Stephen Johnson slumped back in his chair, closing his eyes as his head pounded, a steady, rhythmic pain spreading through his forehead. He had spent all day in meetings, first with the US President, then Prime Minister's Questions in the Commons, followed by a call with the Foreign Secretary. He opened a drawer in his polished oak desk and pulled out some painkillers, swigging them down with the remnants of his tea, long since cold as it sat beside his PC. He picked up his phone.
"Rosie, am I done for the day?" he asked wearily.
His pretty, young, blonde assistant responded in her thick Yorkshire accent. "I'm afraid not Sir, Terrence is here to see you."
"Fuck," Stephen murmured under his breath. "Have you made him a drink?"
"No Sir," Rosie responded.
"Well make him a brew and give me two minutes before you let him in, ok?"
"Yes Sir! Straight away!" Rosie responded enthusiastically before ending the call.
When he had been elected Prime Minister, many had told him that he should get rid of Rosie, that her northern accent wasn't "fitting" for her role, that it would make him look bad. Stephen had ignored this advice repeatedly, Rosie had been with him during his days as a local MP, during his first campaign even, and he was a man who rewarded loyalty. He had also thought it could affect his "man of the people" public image, but that wasn't the main reason. At least, that's what he told himself.
He heard a knock at his door. Terrence was here. Time to put on his poker face.
"Come in!" Stephen shouted cheerily.
The door swung open and there he was, Terrence Goldsmith, as always, dressed impeccably from head to toe. His tailored suit probably cost a month of the average working man's salary, if not more. He was carrying his signature dark blue leather suitcase, something of a gimmick within the political world, but it had certainly helped him stand out from the pack when it came to public opinion. He made Stephen sick, but he could never let him know. If Terrence realized that he was bothered by him, that he was under his skin, it would be a major display of weakness, one that he couldn't afford. Terrence took a seat, lounging in the chair like a smug cat that had got the cream.
"So what brings the leader of the opposition to my humble abode?" Stephen asked, smiling disingenuously.
Terrence smiled back, a smile no more genuine than the one he had been given. "Business I'm afraid, old chum," he replied, "So you can keep the bottle of scotch in your drawer." He laughed warmly.
Stephen joined him in laughter, while hatred seethed behind his eyes. "So did you come to gloat about the latest opinion polls, or to grill me with more hardball topics like at PMQ's this morning?"
"Neither actually," Terrence responded, "although it's good to finally see that the Great British public is recognising us as the party to back!" He leaned forwards, a smug smile on his face. "If only the election was sooner, eh?"
"Yes, if only," Stephen responded, taking another swig of his cold tea, draining the cup, hoping it might help with his pounding head.
"Anyway, enough pleasantries, let's get down to business!" Terrence said cheerily, putting his briefcase on the desk and popping the clasps open. He reached in and pulled out a nondescript brown folder, sliding it across the table to Stephen.
Stephen reached inside, pulling out the contents of the folder. As they came into view, he realized they were a collection of printed photographs, with a paperclip in the corner holding them together. There must have been easily fifty to a hundred of them and as he looked at the first image, his heart sank. It was him and Rosie, outside a cheap, dingy London hotel, tucked away in the backstreets, away from prying eyes. Anyone looking at this image would know this wasn't for work purposes, as he had his arms around her skinny waist, their bodies locked in a tight embrace as they kissed.
The shock was obvious on his face as Terrence snickered to himself, snapping Stephen out of his trance-like state. "Keep looking," he said, "They get even juicier the further in you go," he smiled smugly, "much like dear Rosie herself I guess?" He laughed heartily at his own joke as disgust was written all over Stephen's face.
He flicked through the pictures. Both of them naked on a grotty bed, Stephen pawing at Rosie's breasts. Rosie on her knees, sucking the Prime Minister's member. The two of them intertwined in carnal lust as he stretched her out. Stephen couldn't bear to keep looking. It felt like he was going to be sick. He shoved the photos back into the folder, burying his face in his hands, still able to feel the stare of his rival, imagining the smug look on his face.
"What do you want?" Stephen said in a defeated, broken voice.
"Have you ever heard of cuckolding?" Terrence responded, a steely resilience evident in his voice.
Stephens dropped his hands onto his desk, a look of absolute disbelief on his face.
"Pardon?"
"Cuckolding, my dear Stephen." Terrence smiled, folding his arms. "The act of a man allowing another person to have sex with his wife, in this instance, while he watches."
Stephen took a few seconds to process what he had heard. His fists balled up, knuckles turning white as anger seethed through him. "What the fuck are you talking about, you pompous prick?"
Terrence only laughed in response, enjoying seeing his long-time political enemy so worked up. Stephen rose from his chair as pure rage surged through his body.
"You could use these pictures to ruin my political career, my marriage, weaken my party and most likely open the door to an election victory, AND YOU'RE HERE TALKING ABOUT FUCKING CUCKOLDING?"
