding their local donkey sanctuary.

It's not so bad when Ray's there with me, I think as I near the house, I've a co-conspirator then: I know he finds it as ridiculous as me, subtly raising one eyebrow whenever some local busybody's wheeled on to announce how many stray dogs they've rounded up or tons of newspaper they've recycled in Sutton or Esher or Surbiton this quarter. That's Ray though; the consummate politician; smiling politely, pressing the flesh, looking concerned when concern is required; indulging the pet concerns of the hoi polloi without ever betraying his disinterest.

That's how our lives are now: squeaky clean in public, keeping all the excitement behind closed doors. And when those doors are closed, we have plenty of fun. I feel sorry for some of the party wives, painting on their smiles for the press and then taking solace in plastic toys while their husbands are working late with the young intern again.

Mind you, without being catty, I can see why some of Ray's colleagues take their kicks away from home: their wives, mousy little broodmares selected to sire their offspring, run the office and stay out of trouble. Not me and Ray though: Jessica Rabbit, my friends call me for my big breasts, voluptuous bum and long auburn hair.

The party top brass tried to warn him off me: my bohemian background, my unexplained years abroad and the curvy 5'11" body that the tabloids never fail to mention whenever we're snapped out together. I've always been very discreet though and they've never been able to pin anything from my wild past on me. If only they knew what Ray and I get up to!

I sigh as I realise it will a week before I can feel his hands on me again. The summer recess is normally a good time for us but Ray was invited to join a select committee working in Brussels: great for his career, less so for our sex lives. Phone sex doesn't really do it for me and I know Ray's paranoid about phone tapping. I imagine his cock inside me and I'm shocked to realise my hand's between my legs and I'm rubbing myself through the ballgown, moisture and sweat starting to soak through onto the white gloves.

My god, how much champagne did I drink? I raise my fingers clad in the white silk of the gloves to my nose. The smell of my juices turns me on even more and I find I'm licking and sucking on my fingers. What's come over me? I know it's been a few days but I haven't felt this horny since I was a teenager. It must be the heat, that and the champagne.

I have to be more careful: there are a lot of bitter, sexually frustrated little men in Fleet Street and in Westminster just waiting for a chance to nail me if I slip up and let my guard down. I sigh and resign myself to another night with the dildo, biting my finger so I won't risk crying out and letting my daughter's friends know what I'm up to.

Walking past the grand entrance, round to the side door of the house, I fumble in my handbag for the keys. Shit, not there. I'm just about to call out to Emma to throw the spare keys down to me when I hear the back door open.

"Sweetie, it's just me; forgot my keys, just another boring charity do...my god, they do go on..." I'm silenced mid-sentence as I round the back of the house: it's not Emma, my daughter but another girl I don't recognise: petite, can't be more than 5'6", blonde hair cut into jagged bangs framing an almost elfin face, light tan which could be fake but is more likely the result of a gap year spent partying somewhere exotic. She flicks one of the bangs out of her face then runs her hand down her cut off Ramones T-shirt to her little denim hot pants and looks at me with these piercing blue eyes.

"Oh...oh...hello...I'm Jessica...Emma's mother..." I'm babbling, "you mustn't listen to me, I'm only joking when I say it was boring...it's a little joke Emma and I have...I'm really into my charity work". The girl's startled expression turns into a smile and then a giggle.

"Belle. I'm Belle, Emma's friend...I've heard about you...you're not like I expected you to be!" She has the disarming candour of youth and I feel completely dumbstruck, sure my face must be bright red. It's only then that I see the joint in her other hand. What must I look like? Babbling excuses like a naughty girl caught by the headmistress when I should be scolding her for smoking pot in my garden.

I've always enjoyed the power I've had over my daughter's friends: I'm fun and sexy, so they want to be my friend but I always play slightly aloof so that they never forget I'm the glamorous politician's wife: the one their boyfriends secretly lust over, call a MILF, pretending to their friends that they could ever handle a woman like me.

I know the girls notice my body too and I must confess, when I'm bored and Emma's not looking, I play with them a bit, using my height and build to my advantage, leaning my cleavage a bit too close to their blushing faces, placing a hand on a buttock or hip just a fraction of a second too long; fuelling the feelings they probably don't even realise they have for me.

Well, tonight the tables are turned: I'm standing here, tongue-tied and blushing like I'm trying to get in with the cool girl at school. I'm sure she can see I'm drunk and I really need to pee. My mouth is dry and my head pounds in the sticky heat. I want to run away to my room where I can comfort myself with my dildo, away from this girl and her unnerving, penetrating stare.

"Listen" says Belle "I'm going to smoke this. You wanna come?" I feel like all my powers are draining away. Did this teenage girl just invite me to smoke pot with her in my own garden? "You don't have to smoke if you don't want...we can just chat...I want to talk to you." My head throbs in the heat at her gauche mix of nerve and naiveté. Was I like this when I was her age? Am I turning into one of those sad old women who corner me at parties to complain about Young Girls Today?

I try to recover some of my poise, pulling myself up to my full height, considerable in my heels and speaking in my best modern but concerned mum voice with just a hint of sexy dorm mistress.

"Belle..." I say but she cuts me off.

"Come on, I know you're bored: you said so...I don't blame you..." and there's just a hint of menace in her voice as though to say that if I don't do as she pleases, others may know that behind my squeaky clean public façade, I am less than perfect. "Your secret's safe with me!" she says in an exaggerated comedy whisper then turns and walks away from me, across the lawn, her pert little bum wiggling at me as she places one grey suede ankle boot in front of another.

Dumbly, meekly, I find myself following her. What am I going to do? Snatch her joint out of her hand and throw it on the ground? Threaten to tell her parents? I'm not even sure who her parents are. Try my dom routine again? I don't think it's going to work on this girl.

I'm rushing slightly to catch Belle now, the sweat soaking through the ballgown under my breasts and in the small of my back and I realise how ridiculous I must look: a busty woman in an evening dress tottering after a sylph of a girl, my high heels sinking into the lawn.

Belle reaches the wall halfway down our garden where the lawn steps up a level. She stops and perches herself on top, her slender legs dangling her suede boots as she pulls out an expensive looking lighter and lights her joint, the end glowing bright orange as she takes a pull. Whatever she's smoking smells strong and I'm glad she doesn't offer me any.

"So, Belle, tell me; do you have a boyfriend?" It's meant to break the ice but it sounds just like the sort of thing starchy mums say to be down with their daughters' friends. Belle shakes her head in reply and takes another pull on the joint.

Just to break the awkward silence, I find myself talking about me and Ray; meeting as young activists at university, how his drive and ambition turned me on, how passionate we were about our politics when we were young, how hard I found it when Ray was elected as an MP and I was expected to play the good wife: charity work, charity balls, charity case!

I'm more frustrated than I realised and Ray's absence has brought it all to a head: I don't mind keeping up appearances in public if there's regular fucking in private. A summer of charity functions and vibrators wasn't what I had in mind. I realise I'm giving away far more than I meant to, opening up to Belle who's sitting with her legs up on the wall, a faint smile playing across her face as she listens politely.

"Sounds like you need to relax!" she says and passes me the joint. I freeze, my heart thumping in my chest: what do I do? I need to tell this girl No, that she must be out of her mind if she thinks I'm smoking her weed and that if I ever catch her again I'll be telling her parents.

I'm already in this too deep to play the authority figure though. Belle is smart enough to realise she could cause more trouble for me than I could for her. She smiles at me and offers the joint ever closer. I figure the best thing is to try and at least look like I'm in control -- maybe I can take a few tokes and just not inhale. Belle will probably tell a few friends, but they probably won't believe her:

just another schoolyard rumour doing the rounds for a couple of weeks till people get bored and something else comes along to replace it.

Gingerly, I take the joint. I was never a big fan of this stuff back in the day: I liked dancing and screwing -- still do -- and I used to get bored and fall asleep when the guys sat around smoking their joints and listening to their Sonic Youth albums.

That was before I met Ray, of course...I start thinking about the wild nights we spent together in those early days, the feel of his cock inside me, me on top, fingering myself. I realise that at the thought of it I'm getting wet again.

I take a pull on the joint, a disaster: straight away I'm spluttering, coughing out the smoke. Now I look utterly ridiculous. Belle stifles a giggle, putting her slender fingers across her pert little lips. I hate her; cocksure, cleverdick little kid, trying to make a fool of me for her own amusement. I want to lunge at her, knocking her off the wall, roll her over on the grass, wipe mud across her pretty pixie little face and spank her little bum until it's all pink and sore but I'm still coughing up lungsful of the smoke, red-faced and gasping for breath.

"Here", Belle says, once the coughing subsides. She slides closer to me so that one of her legs is across my lap, the other round the small of my back, trapping me, I note, in a pincer movement. She leans in, takes back the joint and takes a drag. Then she leans very close, her free hand behind my head now, turning me towards her, she puts her mouth over mine and slowly, steadily exhales the smoke into my mouth.

My heart is racing now, the feel of her hot little lips on my mouth as her firm little body presses close to mine. The weed gives me a headrush and my mind floats like a balloon borne aloft in hot, warm fog. The heat of the smoke, the heat of the coming storm and the heat of Belle's face on mine as she breathes into me all blurs into one.

I don't know how long we've had our lips locked together but when I come to, I realise, Belle's tongue is in my mouth and I'm sucking on it as she caresses one of my breasts through the ballgown. I pull away with what feels like half her lip-gloss on my face, shocked, pushing her hand away and I clumsily heave myself off the wall and make for the house.

In my awkwardness around Belle, I've forgotten how much I needed to pee and now it's worse than ever. In my hurry, somehow I misstep and my ankle twists under me, snapping the heal of my shoe, I fall clumsily, crying out in pain and Belle collapses into a fit of giggles. The pain of my twisted ankle and the shock and embarrassment of my fall are too much and I feel the warm, wet pee soaking my knickers and running over my thighs, soaking through the ballgown into the lawn below. My cheeks are blazing with embarrassment. I try to struggle to my feet but the pain is sickening, a dull, warm ache and I'm scared I'm going to throw up.

"Please" I say through the tears of embarrassment "Please Belle, would you help me to the house". Belle manages to suppress her fit of giggles for long enough to walk over and heave me to my feet, somewhat awkwardly as I'm bigger than her and right now I'm not much help. Slowly and painfully, Belle's arm around my waist and leaning on my one good foot, I hobble to the house, pee sticking my ballgown to my legs.

If I thought I looked ridiculous before, this takes the biscuit: elfin little girl in her cut-offs and pixie boots helping a hobbling woman in a pee-soaked ballgown. This thought makes me laugh somehow, despite my pain and humiliation. My laughter sets Belle off and by the time we reach the house we've both collapsed into a fit of the giggles.

"Ssh!" Belle places her finger on my lips: you'll wake the others. In my confusion, I'd forgotten about Emma and her other friends: My god, what if they'd heard or seen us. How long have we been in the garden and what would Emma think if she saw me now: drunk, stoned, covered in pee and being held up by one of her friends?

"Belle", I say, suddenly scared "you have to get me to my room without waking them up." Belle nods and another of her impish little smiles plays across her face but I'm too tired and uncomfortable to pay it much notice.

"Kick off your shoes" she whispers and I realise that in my haste to get inside, I'm still wearing the high heels, one broken. I kick them off and Belle opens the back door, practically heaving me across with the other arm, I think I'm going to fall onto the kitchen floor but somehow she keeps me upright, balancing on my one good leg while she shuts the door.

"It's the second door on..." I say but she heaves my arm across her shoulder and moves towards the stairs as though she knows where to go. I lean on her again and she helps me up the stairs to the bedroom, moving very slowly so as not to make a noise.

She's surprisingly strong for someone so small and slight and I wonder absent-mindedly whether she's on Emma's hockey team, an image of Belle drifts into my mind; knee length socks, little hockey skirt flapping about her trim, toned thighs, riding up showing her gym knickers, pert little breasts bouncing up and down, little elfin face flushed, sweaty, shouting commands to her team-mates...

With a start I realise I'm getting wet again, my juices mixing with the pee on my knickers but before I have a chance to think about this, we're at the door of the bedroom and Belle helps me over the threshold and into the ensuite bathroom.

I expect her to leave, but as I take my hand off her shoulder, she stands watching, wryly amused as I struggle with the now sticky ballgown. Lurching onto my twisted ankle, I wince; scared I'm going to throw up with the pain.

"Would you help me just another moment?" I ask Belle, "I have to undress". I expect her to support me while I undress myself, but instead she walks round behind me and unfastens the ballgown, letting it fall to the floor and before I can stop her, unhooks my bra, letting my big breasts fall out, bouncing slightly as they fall out of the bra.

"Thank you, Belle" I say quietly, my humiliation now complete, "I can handle it from here" but as I try to step away to the shower, one arm groping for some sort of handhold while I try to cover my breasts with the other, I trip and fall onto the shower floor.

"Here, hold on", Belle steps forward, helps me to my feet, my breasts laying against her arm as she reaches around me to lift. With both hands holding myself up on the shower rail, I stand taking the weight off my twisted ankle wondering how I'm going to get myself clean and to bed. Belle turns the shower on and the warm water washes over me, re-starting the headrush from the weed but thankfully, at last washing away the sweat from the gathering storm and some of the pee from my humiliating accident.

Before I quite realise what's happening, Belle is undressing: her Ramones T-shirt coming up over her head, her pert little breasts held up by a lacy, black bra, a neat little tattoo of a rose above her left breast. She unfastens her shorts, revealing a matching black thong and kicks her boots off, stepping into the shower. At least she kept her underwear on, I'm thinking.

She's very gentle, her slender little hands lathering the soap all over my body. Under different circumstances it might feel quite glamorous, having a young girl tend to me like an empress in my bathroom but as it is, hobbled and humiliated, I feel quite helpless.

Belle lathers the suds across my shoulders before reaching around to clean my front: she's pressed against me now and I can feel her pert breasts, through the bra, squashed up against my back and her little hips pressed against my buttocks. She washes my breasts, taking a long time, running her soapy fingers across my nipples which stand to attention at her tender caress. She lathers my stomach before reaching down and pulling my knickers from my curvy hips, letting them drop on the shower floor. With more lather she washes the inside of my thighs and my pussy, I gasp as she slips a finger inside me.

"Belle!" I say, shocked but I don't tell her to stop. Belle runs one soapy hand the length of my pussy, over my clitoris, over my labial lips and back through my legs and between my buttocks, just barely touching my asshole. By now I'm weak at the knees, I can feel my pussy aching and I wish she'd stop toying with me and go so I can get into bed and dildo myself.

Like she'd read my mind, Belle turns off the shower and taking my weight on her shoulders again, she leads me to bed, sitting me down on the edge of the mattress. But instead of leaving, she leans into me, catching me unawares, pushing me down onto the bed while slipping her little tongue into my mouth. I want to tell her no, that this is wrong, that she's too young, that she can't take advantage this way but instead when I push her away and open my mouth, all that comes out is 'Are you sure you want to do this?' Belle nods, looking strangely shy for once and I fall back onto the bed, surrendering to her.

Belle leans back in, kissing me deeply, biting my plump, red lips. My face is blazing again, but not with embarrassment this time. I kiss her back, smearing my lipstick and her lip-gloss across both our faces, sucking on her hot, wet little tongue, pulling her slim, toned little body on top of me. With trembling fingers, I unfasten her bra, revealing her pert little breasts which come to delightful points at her pink nipples.

Taking one of my breasts in her hands, Belle sucks and licks my nipple to erection. All I can think now is how much I want her to slip her finger inside me again, but instead, she slowly works my breasts, swapping her hot, wet little mouth from one nipple to the other, gently tugging on them with those delicate little fingers. I'm desperate to start fingering myself but I'm also enjoying the tease so I raise my hands above my head, grabbing the bars of the bedframe.