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.

Blue Balls

The bruises would fall away in days, but the sting of "Faggott" would ring for weeks. The boy that lay quivering in a mass under the young man's fists was silent, in spite of the incessant cat calls of his tormentors. He could only look up at John sadly, crying for help in silence, through a battered and bloody face.
It wasn't the first time he had a beat someone up to keep things covered up, and like every time, he had hoped it would be the last. There were simply rules in his community that couldn't be broken; rules from the Bible, rules from the father, rules from the older brother, and rules from the bigger kids at school. Honesty would come at the expense of the trust of all these people - it would ruin the hard work of his teachers, coaches, parents, and self. Anything - anything - was better than being honest.
It was 7th grade, and John had some big choices to make.
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Outside the walls the world was as cruel as it had ever been. As leader of the Conservative Party of Canada, Mr. Baird was surrounded by the most powerful thinkers and organizers for the right in the country. Though many did call him friend, sincerely, many more simply bit their tongue and did the job. They hated him because he fucked men, and worse, he loved men. On occasion he would do it in public (the loving part), their ire kept only just barely below the surface out of a respect for their political movement. But, when the crowd was small enough, or the space safe enough, there was more than enough time for hate and scorn, of openly dreaming of another leader, or laughing at his weakness.
But here in this fleeting moment, they were safe from all that.
It had taken decades to be able to find that peace for anything longer than an instant - however it was a risk, with a cost often paid in blood, that simply had to be taken.
Laying there in his lovers arms their breath and heart beats came into sync, their chests raising lower with every breath, their sweat cooling. The arms were strong but held gently, never too much on the bad shoulder, and with a hand softly encasing his own. There wasn't time or space for talking here, the silence was filled with enough trepidation already, the sheets still humming with energy and passion, the walls and tightly drawn curtains whispering all the assurances a person could need.
Here minutes melted into hours, and would surely have melted into days had the world been different. But the world is what it is, and in the face of a cruel world, we all find love in our own ways. John found it in the arms of a boy he had once beat. Now they lay entangled, their cocks swelling with the anticipation of the touch from their partner.
Between the silence they made love, again and again, burying their faces into one another’s broad chests and drinking deep of their scent. As John rolled over he bit his lip in anticipation, drunk on the promise of their intimacy. He swam in that sea of bliss as his lover filled him, pushing through each breath, reading each sign and whimper as a captain reads the waves. This quiet dance, gentle and powerful like the sea, would wash over them until the day broke.
And then, once again, the world became cold.

Morning Redwood

A bolt of ecstasy shot through her as climax gripped them both. The sweet smell of sex hung heavy in the air; a tangle of sweat, cologne, perfume, and wine. Their hair was matted and thick with product; their stylists had spent an hour and a half of each of them, and now their work lay in ruin, plowed like fields of rape seed by strong fingers. It had to be ruined though – the perfect hair – because that was the icon of power that so many had come to see. The man was a name as much as anything else, but it was his hair that became a symbol of his movement; chaotic enough to be natural, perfect enough to be an elite, and desired by millions. She had made it unpresentable. She had made *him* unpresentable, unfit for the public. In a small way she owned him, for now. And it isn’t very often you get to own the Prime Minister. ================================================================================== Starting the morning off with a run made sense – a strong body and mind are essential for this business, and a bit of good press doesn’t hurt either. So, every morning, Canada has a firsthand look at their Prime Minister, running, honing the machine that is his body. It became a dirty little fetish for the media; the obsession ranged from passive to destructive. Everyone would make reference to him – his youth, his strength, his hair, his bright eyes, his smile. It was hard to ignore the sheer sense of command he evoked from people by simply looking at them. It was beyond sexual. There was a physical and mental thrall that pulled people in - that gave him the benefit of the doubt where he may not deserve it otherwise. Women either got wet thinking about him, or remembered getting wet thinking about his father. Men wanted him too, and those that didn’t want him, wanted what he could do to women. Some were content enough to let him be spark of their sex life – why compete with this sex icon when you could simply benefit from a pre-warmed pussy? So why not run for them every morning? Why not start the country off every morning with a bit of rise, a break from the long cold winters, with a warm glow between your legs? Such was Canada under Justin Trudeau. The cold cousin to the north had become cool overnight – and that cool was hot. The red weed leaf embossed over a Canadian flag soon replaced the popular sugar maple across the world – much to the joy of the provinces who saw their budget deficits drop, and their streets become safer. It seemed like everyone was just a little bit more at easy. It was *fun* and *cool* to be Canadian, and frankly, Canadian’s weren’t used to that. They weren’t used to getting to be themselves, to not quite conforming, and not conforming comfortably. It was a nation where everyone became teenagers, full of fuel to fuck in ways they had never dared. The legalization of prostitution a few years before his election helped fuel this wave – it wasn’t unusual to see whips being sold in store windows, and people could quite safely talk about their deepest, darkest needs. Repression was just so Harper. Trudeau became the collective wet dream of a nation. For a few lucky citizens, that dream would become reality.