Ed watched as the members of parliament sullenly shuffled from the House of Commons chamber, muttering amongst themselves.
‘No doubt thinking of what whorehouse to go to tonight. Pricks,’ Ed thought to himself, his eyes narrowing as Nick Clegg came into his line of vision.
‘And there’s the littlest prick of them all, look at him chasing after Cameron like a giggling schoolgirl, as if David would ever be interested in that sort of thing.’
He paused suddenly, alarmed at the road on which his thoughts were travelling. He tried to think of something else, but the image of himself chasing after Cameron in a state of schoolboy lust flustered him, and in his daze he tripped and fell on to the parliamentary floor.
Milibondage - “this is tighter than my budget”
‘Fuck,’ was all Ed could think, praying that no one had seen him fall. He tried lifting himself up but a sharp pain in the back of his head kept him firmly on the floor.
‘This wouldn’t have happened to my brother,’ Ed thought, ‘Precious Davey, the family pet, he wouldn’t have tripped, he would have-‘
“Excuse me Ed, are you alright?”
A soft nasal voice suddenly called out to him. Ed opened his eyes and stared up into the piggy eyes of his angelic saviour, the reflection of light creating a soft halo around his balding phallic head.
David Cameron was staring deep into his eyes, his face just inches away from his own. Ed Miliband didn’t know whether he felt extremely uncomfortable or aroused, but he was about to find out.
“David I-“, Ed stuttered, feeling his face burning in shades of putrid red, revealing his inner shame.
“Hush, my honourable gentleman of the left, you might be hurt,” Cameron crooned, lightly caressing Miliband’s face with his fingertips.
Ed’s eyes widened as the thin lips of the prime minister pressed against his, gently at first, then suddenly harder, with urgency.
At first Ed’s face was frozen in shock, but he then allowed himself to melt into the steady rhythm of Cameron’s tongue sliding against his own, giving in to his deeply suppressed desires, his fingers weaving into what little was left of Cameron’s hair. What drove the Prime Minister’s passion for the leader of the opposition? Could it be the warm scent of last night’s shepherd’s pie, freshly cooked in Miliband’s second kitchen, filling his cavernous nostrils with delight and lust? And where did Mr Miliband’s desire for the debonair of Downing Street rise from? Could it be the glistening sweat upon his expansive brow that made him shine bright like a newly boiled egg?
“Ride me like one of your French horses”
But this egg was about to be hard-boiled. Sweatier than Rebekah Brookes during the Leveson Inquiry, their bodies pressed against one another like two sticky sardines in a tin, they rolled across the floor of the Houses of Parliament like rabid dogs foaming at the mouth.
“Ed…” David breathed heavily, almost asthmatically into his opponent’s ear as Ed ravaged his fatty neck, caressing the soft contours of the blubbery rolls with his lips, leaving his marks.
“Ed, I want to fuck you in the Speaker’s chair.” David moaned, his package suddenly tight against his Gieves and Hawkes suit, as Ed pulled on his Bullingdon blue tie.
Miliband’s hands then travelled downwards to meet Cameron’s budding erection. There wasn’t much to it, but beggars can’t be choosers and less is, after all, sometimes more, Ed thought to himself.
Ed Miliband was writhing like a stuck pig, begging to be impaled by David Cameron’s (limited) manhood.
Later, the sun rose through the windows of the House of Commons, revealing a trail of expensive shoes, socks, suit jackets, shirts, and a lone Bullingdon blue tie, leading the way to the Speaker’s chair. Underneath lay David Cameron and Ed Miliband, sleeping naked like two cherubs from a pre-Raphaelite painting.
It was David who awoke first, still slightly breathless and sticky from the night before.
‘What the fuck are you doing, Dave?’ was his first thought when he opened his eyes, staring up at the grand Georgian ceiling. But his mood changed when he turned his head to the sleeping leader of the Labour party in his arms.
“It’s like the coalition all over again… Sleeping on the left side of the bed”
‘This can’t go on, but why does it feel so right?’ he sighed, pressing his lips against Ed Miliband’s forehead, who stirred only slightly before continuing to snore like a freight train.
David was a simple-minded man, and could not fathom how this relationship would fare through televised debates and ideological differences. He didn’t have the two-faced cunning of George Osborne, or the self-rewarding secrecy of Rupert Murdoch, nor did he hold much respect from the general public. He imagined with disgust and horror the kind of slander that would be written about him if the public knew, the depth and detail the satirists would go into, and how sarcastic teenagers would write endless interpretations of how the affair came about before posting it online for all to see. He felt sicker than an MP caught up in an expenses scandal, and bolted upright, leaving Miliband slumped against the cold floor.
In his haste he forgot that he was naked. Worse, he did not realise that he and his illicit lover were not alone.
“Well well well, this changes the game a bit, eh Davey?” a low chuckle burst from those chubby fish lips he knew all too well.
Boris Johnson was standing across from him, grinning dumbly like a doped up Cheshire Cat, wearing his flowery jogging shorts and a sweat stained sports shirt.
“Mr Johnso- I mean Boris, Bo-Jo, please, I can- I can explain.” David stuttered, walking towards the Mayor of London, his heart thumping in his ears, his hands cupped over his miniscule package.
“Explain? Oh, Prime Minister, I think we’re beyond that, don’t you?” Boris approached, his threatening words contrasting with his goofily gentrified voice.
As ever, David was finding it hard to take Boris seriously, but he knew by the beating of his heart how dire the situation was.
“Boris, you cannot tell anyone.”
“Oh can’t I?”
“Please, I’ll do anything.”
David and Boris were now standing face to face, and Boris’ face lit up like a child on Christmas morning. He stepped forward, daring to be as close to Cameron as possible, his hands pulling David’s away from his crotch and onto his own. “Anything?” he whispered.