Chapter 31 Cal
Cal
‘Iabsolutely reject your premise,’ Aida is telling Richard Dowling, our current Health Secretary, live on TV.
‘Come on. We both know it’s a house of cards.
So why don’t you quit trying to sell the public on this strategy of yours once and for all and focus your attention on creating a premise we can actually buy into? ’
She glares at him and re-crosses her legs as he haltingly, and foolishly, attempts to bring the conversation back to his plans for more NHS cuts.
I’m not listening to a word he’s saying.
Nope, I’m gazing instead at the woman who, two days ago, was naked and on her knees, sucking my dick, and is now eviscerating a senior member of our cabinet with her trademark aplomb and no mercy whatsoever.
Poor bastard, I think, taking a leisurely swig of IPA. I’ve done a weights session and eaten a chicken salad, and this is my reward. This being an ice-cold beer and a chance to perv freely at one of Britain’s best imports.
Tonight’s programme, Centre Stage, is a BBC flagship that Aida’s hosted since she left her regular evening news slot a few years ago. It focuses squarely on the most pressing current affairs—the ones that warrant more attention than a five-minute news slot can give them.
The armchair format, which allows Aida to lull her guests into a false sense of security before publicly tearing them to shreds, has the added bonus of giving the viewer a cracking view of her spectacular legs.
She’s wearing a fitted black dress with short sleeves and those chunky gold bracelets I recognise from her visit to the club.
It makes my blood boil to think about how many men are perving over Aida’s legs right this second. Obviously, it’s different when I do it, because, come on. She came on my fucking tongue. I don’t think she’d mind me looking at her legs.
The woman on my screen is the real deal. She’s stunningly beautiful, glamorous, educated as fuck, and impeccably prepared for this interview—far better prepared, it seems, than the spineless wanker whose actual job it is to run our National Health Service.
She holds up her prompt cards—which I haven’t seen her glance at once tonight—as she lays into him again. Fuck. No wonder she and Gen have hit it off. They’re both terrifying when they want to be.
To my shame, I’m watching her scarlet lips enunciate, and I’m watching that body of hers twist in her chair, such is her level of moral outrage, but I’m zoning out the actual debate they’re having, because my dick is getting hard and my brain is merging the woman on my huge TV screen with the woman whose epic blowjob is living rent-free in my brain.
I palm my cock lazily through the heavy jersey of my jogging bottoms. Fuck, that feels good. That poor sap, Dowling, is going to crawl out of there a broken man, the latest casualty of my victorious queen. She’s so sure of herself. So crushingly confident.
But earlier this week she was putty in my hands.
Moaning and writhing and begging for my tongue.
My fingers. My cock. Seeing her excoriate him, flay him with her words till he’s a ravaged carcass fit only for the papers to finish off tomorrow, is doing magical things to my ego and my cock.
Because this woman doesn’t roll over for anyone.
Except me.
When I told her quite literally to roll over and lose her towel, she did.
I’m fully hard now. Need to come. But not while Richard bloody Dowling is jabbering on. I turn the TV off and pull up TikTok on my phone, typing in Aida Russell edit as I tug the elastic on my jogging bottoms down far enough to free my cock.
Part of me considers jumping in a cab to Alchemy, but I can’t be arsed to put on a smart outfit. Besides, I don’t really want to fuck anyone else in this moment. This is an itch only Ms Russell can scratch.
My phone’s propped up on my bathroom shelf as I liberally apply lube to my palm and begin to stroke myself with long, indulgent strokes. Fuck, yeah. This is what I needed.
On my screen, a fast-moving edit plays to Ariana Grande’s Dangerous Woman: Aida striding across various newsroom sets in sky-high heels, Aida rolling her eyes, Aida giving death stares, Aida licking her scarlet-painted lips. Over, and over, and over. A million different times.
Lick.
Lick.
Lick.
Fuck, that mouth of hers should be illegal.
Jesus, the feel of it around my cock was un-fucking-real.
Look at those legs. I want them wrapped around me. Why have we not fucked yet?
The edit plays over and over.
My strokes get faster. Harder. More desperate.
And then I’m coming, my grunts harsh and the pumps of my fist punishing, shooting my load all over the marble basin.
ME: I watched you annihilate Dowling and you were so sexy I just wanked into my washbasin.
It’s called aftercare. You know, checking in after a big moment for her this week. Letting her know I’m thinking of her.
She responds an hour later.
AIDA: How charming.
I groan as I flop down on my bed.
Dowling’s not the only guy she’s capable of roasting.