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?"
Terrence gave Stephen a withering look. "Calm down, old chap, you don't want Rosie to overhear do you?" He stroked his chin calmly. "And that language is hardly becoming of the leader of the country. Take a seat and we can discuss this like gentlemen."
Despite every fiber of his being telling Stephen to leap over the desk and throttle the posh arsehole before him with every ounce of strength in his body, logic took over. He slumped down into his chair. Terrence had him over a barrel, violence would only make things even worse for him and there may still be a way out.
"You were saying?" Stephen said weakly.
"No point beating around the bush old friend. your lovely, elegant, curvaceous wife Diane? I want to fuck her." He picked up the folder casually, placing it back in the briefcase before slamming it shut victoriously. "And...I want you to watch me do it."
Stephen's head swam as he reeled from what he had just heard. He had so many questions running around his head, but in the end, he could only muster up one, solitary word.
"Why?"
Terrence grinned. "It doesn't really matter, old friend. Maybe I get off on humiliating you. Maybe I hate that you managed to bag yourself such a wonderful woman when you're an absolute dullard. Maybe I'm just horny?" He chuckled. "Regardless, either you and Diane meet me at that same hotel you went to Rosie with at 10pm tonight, or those pictures get sent directly to every newspaper in the land." He rose from his chair. "You have a few hours to think about it, but as we both know, you don't really have any choice, do you?"
And with that grim ultimatum, he headed out of the door and was gone, leaving Stephen alone, in more ways than one. He held his head in his hands as his brain went at a million miles an hour. He thought about every possible option, every outcome, but it all came down to one, horrible truth. He would have to do exactly what Terrence wanted. He was going to have to watch him fuck his wife.
He looked over at the beautiful golden clock sitting on his desk, a gift from the Indian Ambassador to congratulate him on his election victory. 5:47. He didn't have long to make this happen. He shut down his computer, got out of his seat and headed out of the office. He dismissed Rosie and wished her a pleasant evening, barely even able to look at her as she gathered her things and headed home.
He paused at the bottom of the stairs, dreading what was to come. One of the many perks of being Prime Minister was that his commute home was literally a walk up the stairs. Oh how he now wished he had to catch a bus or a train home, at least to give him some time to think, but he didn't have that luxury. This situation, and his wife - his beautiful, intelligent, talented wife - must be faced.
As he walked into their shared living quarters, Diane was closing her laptop, seemingly finished for the day herself. She had numerous projects in the works, including an autobiography and being a local MP as well as a "special advisor" for a private hedge fund. She worked even harder than him at times, but she still looked immaculate. She was wearing an elegant red dress, perfect make-up and her short blonde locks did not have a hair out of place. Even when on video calls, she always made sure to look her best. She flashed her husband a warm, loving smile, although it was quickly replaced by a look of concern. He had known he wouldn't be able to hide his feelings from her, she knew him far too well for that.
"What's wrong, darling?" she crooned gently in her posh, almost regal sounding accent, patting the spot on the sofa next to her.
The two had met at university, an unlikely, whirlwind romance between two people from entirely different backgrounds. Their differences had seemingly only brought them closer together and they had been inseparable ever since, despite all the naysayers and doubters who had questioned them in the past. Stephen wouldn't even be Prime Minister if it wasn't for Diane, it was her ideas, drive, and motivation that had pushed him forwards and he had often wondered how he had gotten so lucky. He had to push this all from his mind, however, it was time to face this head-on.
He sat down heavily, letting out a deep sigh before speaking, Diane gently rubbing his back reassuringly. "Terrence came to see me...."
"Oh, what did he want?"
