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What was it, I wondered, that an MP’s wife did?
Of course no one, me included, had expected Archie to win the seat. My father-in-law was a powerful voice in the House of Lords, and Mr Baldwin needed his support, so arranging for Archie to stand in some God-forsaken northern industrial constituency was a sort of quid pro quo. In the 1923 General Election Labour had won it by more than 3000 votes, and the MP, Miss Alice Prosser was, by all accounts, a good thing. When I met her at the first hustings I could see that Archie had his work cut out.
Oldham West was not, to put it mildly, natural Tory territory. A mill town, where there was a pretty solid working-class base, it was only marginal because of the natural distrust by working people of Socialism with its Soviet links. Alice Prosser was a local teacher and Trades Unionist who was about as down-to-earth as you could get. I wondered how on earth Archie was going to acquit himself against her?
That first hustings, at a Methodist Free Trade Hall was something of a disaster.
Archie could not help himself. If he sounded like an upper-class twit, that was because he was one. His constant talking down to Miss Prosser would have been less objectionable had she not known more about every subject than he did.
“Bally well not fair, Pix, why did the bods in London not brief me on this Japanese mill threat thing?”
One of the mill-women had asked what the parties were going to do about the threat from overseas competition, Archie would have had a perfectly good answer if he’d understood the first thing about tariff reform; as he didn’t, he waffled. That left Miss Prosser to evade the issue by talking about working conditions and pay. I could see that Mr Shufflebottom, the amusingly-named Agent, was not best pleased, and heard him say to one of the canvassers:
“We’ve got a right one ‘ere, ‘appen next time they’ll send us someone who can open his gob without shoving both feet in it.”
I felt for him. Archie was a darling, but he’d been somewhere else when the brains were handed out. Then came the appendicitis.
A week into the campaign and Archie was struck down. Fortunately we got him to the hospital in time, but there was no way he was going to be able to campaign for at least a month, which took us to the election itself. The question of what to do was solved by my maid, Annie.
“Pix, you are far brighter than your dimwit husband, why don’t you campaign for him? I’ll come with you and hold your hand.”
I giggled. Behind the scenes, Annie held a great deal more than my hand, and although I was her social superior and employer, in practice I was her submissive lesbian slut, a situation we both enjoyed.
Annie suggested I put it to my Mama-in-law, Lady Cecily, who thought it a capital idea. So it was that I found myself at the next hustings.
Miss Prosser asked after Archie, and I reassured her he was recovering.
“Well,” she smiled, “I hope he does not hurry back. I’m afraid I shan’t go easy on you Lady Cynthia.”
I blushed.
“Oh do call me Pixie, everyone does, and I wouldn’t expect you to go easy on me.”
“It’s not your fault you are a parasitic product of a plutocratic ruling elite, I don’t suppose you’ve ever got on your knees to scrub a floor in your life!”
This was, no doubt, prompted by the fact that the cleaners were doing just that as they prepared the hall for the hustings.
I blushed, deeper. As it happened, Annie loved nothing better than to strip me to my underwear and making me scrub the floor, but I was not telling Miss Prosser that.
“I see the very idea appals you. Well, the day is coming when the workers will rise and seize the product of their labour.”
“Oh I jolly well hope so,” I gushed, “women like my maid Annie deserve far more.”
She looked at me curiously.
“Are you really one of us, Pixie? I know there are some ladies who are sympathetic to the cause.”
“Oh yes, Miss Prosser, but you know how it is, one’s husband and all that.”
“No, Pixie, I don’t, I can’t abide men!”
“Oh,” I said, “watching Annie, who was behind her, smirk at me.
“Are you a Sapphist?” I asked.
“You know of our existence?” She looked at me.
“Not only does she know,” Annie said from behind her, “she is one!”
Miss bahis firmaları Prosser turned to Annie.
“Is she now?” She smiled. “And you?”
“Well,” said Annie in her blunt way, “she can’t be a lesbian on her own now, can she, she needs someone’s cunt to lick.”
Miss Prosser seemed not to know whether to protest at the language or seize the moment; she decided on the latter.
“And is it your cunt she licks?”
“Tell her Pix,” Annie ordered.
Miss Prosser turned to me with curiosity written all over her face.
“Yes, Miss Prosser, I, erm, I eat Annie out.”
Her eyes widened behind her horn-rimmed spectacles, and for the first time I noticed that she had a lovely smile. So often she was in rhetorical mode, declaiming about the faults of my class, but when in more relaxed mood, she really was beautiful.
“I see,” she smiled, “and you, Annie, how do you feel about this?”
“You misunderstand, Alice, I can call you Alice can’t I? I love Pix and she does it because we both enjoy it, but I am the one in charge.”
My knickers were now feeling decidedly sticky. That got worse when, as the cleaners left the hall, Annie leaned in and kissed Alice full on the lips. Alice responded, and I watched as they snogged, feeling like a spare part at a wedding.
As she pulled away, Alice adjusted her spectacles.
“Wow, that was something else. Any chance of us meeting after the hustings?”
“Not a chance,” said Annie and, watching Alice’s face fall, she added, “a fucking certainty. We’re billeted at the Piccadilly Hotel, so come to our suite.”
Alice gave her a quick kiss then, remembering me asked, “you don’t mind?”
“Not my place to, Miss Prosser,” I replied.
Then the people began to assemble, and Mr Shufflebottom came to claim me for the platform.
“Thou art a game lass, Lady Cynthia, and I can’t but say as I admire that. I’ll do my best to help, but that Alice woman’s a bit of an Amazon, so take care.”
Oh golly, I thought, my knickers were damp, Annie was giving Miss Prosser the eye, and the speeches were about the start.
Miss Prosser, as the MP in the last parliament, went first, waxing eloquent on the evils of the ruling class and the need for a fairer distribution of wealth.
She was followed by the Liberal, a very worthy local Alderman called Saddleworth who could have bored for Britain and talked a lot about Gladstone. Then I was called.
Golly, I knew there’d be a problem. Saddleworth was a solid six footer, and Miss Prosser nearly that height, and I was only four foot ten. There was no way I could reach the microphone, so I improvised. There was a an empty beer crate under the lectern, so I pulled it out and stood on it, getting a round of applause.
“Well,” I said, voice trembling, “I thought I should need a ladder in my stocking to get up to this height,” I joked, which, I was told later, went down badly with the Nonconformist conscience, but which brought the house down in laughter.
Encouraged by their approval, and by Annie’s beaming grin and upturned thumb, I went on about the need for order, reminding everyone that it had been the Conservatives who had given the vote to the workers in 1867, and voted to widen the franchise in 1918. I thought, I said, we should extend it to women like myself, under the age of 30, at the next General Election.
Again, I was told later that the Nonconformist conscience was not amused. As it seemed as though nothing would amuse it, I stopped worrying about it at that point.
It was, I said, necessary to give the working woman as well and the working man the vote.
“Atta girl,” went up the cry from a couple of the mill-girls, “good on yer!”
I finished by reminding everyone that I was only speaking on behalf of my sick husband, who sent his best and would make as good an MP as he did a husband. It was a jolly good job no-one except Annie really knew what that meant.
I finished to a deafening round of applause, which doubled as I got down, inadvertently flashing a glimpse of stocking. That, apparently, not only failed to amuse the Nonconformist conscience, it outraged it. But the mill-workers seemed to like it.
The questions came in thick and fast, including one about competition from Japan. Miss Prosser gave her stock kaçak iddaa answer, thus avoiding the question.
“Well,” I said, when it was my turn, “I am not sure how Miss Prosser is going to increase your wages when the Japanese and Indians are producing cotton at half our cost, undermining our market. That,” I added, “is why Mr Baldwin wants tariffs on foreign competition. Only the Conservatives will protect you from your mills being closed down due to unfair competition.”
It was such a blooming obvious reply I had no idea why even Archie had not thought of it.
As we finished, standing for the National Anthem, Mr Shufflebottom bent down and whispered:
“Aye lass, I wish thou were’t running instead of thy husband, tha’s a grand lass!”
The cab took us back to the Piccadilly, and Annie was very pleased, praising me all the way back.
“Pix, you really are very good you know, they loved you.”
“Well there seemed a lot of sour faces at times.”
“You were young and contemporary and daring, so of course the old sticks in the mud did not like it.”
She ordered supper to be brought up to our suite, and I slipped out of my shoes and relaxed in a big arm chair.
It was nice to relax, I thought. Then there was a knock on the door. It was not room service.
“Alice,” Annie cooed, “how good that you could come?”
“I haven’t, yet,” Alice joked.
At that pregnant moment, there was another knock, and it was supper.
Annie had ordered oysters and champagne.
“You do yourself well,” Alice commented.
“Call it redistribution of wealth,” Annie joked, offering Alice a glass of fizz, as she poured one for me and for herself.
“To Lesbos,” she cheered.
We joined in.
Annie took the first oyster, opening it and looked at Alice as she slurped it noisily:
“What does that remind you of Alice?”
“You are a very daring woman, Annie.”
“Pix, eat yours, there’s a good girl.”
I did as I was bid.
“Well?” She quizzed Alice.
“Oh God, you really are so bad,” Alice blushed, as Annie ate her second on, slurping and locking her gaze on Alice.
“You think so, Alice, try one.”
Alice demurred.
“That was not a request, it was an instruction!”
Alice blushed, but did as she was told.
“Pixieslut, help Miss Prosser out of her clothes. I am sure you’d like a maid, Alice.”
Alice looked at Annie, then at me, It was then or never; it was then.
I helped her out of her dress, and she sat there in her bra and knickers; I could see her nipples hardening.
“Pixieslut, strip off.”
Under Miss Prosser’s fascinated gaze, I slipped off my expensive dress to reveal my tiny breasts, nipples as hard as hers. I lingered over taking my stockings off, allowing her a glimpse of my knickers where they were wet. Then at Annie’s orders, I took my knickers down and got on the bed with my arse facing them both.
“See what revolutionary socialism looks like, Alice, the upper classes doing the bidding of the workers. But will the bourgeoise? I think teachers should follow suite. Strip and get on that bed.”
I so wanted to see what she looked like. I could hear her complying with Annie’s orders. Then, there she was, next to me on the bed.
I looked at her and smiled, She was blushing. Without her specs she really was very pretty. Then we both moaned. Annie was fingering both of us.
“Two beautiful submissive cunts for the working class girl! Lady Pix is very wet, Alice, but you are not far behind.”
So saying she thrust her fingers deep into me. I moaned, as did Miss Prosser, who was receiving the same treatment.
Then there was a resounding smack. My arse smarted. Then there was another, Miss Prosser gasped.
“Kiss each other, sluts.”
Turning, I kissed my political opponent, as she kissed me. Annie rained down spanks on both our arses as we kissed. Then we both moaned into our kisses as Annie redoubled her finger fucking.
Then, equally abruptly, she stopped.
“Pix, go sit in the armchair, no touching.”
Kissing Miss Prosser, I did as I was told.
Annie, now naked herself, strapped the fake cock on to herself and began to take Miss Prosser, who squealed as Annie pounded her sore arse. She had such yummy tits, nearly kaçak bahis as big as Annie’s, and her arse was one of those lovely peachy ones.
Annie rode her hard, feeling under her to grope her tits. When she pulled her hair back, Miss Prosser moaned even more loudly.
“Pixieslut, under her now!”
I slid under her, my face inches away from Annie’s girl cock, indeed some of her goo fell on my forehead. I buried my mouth in her hairy cunt and began sucking her clit. Annie jackhammered her, as I licked frantically. I could see that the girl cock was pressing Annie’s clit, and then, suddenly, they both screamed and my face was coated with girl goo as they both exploded.
I continued to lick, cleaning them both.
Annie pulled out, letting Miss Prosser turn over.
“Clean my girl cock slut!”
I did, licking Miss Prosser’s gooey juices from the strappy.
“What do you think, Alice, should the aristo be allowed to cum?”
Mis Prosser, who was snuggling up to Annie’s tits, said I should be denied for a while.
So it was that I watched as they played, and as they aroused each other again, I was brought in to lick them both to a second orgasm. Annie ordered me to show them my cunt.
As they cuddled up, I opened myself, showing the mess that arousal had made of me.
“She’s very cute with no hair,” Miss Prosser commented, kissing Annie.
“I keep her that way to remind her of who owns her.”
“Lady Cyn,” Miss Prosser asked, “so you are actually owned by Annie?”
“Yes Miss,” I whimpered.
“Pixieslut, take that empty bottle of champagne and fuck yourself to orgasm with it!”
The humiliation of fucking myself with an empty champagne bottle in front of them as they kissed drove me wild, and I whimpered and moaned.
“Please, please Mistress, may I?”
“Ask Alice,” Annie replied.
“Please Miss Prosser may I cum, please, pretty please.”
“As long as I can sleep with Annie tonight.”
“Yes Miss, yes, anything.”
“You may cum, Lady Cyn.”
And I did, like an express train.
When it had subsided and I had stopped shaking, Annie pulled me into bed with them, and we slept on either side of her.
We repeated this after the next two hustings.
The local press dubbed me “Lady Pixie” and were loud in my praises.
Mr Shufflebottom said I seemed to be thriving on the election, and he was right, even if he had no idea what the reason was. I suppose that the Nonconformist conscience would not have understood, but who cared? Not me.
Archie appeared the day before the count.
“Gosh, Pix, you’ve done ever such a good job. Even that awful Miss Prosser seems to like you.”
“Well, darling,” I explained to Archie, “she’s not a bad sort when you get to know her.”
“You are such a sweetie, Pix, and I will be sorry for your sake when I lose tonight.”
The Count was tense.
New came in from elsewhere that Mr Baldwin was doing well, and some seats lost in 1923 were returning to us.
Then, at midnight, the Returning Officer asked for Candidates and spouses to be on the platform.
“Prosser, Alice Millicent, Labour, 18,204 votes
Saddleworth, Arnold Ebenezer, Liberal, 15,001 votes
Smyth, the Hon. Archibald Montgomery Henry Fortescue, 18,404 votes
There were 301 spoiled ballot papers and I hereby declare that the Hon Archibald Montgomery Henry Fortescue-Smythe is duly elected as MP for Oldham West.”
The room fell silent, then there was a great roar from our supporters. I looked over at Alice, who seemed devastated. A split on the Left had let us in by two hundred votes. Archie was in.
What, I wondered, did an MP’s wife actually do?
The first thing was for me to give Alice a hug.
“I’m so sorry darling,” I whispered.
“If I’d been facing him, I’d have won, we’ll be back Pixie, but I hope I will see you and Annie again soon.”
“Well,” I said, “we’ll be up here every month, so I do hope so.”
“Would you mind if Annie came back to mine to console me?”
“It’s the least I can do,” I smiled.
So, as Archie luxuriated in the praise of his supporters, I watched Annie and Alice slip away.
What did an MPs wife do? Create a consensus with the opposition, it seemed.
I have no idea what Archie did that night, but back in my room I pleasured myself thinking of what Annie and Alice would be doing. But in the spirit of things, I denied myself an orgasm. It seemed a self-denying ordinance was in order for the MPs wife.
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