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David is pale and shaking as they climb down from the stage, with nerves or fury, Alan can’t tell which.
A few of the others try to follow them, but Alan manages to shoo them away, and the audience- the Party- clear a path for them. Some lower their eyes, ashamed to face their leader after dealing him such a humiliating defeat, but others wear triumphant smiles, celebrating their victory over... what? The leadership? The Alliance? The Americans? The past? They are so very young, most of them; Alan cannot find it in his heart to blame them, although they have put their leaders in an impossible position. They have the idealism of the young, and they voted for hope, for unity, for peace.
And against David.
David walks with single-minded determination through the milling crowd, as if he can see neither their triumph nor their shame. Alan trails behind helplessly at his elbow. He’s known this was coming since last night, he tried to warn David, but there’s a stubborn optimism in David that won’t let him see when he’s fighting a losing battle. It’s an essential trait in a Liberal leader, the only weapon they have- David’s energy in the face of impossible odds won Alan his seat, once upon a time- but it’s a double-edged sword. David’s confidence can sway the voters or the Party, but when it fails to move them it leaves him high and dry, looking like a fool.
Yesterday it worked. David will have his alliance, for all the failures of the last one. The Party was doubtful, but he was so eager, so very, very sure, and in the end he convinced them. They’ll be in government this time, a proper coalition. It won’t be like the Lib-Lab Pact, where they were just important enough to be blamed for everything that went wrong. The country will have a moderate government at last, a sane alternative to rightwing fanaticism of the the Thatcherites and the Marxist madness of the Bennites, and at last the Liberals’ long winter of political irrelevance will be over. The Alliance is the first step toward a brighter, more democratic future, and the Conference will always vote for the future. When David can tap into the Party’s idealism, he can lead them through the gates of Hell.
When he can’t, he cannot lead them at all. Their activists are independently minded and intrinsically mistrustful of authority, and the views of the leadership carry no special weight with them. Their utopian vision of a bright Liberal future does not contain a Britain bristling with American cruise missiles, and they simply will not vote for one. It’s not about David, although over the past few years he’s made himself more enemies than the leader of so small a party can afford. If William Gladstone had risen from his grave and urged the Conference to reject the motion, Alan suspects it would have passed all the same.
They won’t understand that on Fleet Street. They’ll blame David, they say that he’s weak for failing to carry his party with him. Or worse, they will understand, and they’ll say it means the Liberals as a whole are fundamentally unsuited to government. David probably believes both. He is first and foremost a politician, not a policy maker. He has never had much patience for detail or the foibles or weaknesses of his party faithful. To him no doubt the choice seemed obvious: they must have the alliance with the SDP to be elected, the two parties must have a unified defense policy to make the alliance credible, and the SDP won’t budge on Cruise, therefore the Liberals must also support it.
But that pragmatic stance has been overwhelmingly rejected by the Conference- by two of their own MPs, no less, sitting up there with them on the stage, and didn’t Alan just want to crawl under the table and die when David Alton began applauding as the total was read out. A lesser leader would blame Alan. He is the Chief Whip, after all; he’s supposed to make sure Conference goes smoothly, and this vote has been the worst catastrophe for the leadership since Jeremy set eyes on Norman Scott.
It wouldn’t even be unfair. Their side was a disaster up on stage. David Penhaligon was as engaging as ever, but his assertion that a yes-vote would bring about a second D-Day in which the Soviet Union invaded Britain was a bridge too far. Alan could see incredulous eyebrows lifting all around the hall. Richard Moore’s characterization of the motion as an emotional spasm passed by the warm-hearted and the soft-headed won them no votes and probably lost a few; it certainly lowered the tone of the debate. And speaking in favor of the motion Paddy Ashdown proved himself a magnificent orator, passionate and convincing, and neatly sidestepped the twin traps of hyperbole and condescension into which their own speakers blindly stumbled. No one arguing for their side was half so good.
Alan should have found a way to shift the balance somehow. He should have found better speakers or vetted their speeches more thoroughly or canvassed more of the membership before the vote or... something. Found a magic spell to raise Gladstone from the dead, maybe. But he was too worried about securing the Alliance vote to think much about this one, and by the time he realized where it was heading, it was too late. He doesn’t even know what he did wrong, that’s the worst of it. If he could learn from his mistakes, if he could honestly convince himself that next time he’ll do better, he won’t let David down...
But David will never fault him for it. He’s too good a man to blame his misfortunes on his subordinates. Instead he’ll blame the Party, which is dangerous, or himself, which is fatal. The swiftest route to electoral oblivion is a leader who has lost his self-confidence. They need David’s optimism, his ambition, his fervent conviction that the Liberals belong in Government and he can put them there. If he doesn’t believe that he can take on Goliath, they are lost.
David is angling for the front doors, trying to get out, away from the crowd and the scene of his humiliation and into the cool salt air. Alan shares the impulse, but if they dare to venture out onto the front steps they’re going to have a hundred microphones shoved in their faces, a hundred flashbulbs going off. The last thing they need now is David’s pale, tight face plastered across the papers. As they come into the atrium he catches David’s elbow.
“Not that way. Let’s go out the back, David, come on.”
David jerks to a halt as if Alan has cut his strings. His head droops.
“They’re right,” he whispers, so low that Alan can scarcely make out the words. “I can’t control my own party. What will I tell Roy? What will I tell David?”
It breaks Alan’s heart to hear him sound so broken. There’s nothing to be said, really, but Alan is a professional politician. It’s his life’s work to wrap problems in words until the sharp edges are blunted.
“It’s not a unilateralist motion. They didn’t reject NATO, or the idea that NATO should be a nuclear alliance. It’s just- just the cruise missiles...”
David turns to look at him, and there is such raw terror in his eyes that Alan trails off, all the reassuring platitudes he’s prepared for the press slipping away in the face of that fear. He knows that feeling all too well, that sense that the ground is crumbling beneath his feet and leaving him in free fall, that he’s cocked everything up and let everyone down and the Party will collapse and it will all be because of him. They exist on the edge of a knife, with none of the inertia or the institutional advantages that protect the larger parties. They all know that a relapse back to the bad old single-digit days is just an election away.
Alan feels sometimes like the Liberal Party is a Ming vase or a Fabergé egg, something old and fragile and precious that has been foolishly entrusted to his care, a treasure that could slip from his fingers and shatter at any moment. However crushing that fear is for Alan, it must be a hundred times worse for David. Being the Chief Whip is an exhausting, thankless job, but at least he doesn’t have the entire country scrutinizing his every move, just waiting for him to fail. All he has to do is keep the Party working together. It’s impossible, but not nearly as impossible as David’s task of getting them into government.
That task will be harder now, after this vote, and Alan shudders to think how David Owen will react to the news. The other three are friendly, but Owen hates them; he’s made that clear from the outset, and he triumphantly brandishes any failure of David’s as proof that his party’s new allies are useless. If David could put the criticism in the proper perspective it wouldn’t be so bad, but for some reason beyond mortal comprehension he actually likes the bastard, and he seems to take it all to heart. When Denis Healey insulted them David used to throw it right back at him, but when Owen launches into one of his sneering diatribes he just looks down at his hands and quietly apologizes. Their next meeting with the SDP is going to be a nightmare.
Alan can’t fix the conference resolution or David Owen’s personality disorder, but he may be able to fix David. It’s a slapdash repair, bailing wire and chewing gum to hold the Party together, but it works, at least for a little while, and years of bitter campaigning have taught them to use anything they can. The Liberals don’t have the resources to be choosy.
He takes up his leader’s hand in his. Someone’s palm is damp, Alan isn’t sure whose.
“Come with me.”
David looks at him. The fear in his eyes has ebbed back a little, to be replaced by some shuttered emotion Alan cannot read. Nothing pleasant, judging by the tense set of his jaw. When Alan tugs his hand, David follows him without a word.
They don’t have much time. David Penhaligon can be trusted to hold down the fort for a while, and Cyril and Clement are always good for a diversion, but the Leader and the Chief Whip can’t simply disappear in the midst of a party conference. And that’s not the only problem. It’s not like it is in London, alone together all week long with their wives three hundred and fifty miles away in the Borders. Conference forms a strange bridge between their two worlds, the narrow corridors of Westminster with their dark wood and expensive wallpaper and arcane customs and shifting alliances, and the muddy fields of their distant, rural constituencies, bright with sunlight and sheep and family. Alan isn’t entirely sure what the rules are here. Is it cheating, proper cheating, to do it here in Llandudno when their wives are with them?
But he can see that David needs this, and he doubts Judy can give it to him. And Alan can’t let him face the cameras, the state he’s in. If they’re quick they can do it and nip back to the conference before their absence becomes too conspicuous.
David walks beside him in silence all the way back to the hotel. He doesn’t ask where they’re going, but they have to pause to wait for a car to pass and when they set out again he takes the lead, so he must have figured it out on his own. Well, perhaps it’s not so hard to guess. Where else would Alan be taking him? David’s not so lost to himself that he can’t recognize his black mood, and they’ve only had one way of dealing with his frustration, ever since that day four years ago when Alan caught him shouting at Cyril about his latest indiscreet comment to the papers.
“I’m the Chief Whip, not Cyril. I’m the one responsible for handling the press. If you’re going to punish someone, punish me,” Alan had said, trying to stop the argument before someone said something unforgivable, and David had been so furious at the interference that he’d taken him up on it.
He was ashamed of himself, after; he’d apologized profusely and even bought Alan a fruit basket, which probably said all that needed to be said about the sort of man he was. Most senior politicians wouldn’t have felt the need to make amends for getting a little rough with a subordinate, and if they did, they would have tried to fill in the rift with political favors, not grapes and a pineapple. But Alan could see that David was calmer afterward, less critical, less easily provoked, more patient with the Party and himself. The next time Denis Healey condescendingly dismissed their objections to the budget and left them all seething, Alan offered himself again. And again, when Clement let his sharp tongue get the better of his common sense at their weekly meeting, and again after the Bournemouth East by-election, until it became a settled thing between them. David can’t look him in the eye the next morning, but he never turns Alan down.
“We’ll use my room,” David says as they come into the hotel lobby. “Judy’s taken the children down to the seaside; they won’t be back until this evening.”
That’s not as reassuring as it might be. The Irish Sea is bloody cold this late in September, as Alan and Barbara discovered on their first day here when they tried to go for a romantic evening stroll along the beach. They only managed about two minutes of wading before they beat a chilled and inglorious retreat back to the hotel for hot drinks and thicker socks. Hopefully the young Steels have inherited their parents’ Scottish hardiness, or realized the promise in their surname, and won’t come rushing back to David’s room at an inopportune moment, but can they rely on it?
Alan opens his mouth to voice this concern, but he takes another look at David and reconsiders. Perhaps it’s better not to challenge him. He spoke cheerfully enough, but Alan can see the tension in the rigid line of his shoulders, the sharp planes of his face. He’s a round little chap usually, with his pot belly and his cheeks dimpled with laughter, but when he’s like this he goes all to angles. Alan hates it. It’s like a stranger is wearing David’s skin.
He follows the stranger across the gleaming tiles of the lobby, but he hesitates for a moment at the foot of the stairs, struggling to make himself step onto the carpet runner. This may have been his idea, but it’s still painful, and in this mood David is a little frightening. Alan always has to nerve himself up to it. Two steps above him, David turns and fixes him with a stranger’s gaze, his blue eyes as cold and remote as the waves lapping at the shore across the road from the hotel.
“Alan,” he says, just two clipped syllables, but the warning in it jolts Alan forward onto the stairs and sends a shameful wave of desire coursing through him. David is all wrong like this, but there’s something compelling about it, something that draws Alan to him despite himself. When he was a child his father shaved with a straight razor, and Alan used to sneak into the bathroom after he’d sharpened it and touch the forbidden blade. He would test the tip against his finger, pressing so delicately that he only cut himself once. It wasn’t about hurting himself, it was the potential of it, the thrill of placing himself in such close proximity to something he knew could slice his fingers to the bone.
Blade-faced David is even better than the razor, because Alan no longer has to worry about pressing too hard. That’s all out of his hands. It’s up to David, and Alan just has to trust that beneath the sharpness there’s enough of their David left to stop before he takes things too far and Alan gets hurt, that his trust and his obedience will call David back to himself in time. So far David has never let him down, but the knowledge that he could goes straight to Alan’s cock. It’s not very sensible, but then, common sense has only a passing acquaintance with sex, or with the Liberal Party. Alan grips the banister hard, willing both fear and arousal to subside until they’re behind closed doors, and follows David up the stairs.
The hotel’s decorating scheme tends heavily to floral patterns and lace borders, and there seem to be little white doilies on every surface that hasn’t been upholstered with tapestry roses. Alan has been afraid to touch anything in his own room, haunted by vague memories of childhood scoldings for smudging Nan’s furnishings with his grubby fingers. It’s an incongruous backdrop for what they’re about to do, and at the threshold of David’s room Alan freezes again, overwhelmed by the froth of lace even more than by the bottles of makeup he can see scattered across the dressing table.
It’s one thing to do this by lamplight after a long day at the House, on the sofa of David’s ratty little flat surrounded by party leaflets and copies of Hansard. It seems far more sordid to do it in the bright light of day, in this citadel of frilly femininity surrounded by Judy Steel’s things. If he’d remembered what the bedding was like here he would never have dared to propose it, or at the very least suggested they go to another hotel. Even if that one proved just as lacy- and Alan can’t be sure it wouldn’t; Llandudno is that sort of town- it would have spared him the shame of sleeping with poor Judy’s husband in her own bed. He is suddenly very glad he didn’t suggest using his room.
David seems to have no such qualms. He strides briskly over to the bed and seats himself on the floral duvet, smoothing his trousers and then giving Alan an inquiring look when he fails to join him.
“Come in and lock the door,” he says at length, when it becomes apparent to both of them that Alan is incapable of moving on his own. His tone is mild, but there’s the same firmness in it that Alan heard on the stairs, and again it unlocks his legs. David is good at giving orders, and it’s easy to follow them if Alan can let his mind go quiet and trust David do the thinking for both of them. He cannot give him the Party’s unquestioning obedience, but he can offer him his own.
“You’d best fetch us a hand towel,” he says, when Alan has done as he was instructed. Alan blushes- that’s for him, so his cock doesn’t dribble all over David’s suit- and goes into the bathroom to get one. The towels are fluffy and white, perhaps the only things in the hotel unembellished by floral embroidery, but the box of tissues on the counter has indigo pansies printed on it and it’s sitting on a doily. Alan snatches a towel off the rack, feeling rather like he’s stealing it from his nan, and retreats hastily back into the bedroom.
“Good,” David says, accepting it and laying it over his lap. “Now strip. Set your clothes down on the chair.”
Alan struggles to undo his tie, painfully conscious of David’s cool gaze upon him, and of the growing bulge in his trousers that is not mirrored in David’s lap. This part isn’t about sex for David. They didn’t sleep together at all, the first time; David just pinned him to the wall and hit him until he split Alan’s lip and saw the blood on his knuckles and came back to himself with a guilty start. He apologized frantically, almost in tears, and fled Alan’s office, leaving Alan puzzled and alarmed and awkwardly attempting to conceal an unexpected erection. The note that accompanied the fruit basket the next day made no mention of it.
But when Alan offered the second time, there was a certain understanding in David’s eyes, and when he finished beating him- his belt, that time, hard and fast across Alan’s arse as he bent over his own desk in the Chief Whip’s office until his sobs turned into hiccuping pleas for mercy- he casually stripped out of his clothing and sat himself on top of Alan’s desk, spreading his legs in silent invitation. It’s what makes their arrangement possible, Alan suspects. David would never accept a sacrifice, but he’s willing to make an exchange. Alan gives him a release for his anger, and in return he gets Alan off.
It doesn’t make it any less humiliating to undress beneath his indifferent appraisal, knowing that the lust he feels for his leader is not reciprocated, that his naked body leaves David cold. Or maybe it’s just that David can’t feel anything but fury when he’s like this, because he’ll warm up later, when they get around to the actual sex. He always comes and he seems to enjoy himself, so Alan must not be completely repulsive to him.
He fumbles his way out of shirt and trousers, nearly losing his balance as he pulls off his socks and catching himself on the chair at the last minute. David- a slightly blurry David, now that Alan has taken off his glasses- watches him in silence, his face unreadable. At last Alan is ready, and he stands before his leader wearing nothing but his skin. Perhaps it was David’s palm that was damp back at Conference, but Alan’s are positively dripping now, and with no trousers to wipe them on he can only clutch them together behind his back in an uneasy parade rest and hope David won’t notice. The position just makes him aware of the pricking sensation in his armpits as they begin sweating too, until he’s sure David can smell the acrid, metallic scent of his fear from where he’s sitting. He’s cold, his soon-to-be-battered skin hypersensitive to every little draft of air, and he wishes they would just get on with it, but it’s not for him to initiate.
Finally David takes pity on him, or grows tired of watching him fidget.
“Over my lap,” he says, and Alan obeys, his half-hard cock bobbing absurdly between his legs as he walks over to the bed. He lays himself across the towel, a bit aslant so he can prop his elbows on the bed, and rests his chin on his folded arms. The terrycloth is fluffy and warm beneath him, comforting against his chilled skin, but Alan is acutely aware that very soon he’ll be much warmer than he wants to be. David runs a hand lightly over his arse, a gentle threat.
“Ready?” he asks, but it’s a rhetorical question. They begin whenever David wants to begin, and they end when he decides Alan has had enough. If Alan breaks down and begs for mercy he’ll usually stop, but Alan tries to be brave, to take whatever David wants to give him. It feels like he’s cheating David out of his catharsis if he calls a halt to the session too early.
David starts off slow, light slaps that leave Alan’s arse tingling and feed his arousal until it’s all he can do not to rut against the towel. They’ve found it bruises less when David eases into it, and while Alan can plead exhaustion to Barbara for the length of the Conference and keep his bottom safely concealed by his pyjamas, she’s sure to notice if her husband suddenly takes to sleeping on his stomach. David will sleep easier as well, Alan suspects, knowing that he’ll be able to sit again in a few hours. He always looks terribly guilty if he catches Alan wincing the next day.
He’s more than happy to make Alan wince now, though, and gasp and whimper and squirm. It’s not long before the smacks grow harder and the pain starts building, a stinging burn that worsens with every blow. Sometimes David will rail at his enemies while he beats him, pounding his grievances into Alan’s skin, but today he works in silence and the hiss of Alan’s indrawn breath and the crack of hand against flesh are very loud in the still room. In London there’s always some sound to muffle it, the steady hum of life in the Palace of Westminster or the murmur of traffic outside David’s flat. In Llandudno in late September at 1:00 on a Thursday afternoon, nothing is moving. But for Judy’s purple scarf that Alan can see crumpled on the bedside table, he and David might be the only people in the world, as if that feared nuclear war has come and gone and left behind just the two of them and a hotel room full of lace.
Their solitude only serves to focus Alan’s attention exactly where he doesn’t want it- on the circle of fire David is mapping across his buttocks and the tops of his thighs. David has soft little hands, like a girl’s, but they don’t feel soft now, and their small size is a false comfort. Pressure is force divided by area, after all, and Alan is getting a memorable lesson in the practical application of that equation. He twists and writhes across David’s lap, trying to offer up some patch of undamaged skin to the sharp blows, but David has been covering the ground thoroughly and no matter how Alan squirms he finds no relief. Every inch of his bottom is ablaze with pain, and he knows from experience that he’s not yet feeling the full strength of David’s arm.
He clenches his fists on the duvet, trying to distract himself with the tightness of his grip, but it’s no good. The minor discomfort of his strained fingers is drowned out entirely by the soreness in his arse, which erupts into a bright new starburst of agony with every smack. Despite his valiant attempts at stoicism, he finds himself whimpering each time David’s hand comes down, and he can feel the hot pressure of incipient tears behind his eyelids. Given that he’s bollock naked and sporting a raging hard-on while his leader puts him over his knee and smacks his bottom like a naughty child, the cause of dignity was probably lost several minutes ago, but Alan still struggles to hold them back for as long he can. It’s a sop to his pride, and it gives David something to work toward.
But perhaps his more immediate objective should be to stop Alan from falling off his lap. Alan’s hips are resting on David’s thigh but most of his weight is still being supported by his legs, and every time he kicks- and he can’t stop himself from kicking; his mind wants to cooperate but his body knows only that it is suffering and it must somehow break free of its torment- he loses his balance and starts sliding backward. Alan digs his bare toes into the carpet, trying to push himself back up where he belongs, but it’s the sort of hotel carpet with a short, slick pile and he can’t get any purchase. David puts a hand on the small of his back, trying to hold him in place, but at last gravity overpowers both of them and Alan slips off his lap and falls to his knees beside the bed.
He looks up at his leader, blinking back tears. David looks a little better now. The exertion has brought a healthy pink flush to his cheeks and his eyes seem kinder. But they’re not done, they can’t be anywhere near done, and Alan should be clambering back over David’s lap but then the spanking will start again and he just can’t. His head is thrumming with pain and lust and everything seems hazy and distant, even the sound of his own ragged breath. He gropes out blindly for something to anchor him and his fingers close on the lacy border of the valance, but the burning soreness across his bottom and down the tops of his thighs is still too much and even the roughness of the fabric doesn’t feel quite real.
Then David lays a hand on the top of his head, and instantly everything is better. It’s the simple act of physical contact, the way the body is so aware of any foreign touch. It makes the spanking far more painful than anything Alan could inflict on himself, but it means David can bring the world back into focus again just with the gentle weight of his hand. The pain ebbs back a little, and Alan closes his eyes and leans against David’s knee, trying to even out his breathing. David pats him on the head once and takes his hand away, and Alan can hear the hiss of leather sliding across fabric and the soft clink of metal as he unbuckles his belt.
“Ten with this,” he says, stroking the doubled belt lightly over Alan’s bare back. “Ten with this and then we’re done.”
“Where do you want me?” Alan asks, and his voice is rough but he’s proud of how little it wobbles.
“Oh, back over my knee, I think,” David says airily, and muscles Alan didn’t realize he was tensing go slack with relief. David can’t whip him nearly as hard when he’s in his lap as he can if he puts him across the back of a chair or makes him bend over the bed. The angle isn’t quite right, and there’s less room to swing. Alan opens his eyes and stands up, and David scoots back a little on the bed.
“Put your legs up this time so you don’t slide off again,” he instructs, and Alan obeys, crawling over the twining roses of the duvet to lay himself over David’s lap. His arse throbs reproachfully at this betrayal, but the short break has given him a chance to catch his breath and shore up his resolve, and the panicky misery of a minute before seems a distant memory. They’re almost finished, and ten with the belt on his already raw skin will hurt like hell, but it won’t kill him. He can take this.
Then the belt cracks down, leaving a band of fire in its wake, and Alan reconsiders. Somehow it’s always worse than he remembers. Another stroke, another burning line, like David’s laid a hot poker against his arse. He grabs the duvet again, not in any hope of distracting himself from the pain this time but because he’s afraid he’ll reach back to try to shield his bottom if he doesn’t, and David brings the belt down once more, and then again, and Alan is weeping freely now, big hot tears plopping down onto his clenched fists and the burgundy roses. Another stroke, a crack like a gunshot which is honestly how it feels against his arse, but they’re half done now.
The belt comes down again and Alan kicks so hard his foot jars David’s elbow, but he knows David won’t be angry because he’s stroking Alan’s hair with his free hand and telling him how well he’s doing, how bravely he’s taking the beating, which comes as a bit of a mixed message when he lays another stripe of fire across Alan’s arse an instant later. But there are only three left now and that’s survivable, even though they come down one after another in a white-hot blur of agony and there’s a moment between strokes nine and ten when Alan wishes they were lethal after all, if only his death could bring an end to the pain. Then the belt slams into him a final time and it’s all over, and David is laying it aside and rubbing soothing circles across his shoulder blades as he sobs into the duvet.
The pain recedes to something a little less overwhelming, a throbbing soreness instead of the flaming inferno that flared up with every stroke of the belt, and Alan manages to get a grip on himself and wipe away some of his tears. He sits up very gingerly, putting his weight on the outside of this thigh, which unlike his scorched bottom has only been lightly toasted during the thrashing. He leans on David for balance, and his leader wraps a comforting arm around him and lets Alan rest his head on his shoulder. Alan can see that he’s their David again. He’s smiling, and the roundness has come back into his face.
“Thank you,” David says softly, taking out his pocket handkerchief and dabbing away the tear tracks on Alan’s cheeks. He brushes Alan’s sweaty fringe back from his eyes, but the damp curls just bounce back again the second he takes his hand away. They both laugh, Alan a bit tearfully.
“You can’t know how much this helps,” he goes on, but Alan does. He can hear it in the fervency beneath the quiet words, he can see it in the sparkle that’s come back into David’s eyes. They’re almost a different color now, a shining sapphire instead of the flat cobalt he saw on the stairs, like the sea after the sun comes out from behind a cloud.
“It’s my pleasure,” Alan says, and it’s only half a lie.
“Speaking of which,” David says, a cheeky sharpness coming into the corners of his smile, and he reaches down into Alan’s lap.
Alan’s erection has waxed and waned during the course of the beating. The tip of his cock is damp and sticky with precum, so it’s a good thing David thought to get the towel, but the belting was painful enough that’s it’s gone soft again. Still, it’s a Liberal cock, and thus eternally optimistic and resilient in the face of adversity. David runs his nimble fingers along the underside and then gives the base a good squeeze, stroking along the length a few times, and it’s enough to coax it back to life.
“Just amuse yourself there for a wee while,” he says, taking up Alan’s hand and positioning it on Alan’s cock in place of his own, “and I’ll go see about lubrication.”
He stands up, gently easing Alan off his shoulder and down onto the bed. Alan winces as his sore arse comes into contact with the duvet, but by now the pressure is bearable, though unwelcome, and as he strokes himself the friction begins to transmute the pain into arousal. David is rummaging through the bottles on the dressing table. After a moment he picks up a white jar and holds it up to the light from the window, as if he’s hoping to spy some secret within. Since the container appears to be opaque, Alan is not optimistic about his chances.
“What do we think about cold cream?” he asks.
“It takes off makeup, doesn’t it? Won’t it hurt?”
“I don’t suppose it takes off makeup in the same way paint stripper takes off paint,” David says, laughing. “It’s meant to go on your skin, after all. Let’s try. If it stings I’ll wipe it off and we’ll find something else.”
He brings the jar back over to the bed and sits down, bending over to untie his shoes. Alan would help him undress, but his hand is already a bit sticky and they must keep their clothing clean at all costs. Liberals aren’t too fussy about fashion, but they’ll notice if their leader changes his suit in the middle of the day. So he sits and slowly strokes himself to hardness while David efficiently shucks off his clothing and drapes it over the bedside table. As stripteases go it’s not particularly enticing, even after David kneels on the bed, opens the cold cream, scoops up a generous dollop and starts working it into his arse. He can be frustratingly transactional when it comes to sex- or perhaps he’s not, and that’s the trouble, because Alan suspects professionals in this field deliver a bit more sizzle with the sausage.
Still, he’s very pretty, and however businesslike his manner Alan will never tire of watching David impale himself on his fingers. He’s still very much the Boy David who took the country by storm in 1965, despite the roundness of his belly and the threads of silver that have appeared in his dark hair. His face has kept that schoolboy delicacy, and as sordid as these assignations are there’s a quality in David that shines through, a sweet, fresh purity like a newly opened flower. Alan can almost understand why David Owen seems so eager to crush the life out of him. Seeing something so perfect, there’s an instinctive human impulse to rip it to shreds. Alan feels it too, but he’ll never take it further than mussing David’s hair a little when they make love, because in him the impulse to protect David, to build a greenhouse to shield that blossom from the harsh winds and droughts of political life, is far stronger.
Not that David really needs it. Far from being some dewy-eyed innocent, he’s the most ruthless pragmatist in their party, so much so that it alienates their supporters. And there’s no more vicious campaigner in all of Westminster, Alan knows that firsthand. But he’s so bloody nice, outside of politics. He’s still the sort of person who sends people fruit baskets, and Alan can’t bear to let disappointment and frustration curdle that kindness into something hard and cruel. He doesn’t want David to become full-time the man he followed up the stairs.
To Alan’s relief, the cold cream seems to have no ill effects. Satisfied with the preparation, David pulls his fingers out with an obscene pop and lies down amidst the drift of lace and roses at the head of the bed. He grabs the back of his knees, pulling his legs up to expose his glistening hole, and Alan crawls over the duvet to line himself up.
“Ready?” he asks, wrapping one hand around the base of his cock and stroking David’s knee with the other, because he can’t just grab him and shove his dick in, although he thinks sometimes that David might prefer it that way. He needs... well, foreplay would be nice, but failing that he needs some indication that David wants this. He needs an order.
“Go on,” David says. He leans back against the pillows and closes his eyes, his lips slightly parted to reveal a white gleam of teeth. David always closes his eyes during sex. If he’s thinking of someone else, Jeremy or David bloody Owen, he is much too polite to hint at it even in the throes of passion, but Alan can’t help wondering. He knows that it’s not him David wants, not really. They only sleep together after David spanks him. Alan has made a few hopeful approaches, but if David is in a good mood he just smiles and kindly turns him down, and Alan goes home alone, or with David Penhaligon, who’s always happy to offer a bit of comfort after a bleak day at the House or celebrate one of their rare victories in Alan’s bed.
Between Barbara and the other David Alan has a surfeit of lovers, and he knows he ought to be content. He ought to be content with either one of them. He couldn’t ask for a better wife than Barbara, and David Penhaligon’s warmth and energy should be enough to satisfy anyone; Alan feels exhausted sometimes just keeping up with him. But he can’t stop himself from longing for more from his leader, something deeper and kinder than this strange, secret bond forged from pain. He wants to take long walks with him, holding hands like teenaged sweethearts. He wants to go boating with him and share late-night takeaway dinners and hold him as he falls asleep. He wants to make David smile the way he smiles for David Owen, not the wistful little smile he gave Alan as he dried his tears but that huge, open-mouthed grin of sheer delight.
Instead they talk about politics, and sometimes David hits him and then they have sex. David is always the girl. Alan’s never been sure whether it’s meant to be a reward, or an apology, or a way of balancing the books between them, or penance, or David just likes it better this way. He’s never dared to ask. It seems like it would be more fair to switch off, but this thing between them isn’t about fairness. It’s about David giving the orders, and he’s never had a moment’s hesitation about slicking himself up and asking Alan to take him.
It would be a hard invitation to resist under any circumstances. David is so beautiful, lying there with his cheeks flushed with the first hint of arousal and his red lips parted as if they’re waiting for a kiss. They’re not- that’s another thing he and Alan never do- but the impossibility of it makes the idea all the more appetizing. At least Alan is allowed this intimacy. As he pushes in David exhales, a little sigh of release, and lets go of his legs to clutch at Alan’s hips, pulling him closer.
Alan wants to take his time, to be gentle with him, to make it good for him. He knows from experience how unpleasant this can be if one’s partner rushes into things- the other David gets a little too eager, sometimes- and David’s cock is still lying limply on his groin, just beginning to swell and redden. But David doesn’t want gentleness. He tugs at Alan, grinding their hips together, and Alan obeys the implicit instruction and drives into him with a few hard thrusts. David’s fingers are digging into his sore arse, spurring him on, and it’s so much easier to give in, to give him what he wants, to make it hurt.
David is slipping up the bed a bit, so Alan reaches a hand under him to adjust his position. If he lifts David’s hips a little he can deepen his thrusts and give him the thorough rogering he’s after. David’s legs are getting in the way, so Alan uses his free hand to push his left knee up to his shoulder, bending him double. The angle is much better for both of them like this, and the tension drains out of David’s limbs as Alan fucks him. He makes a soft little sound deep in his throat and goes pliant under him, his hands falling away from Alan’s hips. After a movement they reappear on his cock, tugging in time with Alan’s thrusts.
“Just- just like that, Alan,” he says. The order may not have quite the gravitas of his earlier instructions- breaking off in the middle to moan tends to have that effect- but Alan is glad to oblige.
He can’t last much longer. He’s been keyed up for so long, even before the spanking started, and it feels so good to be inside David, so hot and slick and tight. Alan would tell him so, but it feels presumptuous somehow. David is still his leader, and while he’s not immune to flattery, Alan suspects these are not the sort of compliments he wants from his subordinates. Instead he tries to express his appreciation by angling his thrusts to hit that spot that makes David whimper with pleasure.
He holds back for as long as he can, but he’s so close, and after a few more strokes the pressure is too much to resist. He spills himself inside David with a groan, his elbow giving way as all his muscles come undone with the relief of it. David opens his eyes and smiles faintly.
“Good, was it?”
As if he can’t already tell from the way Alan is half-collapsed on top of him. Alan pulls out and rolls off him so David can find his own release. For a minute he just lies there and catches his breath, but then he props himself up on his elbow and places a hand over David’s.
“Let me?” he asks, and David takes his hand away, letting Alan stroke him until he bites his lip and comes in a messy spatter all over his stomach and Alan’s forearm.
“Do you know what we did with that towel?” David asks, and Alan leans over him to retrieve it. David wipes them clean- Alan first; he’s always so considerate- and then wads up the towel and chucks it over the side of the bed. He lies back against the pillows, sated and content. Alan lies down beside him, and after a moment David reaches over and clasps his hand.
Everything is soft: the lacy pillows, the afternoon light coming through the window panes, David’s hand on his. Soon they will have to go back to face the cameras and the questions and the chaotic whirl of Conference, and the day after tomorrow they must return to London and face the SDP. It doesn’t seem like much to set against all that, this little patch job that is all Alan can offer his leader, or at any rate all David will accept. But looking at the peace on David’s face, he thinks perhaps it might be enough. Alan rests his head on the pillow and closes his eyes, emptying his mind and listening to the whispered rhythm of their mingled breath until the the distant cry of a gull drifts in through the window and drags them back into the world.