1. Body Politic - 7


    Date: 5/15/2018, Categories: Lesbian, Author: monica3, Source: LushStories

    Part 7 Unlike the American President, British Prime Ministers do not have their own aircraft. That is a bit of a pain for her security but somehow it all seems to work. The black Jaguar led a small convoy as it swept across the tarmac at London’s Heathrow Airport and stopped at the bottom of a flight of steps leading up to a British Airways 747. Sylvia Tenant and her entourage, including me, got out of the cars (I was in the third of four) and went up the steps, she into first class with Tony Riley (my boss) the rest of us into business. The doors closed as soon as we were all aboard, the seat belt light was lit and we belted in and settled back for the flight to Washington. It wasn’t a state visit but it was important. Three days of meetings loomed in front of us. I had worn a long, dark blue skirt, white linen blouse and a cream jacket for the journey. I’d packed an evening dress for the formal dinner with the President on the second evening and enough decent clobber to ensure I didn’t let the side down when we got there. A member of the cabin crew, tall, slim and with legs to die for offered me a glass of champagne which I took gratefully. She smiled at me as she placed it on my table and, was it my imagination, her hip rubbed against my shoulder as she leant over to place orange juice on my neighbour’s table. Wishful thinking. My girlfriend, lover, whatever, Libby Manning was not part of the group. She’d had to stay home and manage her Ministry getting a complex piece ... of law through the Commons. The night before she’d taken me out to dinner at one of London’s finest restaurants then taken me home and fucked me, hard; one of her ‘remember whose boss’ fucks that left my arse red from the hand slaps she’d given me as she entered me from behind. “Libby’s bitch needs to remember her.” How was I likely to forget? I squirmed in my seat as I remembered. My neighbour was a particularly colourless civil servant who did something amazingly tedious in the Foreign Office. I used my laptop most of the way, writing a speech for the boss to deliver at the formal dinner. I was trying to avoid the ‘We’re your best friends, special relationship, common ancestry’ bollocks that PMs usually spout on such occasions. The same hostess served the meal and either I was imagining things or her tit really did brush my cheek. I got out of my seat and went to look for the toilet. There she was, standing in the galley beside the toilet. She smiled. “Did you enjoy your meal?” “I really did, thank you.” “You’re welcome. Is there anything I can get you, Miss Lovett?” At my request she poured me another glass of champagne and I stood talking to her as I drank it. She told me that the crew usually stayed at an hotel near the airport and asked where I was staying. We’re not allowed to say so I said I had no idea. “Well, if you can find the bar at the Constellation tonight or tomorrow night I’d love to buy you a drink.” Her right eyebrow lifted as she said this. “I don’t think ...
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