Short Fiction

A visitor from The North at The House of Commons

Erotic fiction doesn't get more forensic than this; as Keir Starmer and Andy Burnham get on top of the detail (and each other)...

In this second piece of Keir Starmer erotic fiction (published exclusively here at Nothing in the Rulebook), our protagonist and her Knight of the Realm-lover get forensic with a certain Labour Party politician from the North of England…

This is what a real Mayor of the North looks like…

I’d been doing work experience in The House of Commons for 6 months. Mostly 120+ hours a week and mostly covering for Boris Johnson, who would drag himself into office in the afternoon with an oxygen tank on wheels behind him (it had a pussy wagon sticker on it). Most of the time he would still be in his pyjamas and he would breathlessly shout words at me and then leave. I would be left to try and decipher the meaning. Often it would be things like ‘Carpe Diem, Chair Cobra’. When he first shouted it at me I thought there was a snake in the office but it turned out he wanted me to lead the cabinet for him in a moment of national crisis, which was a relief because I’ve never been a fan of snakes.

Having a snake in the office wouldn’t have been surprising to be honest. The Ministers were constantly pranking each other with strippers, kissograms or fake police come to arrest them – that sort of thing. It was like an endless stag party and I was getting the rough end of it. Hardly a day went by when I wouldn’t have to remove a spunk-covered custard cream from my desk before I started work. I spoke to Laura Kuennsberg about it because it was beginning to annoy me but she just said “och, boys will be boys”. I asked who she thought was leaving them on my desk. She sniffed one of the spunky biscuits and said “Och, it’s that wee Matt Hancock, he must like you”.  I decided to put up with it, I mean, some people would kill for this type of work experience, and there were some definite upsides to the job…

It had become a regular thing now for Sir Keir Starmer to pop his head round the office door about 11pm, lift his perfectly tailored mask a little and, with a completely straight face, just say “donkeys?” to me. I was always ready and willing to go with him to his lovely donkey stables. The baby donkey we had birthed together was getting quite grown up now and I sometimes wondered what the mother and child donkey thought of us… Always turning up to the stables late, giving them a little stroke and then passionately making love on the floor in their hay, or against the stable door, or over the feed bin, often all of these places in one evening.

One night, I couldn’t find my knickers afterwards and Sir Keir Starmer found them actually pinned to the tail of the young donkey. I would always get home late and my flatmates commented on how I smelt like a barnyard. I would just make some jokes about Tory Ministers being like animals, but really it was Sir Keir Starmer who was the animal. I was averaging 3 hours sleep a night, I would often lie awake thinking about Sir Keir and how his pubic hair parted down one side, and how I had looked in his bathroom cupboard once and seen his hair dye ‘Elephants Breath for Men’. I was worried that I was falling in love. Or maybe it wasn’t love. Maybe I was just addicted to the heady smell of the stables and the smell of his hair wax, or the way his arms looked when he rolled his shirt sleeves up. Either way, I knew I would not be – could not be – the one to put an end to it…

I wondered if The Iron Lady herself, who famously never turned, would have had her head turned by Sir Keir Starmer, 6 foot 4 of pure testosterone with specially made shoes for his size 15 feet. I decided she would have respected him and probably masturbated over him whilst Dennis was away in Africa teaching their children how to make land mines. She would probably have relished the angry yet formal and measured letters she received from him. When alone in her office late at night she would probably have sniffed them, hoping to catch the scent of his aftershave… Yes, I thought. The Iron Lady would have been weak at the knees in the presence of Sir Keir Starmer… and don’t even get me started on Edwina Currie. She would have spent her days walking backwards and forwards past his office. Sending him garters through the post and so on. Sending him letters about eggs drenched in perfume… I was glad she was not around anymore.

Despite being dedicated to Sir Keir, only a couple of days later, my head was unexpectedly turned by a visitor from The North. As it turned out, mine was not the only head that turned…

There was to be a debate in The House about The Coronavirus pandemic that was still bloody well going on. I was standing in for Boris Johnson as usual. Not many people had turned up. Jacob Rees Mogg was sleeping on the front row (as he often did). It was his little way of showing that he was very comfortable in The House of Commons and that he felt he belonged there. Often people would spit on him as they walked past or wipe snot on him. I even saw Sir Nicholas Soames wipe some dog excrement on him one day when he came back to collect a jumper he had left on the benches before Boris Johnson sacked him for refusing to join his gang.

Today was slightly different though, as there was to be a guest speaker. He was the Mayor of Manchester and everyone was excited to see what a real Mayor from the North looked like.

Lindsay Hoyle wheeled him in on a sort of trolley and parked him next to his little throne. He lifted him out and gestured to him that he could take the throne whilst speaking to the House. I couldn’t quite see his face at first. I just saw the outline of a smallish man in an anorak and workboots. Someone shouted “Turn the lighting up,” and the lights were turned up. There he was. Proudly standing almost 5 feet tall, his thick dark hair tousled, his little glasses on and his eyes really popping from his trademark thick black eye liner he was never seen without.

He was not what I expected. My nipples hardened and I immediately felt guilty. I flashed a look at Sir Keir Starmer, but I needn’t have worried. His face was as flushed as mine. He gave me a nod and then tilted his head slightly towards Mayor Burnham, the quizzical look could only mean one thing. “Shall we invite Mayor Burnham to come to the stables with us for a threesome?” I nodded back enthusiastically.

I turned to listen to Mayor Burnham’s speech and, to be honest, I couldn’t understand most of it. His accent was impenetrable (unlike me), he sounded like he was from a 1960s episode of Coronation Street. I could just about made out the phrase ‘ee by gum’. I knew though, that later that night we would find a way to communicate.

When he had finished speaking, Sir Lindsay Hoyle lifted Mayor Burnham down from the throne and patted him on the head.

We all then voted to lock down The North of England for the next year or so as that seemed to be what Mayor Burnham was getting at; no-one really knew.

As Mayor Andy Burnham left, he punched Jacob Rees Mogg in the dick really hard, which woke him up with a start.

Sir Keir gave me one of his blank faces that I knew meant “I will pick you up later and take you and Mayor Burnham to the Donkey Stable” he then rushed after Mayor Burnham, linked his arm and I saw him slipping a note into his pocket that must have been a hurriedly written invitation.

Later, in Sir Keir Starmer’s car, we all wore our face masks and listened to Enya. Mayor Burnham sat in the back on a booster seat. I noticed that on his facemask there was an embroidered picture of some pigeons, a pie, the Gallagher brothers and a Bee.

He said something and I guessed he had asked how far it was to the stables, but before I could answer Sir Keir Starmer said “Don’t worry, you can borrow my son’s wellies, we’ll stuff some socks in them if they’re too big”.

When we got to the stables, Sir Keir Starmer had arranged a surprise. Horses for us to ride and a little Shetland pony for Mayor Burnham to ride on. Mayor Burnham and Sir Keir Starmer changed before we set off into loose fitting, white, billowing shirts and breeches.

Sir Keir and I mounted the stallions after we’d helped Mayor Burnham get onto the patient little Shetland pony, then the three of us rode off into a nearby forest. We arrived at a clearing. I heard Sir Keir saying “woah, girl” and we all came to a halt. Sir Keir and I got off our horses and then helped Mayor Burnham down.

Sir Keir put his hand on Mayor Burnhams face and stroked it tenderly. Then they kissed. Gently at first and then with a sense of urgency. ‘They must really respect each other’ I thought to myself happily. I watched until they beckoned me to join them. Soon it was impossible to tell stallion from mayor, Sir from stallion, work experience girl from pony.

Exhausted, we all dozed under a tree for a while. Sir Keir ran his fingers through Mayor Burnham’s hair and gently kissed the top of his head. Then Mayor Burnham awoke and in his pockets he had some bread that he tore up for us to eat and a piece of ham he had wrapped in brown paper. He used a little pocket knife to cut it and share it out. I was glad of the snack. I hadn’t had any lunch that day because all the pret a mangers had closed down because of the virus.

“Oh no” I cried, “we forgot to social distance”

“It’s ok” said Sir Keir Starmer. “There’s the 2 stallions, the pony, Mayor Burnham, Me, (Sir Keir Starmer) and you, the work experience girl. That’s six.  The rule of six applies, we’re outdoors, in the countryside and it’s only tier 2. So long as no one else comes along I won’t have to hand us all in.” I smiled thinking he was having a little joke but then I realised he was deadly serious.

Once we had eaten and retrieved our clothes we took our mounts again and this time slowly plodded back to the stables. I was exhausted and my vagina hurt with every clop, clop, clop of the hooves.

We helped Mayor Burnham down from his pony again and he spoke, it might have been something like “Thank you for a lovely time”, but it might have been something or other about politics, neither I nor Sir Keir could understand him and we couldn’t read his writing. He kept writing on post it notes and gesticulating furiously but we had no idea what he was on about so we just smiled at him and ruffled his hair. He was so cute.

We dropped him off at the train station and looked at each other smiling as he hurried away. I wondered if we had crossed a line we could never uncross…  I wasn’t sure and decided it was a bad time to bring up the chlamydia and urinary infection (there was a pandemic going on after all).

It was time to get back to the HOUSE OF COMMONS, I had work experience to do and the country wasn’t just going to run itself.


About the author

Zena Barrie lives in Manchester and co runs the Greater Manchester Fringe and The Camden Fringe, she also does spoken word when it’s allowed. Her book, ‘Your Friend Forever‘ will be published by award-winning press, Unbound, on 15 April 2021. You can pledge to pre-order a copy here – https://unbound.com/books/your-friend-forever/ 

Lockdown is hard for many writers and artists. If you enjoyed this piece, why not tip Zena the price of a coffee via her Ko-Fi link?


Read the first piece of Keir Starmer erotic fiction, ‘Little Donkey’ right here at Nothing in the Rulebook.

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