The Sadist Stateman

He tried to be sweet and kind man, but at his core, he was a nervous and bumbling boy. The woman, whom he knew from the mail room, was gentle, but clearly unimpressed. He was virginal in every sense of the world, and he carried his fear in his fingers and his lips - they trembled, lacking certainty and direction. His cock stayed hard - he was young - but he threw it around her like a batter in little league. After what felt like seconds he was silent and still, his gaze falling downtown over his torso. She kissed his cheek, and got up to clean herself off.
Never had he felt so powerless and so impotent. His body looked soft and doughty now, sticky with shame, heavy with remorse. From that day he resolved to never feel so powerless again.
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She twisted around under his paw, covering her throat under his soft and unworked skin. Moans of elation bubbled up through her lips, her eyes widening with each trickle of air he let into her heaving bare chest. His motions were slow, rhythmic, and methodical - he was a tantric sexual tactician, and he read all the signs. It became almost a clinic assessment - how hot is her groin, how red are her lips, what are her pupils doing, what actions make what sounds, and how loud was she?
It was in this power dynamic that Harper thrived - devoted and serving his lover, but through a mindful and careful system of controls. Yes, he was the one pulling the leash and cracking the whip, cutting off the air and tightening the ropes, but he did it in servitude. The pleasure for him was in giving, and giving people what they so often are too scared to ask for. It was in giving them the things they did not know they wanted, or were too scared to say out loud, that he could truly lead. He brought out a side of people, a visceral and primal side, that most refused to unleash.
This time was no different. As she twisted under his body he felt her climax approaching, her body rocking almost violently, her gasps becoming greedy, and her body hot. Her hands dug at his broad back as she peaked, her nails slicing into his flesh. He came with the sound of her crys filling his ears, it was a sympahony, and it was written by him and performed by a more than willing orchestra. He cleaned the mess off her thigh gently, and kissed her cheek. There they lay, and he held her through the shame and confusion. She was new to this, a stranger to him, and beyond words. She closed her eyes and slowed her breathing as she rested on his chest. Her young eyes looked up at him, and she cooed, "Do you need any more?"
He just smiled and laid her head back on his chest. They looked over the cold glacier lake out the chalet window until they fell asleep in the afternoon sun.
As they drifted he smelled her hair and whispered, "If you're happy, I'm happy."

Bedfellows

“You can’t please everyone.”
Her words cut into the night like embers biting into flesh. The sting lingered after they had parted ways, a reminder of the carelessness he had exhibited. Trusting her clearly wasn’t worth it – how could anyone think it was time to change course so close to success.
It was the last days of the elections in Calgary, 2010, and the young Nenshi was about to make history. While America was freaking out over mosques in New York City, the most booming city in Canada was making history, and electing a Muslim. The banality of it seemed amusing, the attention given to something so trivial with so much at stake.
But, distractions made for good business, and from here on out, it was all about business.
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The two sets of lips danced over his rigid cock as he stretched back over his bed, lounging over the soft down sheets. His toothy grin lit up the mirrors on the ceiling as he watched the multi-colored tangle of arms and legs writhe over him. One woman lead his riding in donations, raking in more money from the housing development folk than he had been able to on his own for a decade in municipal politics. The other a lawyer from Toronto, and she ensured that things worked well with Ottawa and the Trudeau camp, that no lines were crossed too quickly.
The three made strange bedfellows, but, such was the machine that drove Nenshi from obscurity, to being a mayor, to being at the right hand of the Prime Minister. It was in keeping such strange company happy that again and again, his station in life climbed higher.
As one woman kissed down his legs and onto his feet, the other took him deep in her throat. As climax neared his blackberry lit up. Looking down he grunted, “Don’t stop.”
He pressed an extended index finger to his lips and hissed a gentle ‘shh’ to his companions. Like most conversations with Trudeau it was brief, and more listening than talking. By the end, while cumming deep into the young woman’s throat, he bellowed at Trudeau, “Just you watch. I’ll keep them all happy.” He dropped the phone into the tangle of their clothing at the side of the bed, and rose to tower above them. Licking his lips he lead the women to the edge of the bed, their legs hanging over the side, and placed a pillow under each of their heads.
“Who’s first?”

In Too Deep

She bit her lip and held back her pain for just a moment longer. The young man splayed over her was all smiles and glee, with a light odor or white wine, in spite of her discomfort. They had spent weeks courting each other, and finally the stars had aligned for them - a few dances, long talks over the question of sovereignty, wine, and a stack of papers left to be corrected gave them all the time and chance they could need. Sadly, for Tom, it was like any other time. The jokes were different, the smiles and thoughts they shared were unique, but the problems were consistent as ever. "Please, Tom, I'm sorry... but stop." She showered him with kisses and attention, but it didn't matter. In that moment, Tom was alone again. The intimacy, the secrecy, was moot. He fumbled with her still wet cunt until she was baying with glee, almost deafening. But a seasoned ear could tell that they were insincere, though sweet, and pained to keep her lovers sense of worth. Nothing could chase it away faster than a pity fuck. ===================================================================== To understand where a person comes from, you must first understand how a person cums. It is an immutable part of our personality, and strikes to the very core of our being. Whole lives have been built, and destroyed, in the pursuit of an orgasm. Tom Mulcair was no different, and for him, it was a search for the unobtainable. The core of Tom's being was based off of trying for the impossible. The sheer improbability mattered not - there were some things that simply had to be done, because it was right. The dream for Tom had been too big, and the NDP in the last election was whittled down to not more than a handful of Quebecois activists, and progressives in BC. The media had crooned upon him for months - the same piteous crys he had heard so many times before. He wasn't wrong, it just wasn't the right time. He had lots to offer to the conversation, but, it just didn't feel right to have him leading it. Tom and the NDP went too deep, too soon. It wasn't that he wasn't loved, but it was too much for the nation to handle. But Tom knew what to do - push more, listen closely, and don't give up until they scream your name.