by Jessica Ashe
Sorry, but I had to sign an NDA while I worked there, so I can’t really discuss the research they did.
I even hinted that the work they did was controversial and made me feel uncomfortable. That won’t fly now. I need to make something up, and quick.
“I really don’t…” I begin, before pretending to suddenly recall a fact from my memory. “Oh, I know. Shortly after I left, the experimental biotech division I worked in got sold. A former colleague told me about it, although she was light on the details for confidentiality reasons. They developed a drug worth a lot of money, so the department was spun off into a subsidiary and sold to one of the big California research companies. Maybe my employment records were transferred there. If you like, I can find out the name of the buyer.”
“Yes, please,” Terrell replies.
Dammit, you were supposed to say ‘that won’t be necessary.’
“Forget all that,” the Prime Minister says with a wave of the hand. “I can’t be bothered to wait around for the paperwork to be completed. Does she have a criminal record?”
“No,” Terrell replies. “But sir, I do think—”
“I can barely think at all because I’ve been awake for two hours and still haven’t had a cup of tea.”
“I made you a cup of tea an hour ago, sir.”
“That wasn’t tea, Terrell, it was muddy water. I need a secretary, and I need one now.”
“I do hope our enemies never find out the Prime Minister can’t function without six cups of tea a day. The Russians will form a blockade around India.”
Six? I suppose if that’s his biggest weakness, it’s not a huge problem. He doesn’t look like a typical tea drinker, though, other than the fact that he’s British. I can imagine him with a glass of whiskey in his hand, and looking at his body he probably knocks back quite a few protein shakes.
“If the Russians want a war, they’ve got one,” the Prime Minister says. “Nobody fucks with my supply of tea.”
“My distant relatives were at the Boston Tea Party,” I say. “Will that count against me?”
The Prime Minister laughs and stares at me, as if he’s forgotten his Chief of Staff is still in the room.
“I’ll leave you to it then, sir,” Terrell says.
“Yes.”
The Prime Minister’s eyes stay focused on me until Terrell has left the office. I try to maintain eye contact but it’s impossible to stare at him for long. I feel small and insignificant under his gaze, but the real problem is the very hot and wet desire between my legs whenever I look at him.
I’m not attracted to powerful men. Not specifically for their power, anyway. I’ve been hit on by plenty of old rich dudes and never seen the appeal. But this is a different kind of power. The Prime Minister exudes a physicality that I’ve never seen outside of a gym, but it’s not his physical strength that has me desperate to hitch up my skirt and spread my legs for him.
There’s a power in his words, or perhaps it’s the way he says them. If he told me to reveal my deepest, darkest secret, I probably would. If he told me to undress for him, I’d do it in a heartbeat. I’d be his slave, and I’d love every minute of it.
“Sorry about Terrell,” the Prime Minister says. “We’re both new at this job. He does raise an important point, though. Can you make a good cup of tea?”
“My mom had me making tea the minute I was old enough to reach the kettle.”
“Describe your process.”
The Prime Minister leans forward, resting his arms on the desk and staring at me intently.
“Tea bag goes in first, and then the hot water.”
“Then you add the milk?” he asks.
It’s a trick question. “No, I let the tea brew for about three minutes, and then use a spoon to rotate the bag a few times to get to the brew as strong as possible. Then I take out the bag and add milk. I like my tea strong, so I don’t add much.”
“Sugar?”
“God, no. I mean, no, sir.”
Plenty of people have doubted my ability to make a cup of tea, based solely on my accent and American upbringing. I showed them. I make a better cup of tea than most Brits.
“Very impressive,” the Prime Minister says slowly. “You have my mouth watering in anticipation.”
Parts of me are wet with anticipation as well.
Mom always told me the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach; I guess this is similar.
“The job is yours if you want it,” he says, relaxing back in his chair again.
“Wow, thank you,” I reply, with a modest amount of excitement. “I wasn’t expecting a decision so soon.”
“Some decisions are easier to make than others. I think you’re going to be a great fit here. Do you have any more questions for me?”
Plenty. How did you become leader of your party with so little experience? Are you really as good as you appear? Are the rumors about you dating an actress true?
“I’ve been told to stay clear of the Chief Mouser,” I say. “Is he really as bad as everyone says?”
The Prime Minister immediately looks serious. “Yes, he is. Between you and me, I can’t stand him. He’s always skulking about the place and popping up when you least expect it.”
“Can’t you get rid of him?”
“He’s a fixture around here. Besides, the media would tear me a new one if I did that. I do wish he’d stop crawling into bed with me at night.”
“He… what?”
“He thinks I’m lonely, so I often wake up with him next to me in bed. That’s not the kind of pussy I like to wake up next to, if you’ll excuse my French.”
I laugh to myself. “He’s a cat?”
The Prime Minister frowns. “What did you think he was? Oh, let me guess, you spoke to Lionel at security before coming here?”
“Yeah, he told me to watch out for the Chief Mouser.”
“He loves that old joke. Lovely guy, but his sense of humor could do with some work.”
“I can’t believe there’s a cat with the title Chief Mouser.”
“It’s a bit ridiculous, although probably not as ridiculous as a thirty-year-old man with no political experience with the title Prime Minister.”
We both smile and a moment’s silence passes. On television, the Prime Minister has a way of appearing down to earth and jovial, like he’s one of the people. Everyone—including those who like him—assume his positivity is just an act. It’s not; he’s the same way in person. He’s the guy other guys want to share a beer with, and he’s definitely the guy women want to go home with at the end of the night. And not just because his home is 10 Downing Street.
“So then,” the Prime Minister says. “I guess I should give you a tour.”
Chapter Four
Wade
Time to pretend I know what I’m talking about.
I charmed my way into the job of Prime Minister, so I’m sure I can give a tour of 10 Downing Street while pretending I know my shit.
There are plenty of members of staff who could give Janie a comprehensive tour and history education at the same time. However, I’m going to handle this one myself. If Janie’s going to be my secretary, we need to get to know each other. She’s going to see me at my worst, and I can’t have her being nervous around me.
I’m giving her the tour personally, because it’s the sensible thing to do. Not because I want to hang out with her for another hour and stare at her arse as she walks up the stairs.
“I can’t believe how big this building is,” Janie says, as I show her the kitchens at the back of the house. “It looks so small from the outside.”
“It used to be a lot smaller, but it was combined with the house out back at some point.”
I introduce Janie to all the kitchen staff, and manage to remember most people’s names, or conveniently let them introduce themselves to Janie first.
“The food here is incredible,” I say. “Staff eat for free now, so you don’t need to worry about bringing a
packed lunch.”
“I’m surprised there’s time for lunch. It doesn’t feel as busy as I thought it would.”
“I’m trying to slow things down a bit. Everyone is encouraged to go home at the end of the workday instead of staying late and burning the midnight oil. That’s not always possible, but I much prefer my employees to be well-rested.”
I might not get much sleep, but if the people advising me are well-rested then I can keep the fuck-ups to a minimum.
We head to the front of the building with the infamous staircase that is one of the most recognizable parts of the interior.
“After you,” I say to Janie, generously allowing her to walk in front of me so that I can stare at her arse without being caught. I’m a gentleman like that.
Janie walks slowly, examining the portraits of former prime ministers that adorn the walls. It’s a humbling experience. Right now, I’m arguably the most important man in the country, but one day, I’ll just be another picture on the wall.
“Where’s your picture?” Janie asks when she reaches the top of the stairs.
“It won’t go up until I leave office. I’ve no idea why—just tradition.”
“Who’s your favorite?”
I shrug. “I’m not much of a history buff. I’ve walked up and down the stairs more times than I can count in the last few months, but I still don’t know all their names. I guess I’ll just go with Winston Churchill. Speaking of which….”
I lead Janie into the Cabinet Room.
“This is where the action happens,” I say.
“Is this the Cabinet Room?”
I nod. “There is a meeting in here once a week with my Cabinet. I’m not allowed to run the country completely by myself. If I was, I might actually get something done. You’ll get to know the Cabinet ministers soon enough. They have to go through you to get to me, so they’ll all kiss your arse.”
Janie looks around the room in that speechless, mouth open and eyes wide way that most people do when they first come in here. It’s amazing how quickly it all becomes second nature when you have boring meetings in here once a week.
I pull out a chair in the middle of the table, and invite Janie to take a seat. She sits down and looks around curiously.
“You’re now sitting where Winston Churchill sat when the decision was made to go to war with Germany.”
“Holy crap. Oops. Sorry.”
“You can swear as much as you like. I used to be in the Army—you won’t be able to shock me.”
During the campaign, my staff kept insisting I keep the foul language out of my speeches, but I’ve been swearing for years, and it’s impossible to change a habit like that. The press soon got used to it and now no one gives it a second thought.
Janie places her hands on the table and sits there silently. I know what she’s doing. It’s the same thing everyone does when they sit in that chair. They imagine they’re Winston Churchill seventy years ago, making the decision to end appeasement and take the fight to the Nazis.
“The table is new,” I say. “But the room looks much the same as it did back then. Except for the phone speakers. You have to ignore them.”
“I can’t wait to tell my mom that I sat here,” Janie says, clearly still overawed by the occasion. “Am I allowed to tell her?”
“Sure. A lot of what you’ll do here is top secret, but not sitting in a chair. You want a photo to show your mum?”
“Really?”
“Pass me your phone.” Janie unlocks her phone and hands it over. Why didn’t I take a photo with my phone and then send it to her? That way I’d have a copy for myself. Her smile is illuminating, and she looks every bit special enough to sit in that seat.
God damn, she’s beautiful. The knee length skirt—which at first appeared a little frumpy—is actually made to measure and shows off curves that have me struggling to keep my penis pointing down. Since becoming Prime Minister, I’ve made it clear that the staff can dress as casually as they like and I usually stick with business casual. Still, walking around with a visible erection is probably pushing things a bit. There’s relaxed, and then there’s too relaxed.
Janie should be paid to model these clothes, not wear them to a job where she’ll do little more than manage my schedule and ensure I have a constant supply of tea coming into my office.
She seems to like me, but most young women do. I don’t need to see polling numbers to know that. All I need to do is go to a bar and have a few drinks. I’m easy on the eye, I guess. That always got me laid, but I never expected it to get me in charge of the country.
Janie might not be quite so keen if she knew everything about me. God knows how I’ve kept my past hidden all this time. I expected the truth to come out during the campaign, but each day ticked past without scandal. I’ve lied to the British people, or at least hidden the truth. Deep down, I’m as bad as every other politician. Worse, because I made a point of pretending I wasn’t like them.
I move the tour along to the second floor, because I know very little about the other rooms. One of them is called the Terracotta Room, because the walls are painted terracotta, and that’s about the extent of my knowledge.
Is it bad form to show an employee your bedroom? Fuck it.
I lead the way up the stairs to the third floor; if I stare at Janie’s arse again, my cock won’t be able to stay semi-relaxed.
“This is the official residence,” I say at the top of the stairs. “This is where I live. Not much of a commute.”
“I’m not sure I’d like that,” Janie says. “You don’t have any excuse for being late to work.”
“When you’re Prime Minister, you don’t need an excuse.”
“Good point. Is this area off-limits?”
“Not to you,” I reply quickly. “I mean, you should feel free to come up if you need me. I’ll hang a sock on the bedroom door if I need some privacy.”
Janie smiles again, but this time she’s a little nervous and uncertain. I show her the bedroom, but she’s reluctant to stare inside. Perhaps that’s overstepping the bounds. I’m not sure where to draw the line anymore. No one ever calls me out when I do things wrong.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“I’m going to stick my neck out and say that it’s probably better than where I live right now.”
“It’s a little small. It’s fine for me, but prime ministers with large families have been known to swap with the Chancellor of the Exchequer and live at Number 11.”
“You don’t have the biggest apartment?”
“Nope. I suppose that’s a bit weird, but it’s not like I need space. It’s only me here.”
Janie opens her mouth, and I’m sure she’s about to ask a question but instead she closes it and looks around again.
“Did you want to ask something?” I ask.
“It’s a bit personal.”
“If you’re going to be my secretary, then you’re going to find out a lot of personal information. I’m not going to be able to keep much from you, even if I want to.”
“Do I organize your… personal diary as well?”
“You mean like my dates?”
“Yeah, that kind of thing.”
“I hadn’t given it much thought, but yes, I suppose you would.” And you’d be more than welcome to join in.
“How does a prime minister meet women?” Janie asks.
“Tinder, mainly.”
She raises an eyebrow doubtfully. “Must be an interesting profile.”
“Not really. I’ve never been good with dating websites or apps. I’m an old-fashioned type—I go to bars and buy women a drink.”
“You won’t be out to do that anymore.”
“No, I suppose not. I still meet women. Other politicians, ambassadors… secretaries.”
She looks at the floor nervously. Might have gone a bit too far that time.
“Are the rumors true about you and a certain Hollywood actress?” she asks.
“There’s not
hing going on between us,” I reply honestly.
There was, but let’s just say some people are more interesting as the characters they play on film than in real life.
“I do meet a fair few actresses and musicians,” I admit. “It’s not very romantic, though. When you have to ask your date to sign a non-disclosure agreement before getting intimate, it kind of ruins the atmosphere. I do okay, though.”
“I bet you do.”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, women like powerful men. You’re one of the most powerful men on the planet. That’s a turn on for some women.”
“And what about you?” I ask. “I’m asking for a friend.”
She smiles, but doesn’t answer. Maybe I shouldn’t have hired her. If I hadn’t given her the job, I could’ve asked her to come back in a personal capacity instead. Now I’m her boss as well as her prime minister.
We head back downstairs, and I pass her over to Terrell to get her hooked up with a security pass and all that boring stuff. She’s starting tomorrow and I can’t wait.
It won’t take a cup of tea to get me out of bed tomorrow morning. My brain needs tea to wake it up, but my cock doesn’t and it’s going to be the driving force where Janie is concerned.
Finally, I’ll have something other than running the country to look forward to in the mornings.
Chapter Five
Janie
There’s no dress code at 10 Downing Street.
How insane is that? According to the Chief of Staff, so long as I don’t dress in a way that could be considered offensive, I’m free to wear whatever I want. Other employees have taken those words to heart, and the Prime Minister clearly believes in freedom of expression, if the hair colors, piercings, tattoos, and general style choices of the employees at 10 Downing Street are anything to go by. It’s weird to see a young woman with blue hair, nose piercings, and a visible tattoo on her forearm, talking to a stuffy old guy, but they seem to respect each other. I like this place.
