It wasn’t a new format. Politicians had often raised their profile going on invasive reality shows. Housemates, the Jungle, even the sexy Island one had celebrity seasons and there was always a publicity-hungry politician trying to boost their standing, or promote their new, tell-all book.
But “The House” was a new concept in National Politics. If the reality shows had proven anything it was that people were better informed to voted for their favourite participant having had the chance to watch them intensely over three to six weeks of live internet streaming or daily TV roundups.
Until recently, Members of Parliament were elected on the strength of a single speech or a flimsy one-page flyer of bullet points crafted by a well-paid PR company. By combining the National Election process with the well-loved reality show format, voters would get to know their local candidates more deeply. The candidates would be spending up to six weeks living together in one of 150 constituency Houses, with 24/7 coverage of all aspects of their experience.
The first season had been a success, but the complaints were centred around too many private places the candidates could hide out of view and their conversations were censored too much. Changes were made for the forthcoming election and now there would be nowhere to hide from the cameras and microphones, placed all around each house.
While the TV channels for each region would only broadcast nightly round-ups of The Houses in that region, the live streams for all houses, across the nation, were available, online, to the whole country. The House everybody tuned in to see, of course, was the one in the sitting Prime Minister’s constituency.
The young, handsome PM had enjoyed a great deal of success in the role since the previous election, but the attention hadn’t been focused on him as much, the last time he entered “The House” as just another candidate. This time, his fan base was much wider and rumours abounded that even the bathrooms would have cameras this time so there might be a chance of glimpsing more of an eyeful than any politician had shown before. Of course, it was likely they’d all wear swimsuits or trunks in the showers and they’d not reveal anything at all.
At the start of the new season, a full-day TV special, broadcasting from each regional House, gave every candidate a rockstar’s entrance with a brief interview, in front of cheering crowds, fireworks and light shows. But by 10pm all 150 Constituency Houses were fully occupied, locked, and the greatest political contest began.
In the PM’s House, all twelve candidates introduced themselves to each other, cordially enough, and most took the chance to share which party (if any) they were representing, and why they were running for Parliament. This house had the largest cohort of candidates as even those who didn’t have a hope of being elected knew, in this constituency, they would be able to champion whatever niche cause they were passionate about, to the widest possible audience, for the brief time they’d be involved.
The PM enjoyed meeting these fringe candidates as they made a refreshing change to the suspicious, conniving, backstabbing types running for the big rival parties.
“Please, call me George!” The PM responded to every newcomer who greeted him as “Prime Minister” or “Mr. Berwick”. He treated all of them as important as each other, yet each more important than himself, and managed to appear starstruck as he spoke with each one. This, of course, made them feel good about themselves and is one of the reasons why this Prime Minister was so popular.
But there was one candidate George met who really did impress. A tall, dignified woman, around his own age, who had a calm but assured demeanour, and a voluptuous figure which her choice of dress only enhanced. The PM was smart enough to understand when people dressed to impress, or to seduce, and while he appeared deferential on the surface he always remained on his guard.
“Emma. Purdon.” Her voice was rich and velvety. “Independant Woman”. George wasn’t a fan of feminism, but appreciated the subtle political humour in her efficient choice of words.
“Wonderful to meet you.” George’s tone let her know he was impressed.
Before any more small talk could be endured, the voice of the TV show’s main presenter echoed through hidden speakers. “All rooms are now unlocked!” There was an audible clunk as electromagnetic locking mechanisms released and the crowd of candidates moved instinctively towards the large bedroom where they found six double beds.
For the twelve candidates.
The first six through the door claimed a bed each, but it became clear negotiations would be required either to share a bed, or to make a claimant give up their choice of bed. The PM turned away from the bedroom and went over to the sofa in the living room. That would be comfortable enough for him.
While the others argued and debated their sleeping arrangements in the bedroom, George went to the kitchen area and set about preparing two plates of pasta carbonara, one with chunks of ham and the other with mushrooms. Around the time the pasta was ready to be served, Emma emerged from the Bedroom to see what had happened to the PM.
“Will you join me for some pasta?” George offered the vegetarian option to his new friend.
It was now her turn to be impressed. “I’m famished, yes, but how did you know I was a vegita….”
“I’m well briefed, Miss Purdon. One of the perks of my job.” The PM admitted.
The two sat down on the sofa and tucked into their meal. Emma was doubly impressed when she tasted what George had prepared for her.
“They are busy squabbling over beds in there.” She explained, as if George wasn’t aware. “Let’s see what the situation is when the dust settles. I’ll sleep out here if no one wants to share with me.”
George had to let her know he had the same idea. “I claim the blue sofa.”
“Oh, so the girl gets the pink one, is that it?” She made it clear with her tone she wasn’t pleased with the gender stereotyping.
“Well, if you’re not fast you’re last” George countered with a cheeky smile. “The blue one matches my eyes!”
That comment made Emma look directly into his eyes for a few moments. “But your eyes are brown!” She announced, before realising what he had done.
“First rule in politics… never rise to the bait,” George explained. “But your eyes are beautiful, so thank you for giving me that moment of bliss.”
Emma felt a little charmed by his comment, a little humbled to have fallen for his trick, and a little honoured that he shared his wisdom privately, with her, while the others were still squabbling in the other room.
“I think PM stands for Pasta Maestro!” She enthused, changing the subject. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“I have lived alone most of my life so have had to pick up a few extra skills here and there along the way.” He explained. “There is also an excellent chef in The Residence who teaches me the tricks of the trade. If things go well for you in here, maybe she’ll be cooking for you one day!”
Emma appreciated the encouragement in his message.
Pasta dishes finished, the pair put their plates in the dishwasher and took a stroll out to the garden area. There was a good-sized lawn area, a patio area, a pool and a hot tub and at the far end of the garden a sauna and yoga/ meditation room.
Inside the house, besides the lounge-kitchen and dormitory-style bedroom, there was a diary room where candidates could go to record thoughts and opinions or answer questions posed by the presenter on an individual basis.
There was also a small study, specifically for the PM to use for one hour in the morning and one hour in the evening - the only soundproof room to have no microphones installed - where he could be kept apprised of any national security concerns or other issues on the outside he had to know about.
And finally a very, very large wet room. Just one. There were three toilet stalls, two freestanding bathtubs sitting side-by-side, and a large open-plan shower area with four separate shower heads.
This was the biggest change from last year when The House had a private toilet cubicle and private showers.
Emma and George stood in the wet room and scanned over the facilities noting the cameras in the room and the large mirrors all around, which almost certainly had cameras (and operators) behind.
“How do you feel about the country seeing you naked, PM?” She asked.
“How would you feel about seeing me naked, EP?” He returned.
She looked at him again to judge how seriously he was asking. “You’d get my vote!” She laughed.
George smiled. “I’m game if you are?”
Emma looked at the clock on the wall. “11:15pm. Is it too late for a bubble bath?”
“It’s never too late for a bubble bath!” The PM agreed.
Emma walked over and started filling both bathtubs and emptied a few capfuls of bubble bath into each one. She stood on the opposite side of them from George and slipped off her shoes. Then her hair clasps came out and the long black hair tumbled over her shoulders. She unbuttoned her form-fitting pencil dress and pushed it to the floor leaving her to pause in her black Lacey underwear.
“Your turn,” she challenged.
The PM started unbuttoning his shirt and kicked his shoes off. He dropped his trousers and removed his shirt and t-shirt to remain in his boxer briefs. Off came the socks as she peeled off her dark stockings.
By now the baths were filled enough and the bubbles almost overflowing. She stepped into her tub, still wearing her lingerie and settled down under the water. He did the same in his tub, getting settled under the bubbles before sliding off his shorts. He slung them over the end of the bath and she did the same with her black lace knickers. She looked around at the cameras and took a deep breath before unclasping her bra, removing it, and using her arm to shield her breasts until she gathered some bubbles around her again.
Both naked, beneath the bubbles, the PM and this unknown independent candidate were already starting to take the online comments sections by storm. The live statistics the production teams were getting, showed that the bedroom, where the other politicians were using the lack of beds as a showcase for their leadership and debating skills, was getting no views at all, while the Bathroom was breaking all livestream records.
“So what made you decide to run for Parliament this time round?” George asked his bathing buddy.
“I want to highlight the issue of period poverty, which means some women have to go without buying sanitary products in order to feed, or clothe themselves and their children.” She paused, expecting the PM to have glazed over or have a counterargument explaining why his government hadn’t already supported the idea.
“Go on?” he requested.
Emma hadn’t really prepared much more to say, but she was passionate enough about the issue that she didn’t hesitate to talk more.
“When I was growing up times were hard and I saw my mother and sisters improvising with cotton nappies and towels and cloths, because the weekly food bill was too high to allow for extra items like pads or tampons. Things had improved by the time I needed them, but in recent years it seems to have become so expensive to live here, that many women and girls are back in that same situation. They’re looking for alternatives, or simply staying home, missing work or school, with no dignified way to manage their monthly cycle.”
George knew very well about the issue of period poverty. He was the long-standing patron of a local charity that provided free sanitary products to schools and low-income families, but it had never been on the political agenda of his party.
“What do you suppose needs to be done?” He prompted her.
“First of all,” her enthusiasm was starting to show through her elegant demeanour, “We have to end the tax on these products. The revenue lost by the treasury could easily be covered by a small increase in the tax on ammunition for firearms.” She had clearly thought it through.
George was satisfied he had found someone he could mentor over the next six weeks.
“You make an excellent point. What else should the government be doing?” He knew that political talk would quickly get boring for the viewers over the course of the show, but with this beautiful woman, sitting naked in the bath, talking passionately about this issue, on the first night of the show, it was the optimum time to get her message out to the maximum number of viewers.
“We have to get these products into schools and given free to every girl who needs one.” She loved that the PM appeared to be hanging on every word.
“So should it be a government contract with a low-cost manufacturer? Or should schools be able to enter into agreements with suppliers of their choice and the government subsidises the cost for them?” He asked one of the key questions hampering the idea from becoming law already.
“Well…” she paused for thought “… Don’t guys have access to free condoms somewhere? How does that work?”
“Good question.” By which he really meant, good answer. “I think I might have picked up some government-subsidised condoms earlier, we should check what brand they are when we get out.”
The political conversation had distracted Emma enough that she let her guard down, along with the bubbles that had been covering her breasts. Realising her chest was now on show to the nation she decided to lean into it instead of feeling embarrassed. She sat upright to give them a wash, lifting, squeezing and massaging them with her soapy hands.
She realised, as she became conscious of the cameras, that George had just used the unusual situation to give her an extraordinary platform for her campaign. As unconventional as it was, that was a really kind thing to do.
“I wonder if the others have sorted out who’s sleeping where. They don’t seem to have explored the rest of the house yet.” George mused.
Emma agreed. “Maybe we should get out before they all come in and start arguing about who gets to use the showers first!”
They both got ready to stand up, knowing this was the moment the live audience would see the current Prime Minister, and the most attractive candidate in the house, fully naked.
“3-2-1,” George whispered before they both hauled themselves to their feet.
Their bodies were still partially draped in bubbles but they both knew as they stepped out of their baths that the camera crews behind the mirrors were scrambling for the best view. George wasn’t exactly erect but he wasn’t exactly short and shrivelled either. He was comfortable knowing he wasn’t going to be mocked too much as far as its appearance was concerned.
Wrapping a towel around his waist and offering one to Emma who quickly tied it around herself, they were now passed the one moment they had feared most. Whatever the audience thought of them in this moment, was going to influence how they’d be portrayed in the media from now on.
The pair gathered up their wet underwear and wrung them out, but these couldn’t be worn again tonight. Emma buttoned up the pencil dress over her naked body while George pulled on just his trousers and shirt.
They opened the bathroom door and stepped into the lounge only to find raised voices and arguments raging everywhere!
The other ten candidates had split into small groups of impassioned yellers, so caught up in their arguing that they hardly noticed the two bathers escaping to the bedroom.
The beds were a mess with duvets and pillows all over the floor and clothes partially emptied from various bags and cases onto different mattresses and surfaces around the room. Being the only two people in the room, they sat down on the neatest of the double beds, a little further away from the other beds.
As they were sorting out their luggage, George found one of the free condom packets he had been talking about and tossed it over to Emma. “See if you can find a brand name on that.”
Emma held the small packet and felt the rubbery ring inside it. It always turned her on to handle a sealed condom packet. There was some stamped codes on the outside of the packet but no distinct branding. “Do you think there might be a brand name on the condom itself?” She asked.
“I wouldn’t want to open it just for it to go to waste.” He reasoned. “Maybe we’ll find out, sooner or later.” He winked at Emma as he spoke, unsure how she’d take it.
She ripped the top of the small packet open. “How about sooner, rather than later?” She flicked her eyebrows suggesting they put the condom to use right there and then.
At that point, the door opened and the rest of the candidates poured into the bedroom. Emma palmed the open condom packet and slid her hands underneath her thighs, keeping it out of sight.
“We’re going to have a vote…” The loudest of the fringe candidates announced. “…on who gets to sleep in which bed. There are six beds and twelve of us so…”
“Actually,” the PM interrupted “there are ten of you, bickering over those five beds. We are happy with this one. Sort yourselves out, stick some cushions down the middle of each bed if you have to and get some sleep. It will be a long day tomorrow.”
No sooner had he said that, the house was plunged into darkness as midnight was lights-out time, and no one but the TV producers had any say over that.
In the darkness, it was easy to forget that night-vision cameras were still operating and the live stream continued.
Emma slid the open condom packet over to George who took it from her. She unbuttoned her pencil dress, revealing to the nighttime audience her naked body once again. As the other candidates clattered and fumbled their way around in the darkness trying to get organised, Emma climbed over the bed, on her knees, to find the Prime Minister.
She clasped her hand around his neck to orient his head so she could plant a kiss on his lips. His mouth welcomed hers and they both made light work of his shirt buttons as they made out. With his top off she pushed him back on the bed and unbuckled his trousers, pulling them down to reveal his penis, now growing stiffer by the moment.
Without hesitation, she wrapped her hand around his “semi” and began stroking it with a corkscrewing, twisting motion. What was happening on laptop and phone screens around the country would have been a national scandal just a few years ago, but the nation’s insatiable appetite for sexual content was already being reflected in more mainstream TV productions.
Instead of harming the PM, or the candidate’s chances, the couple making love on their screens were only becoming more popular in the view of the late-night electorate.
The Prime Minister lay back on the bed as his beautiful rival masturbated him in the dark. She wished she could see his expression but she’d have to wait until the end of the six weeks to watch it back. She loved that so many people were in the room, oblivious to the two naked lovers on the end bed, while they all scrambled to pick and choose half a bed to sleep on.
Emma spread her knees apart and rubbed her pussy with her left hand while stroking him with her right. As it became more and more difficult to prop herself up on her elbow and stroke him with that hand, she held his erection still and leaned forward to clasp her mouth around it. The PM’s eyes closed, his hand rested on her shoulder and he had completely zoned out from the rest of the room. Her warm wet mouth was a welcome precursor for what was about to happen.
Now that he was fully hard, he slid the condom wrapper down to his groin. As she deep-throated him, she felt the metallic packet against her cheek. She came up for air and stroked her saliva and his pre cum all over his penis making it extremely slick. She took the condom out of its packet and carefully rolled it out over his erection as far as she could. Her hands still covered in his precum, she lubed up the outside of the condom with a few more strokes and knew her own body’s natural lube would do the rest. She straddled him and held his hard-on straight up as she impaled herself on it. Slowly lowering her whole body weight until she was sitting on his hips with his full length deep inside her.
His cock throbbed, fully tumescent inside her. His hands glided up her body to cup and caress her breasts, feeling her highly erect nipples pressing into his palms. He gently, almost imperceptibly, rocked his pelvis up and down. She rotated hers. She could feel the slick latex sheath around his firmness, moving against the enveloping flesh of her vagina. Her clitoris mashed against his pubic bone again and again.
The others in the room had settled down, without a vote, on their nearest bed. Besides George and Emma, there were four other women and six other men. When push came to shove, the women chose to pair off straight away meaning the men had to pair off too. While the women were comfortable enough in their own skins to share a bed without any barriers the men formed walls of clothes and pillows to prevent even the slightest hint that they were anything less than manly, straight men.
Meanwhile, the lead politician in the room remained balls-deep in his new favourite person, who in turn was only too willing to enjoy the feeling of the country’s most powerful man preparing to ejaculate, albeit into a state-sponsored condom, inside her.
They remained tight-lipped, managing their breath as quietly as seemed prudent. Even though they were aware the public (ie voters) could watch their naked copulation, the two midnight lovers weren’t interested in letting their fellow housemates make a big deal about it.
George grasped Emma’s thighs and squeezed, crunched his abs and held his pelvis in an upward thrust, letting her know his climax was imminent. She tilted forward on her hips so her clit was fully pressed against him when he came. His body spasmed a couple of times making it clear his semen was shooting into his latex sheath. Emma rode the wave of his orgasm and enjoyed the pleasure ringing through her body from her mound to her mind. It wasn’t a full orgasm, but it was still an enormous thrill to have made the Prime Minister come, just hours after meeting him.
With one hand she held onto the ring of rubber at the base of his shaft and lifted herself off him. The sound it made was unmistakable if anyone else in the room was paying attention. The smell too would have been recognisable if it wasn’t disguised by the unfamiliarity of the new surroundings everyone was in.
Emma grabbed the PM’s damp boxer briefs and carefully wrapped them around his penis as she removed the condom, cleaning up the excess mess around his member. There was something special about the weight and feel of a cum-laden condom, he took the condom from her and tied a knot in it while she wiped around his genitals with his shorts. She used them to wipe her wet vagina clean and then wrapped the used condom in them. She tucked the soiled garment under the bed for the time being and snuggled in with him, pulling the covers over to hide their nudity from the world of voyeurs glued to their phone screens.
As he climbed down from his crescendo, George was confident he’d learn at his morning briefing, how his ‘Prima Nocte’ in The House had been received by the public. But one thing was certain. The front page headlines were not going to be about anything else.
