Jacqui Smith's Ultimate Fantasy Porno

Today's news about Jacqui Smith paying for porn out of the taxpayer's coffers has got my imagination flowing. Smith denies any wrongdoing, as well she might, saying that her husband was solely responsible for the purchasing and viewing of the erotic sex fest, and all subsequent baton-pounding thereto. Of course, this may or may not be true, but I'm inclined towards it being true. If it is a cover-up and whacky Jacqui was indeed the one doing the whacking, then that means she not only took time out from her favourite hobby (systematically eroding 1000 years worth of human rights legislation), but that she's given up the habit of a lifetime and stopped masturbating in front of her own hideous reflection. And that I find hard to believe.

So, basically, I don't think Jacqui Smith would be sexually gratified by the softcore nipple-twiddling and twat-bothering which is available on Television X. I believe that the Home Secretary's tastes are far more developed, far more nuanced and far more depraved than anything Virgin Media has to offer. In Jacqui Smith's ideal pornographic film, events would probably play out something like this.

This is basically what she thinks of human rights for brown people.

Waterboarding makes Jacqui Smith wet.

Jacqui is in her sister's flat which is also, conveniently, her main residence. Draped in a velvet dressing gown, she enjoys a candlelit evening making exaggerated and falsified claims on her parliamentary expenses form. A knock at the door disrupts her concentration.

"Good heavens," she exclaims. "Who could that be at this time of night?" (It's 7 pm). She gets up and sweeps towards the door.

In her doorway looms the giant, imposing figure of a police officer. He twirls a massive truncheon in his hands (sexual metaphor) and his calm facial expression belies his frustration with his latest meagre payrise. She pulls the door open with trepidation.

"Good evening officer," says the timid Jacqui. "Can I help you?"
"Evening, madam," he replies. "Mind if I come in?"
"Do you have a warrant?" she asks, nervously.
"Under the Terrorism Act, I don't need a warrant to perform a search of your person, Ms Smith," he responds curtly.

Jacqui's pulse skyrockets. This was just what she wanted him to say, this whole scenario dreamt about since the incarnation of that particular act. Finally the Terrorism Act would allow all her erotic desires to come true. She beckons the officer into her lounge.

"How did you know I was in?" asks Jacqui.
"CCTV. This whole street is wired up. We've been watching your every move."
"Oh my!" Jacqui's raw excitement lightens up her bulbous eyes.

The officer asks for some identification. Eagerly, Jacqui dives into her purse and presents her National Identity Card.

"It was very expensive," she tells the officer. "But I think it's beautiful."
"You can't put a price on national security," responds the policeman. Shudders of pleasure rip through Jacqui's body. "Now, Ms Smith," he continues. "Do you have any illegal substances on the premises?"

"Of course not!" Jacqui is quite indignant. "I only did drugs in the eighties when they were fine. They're awful now, just ask a scientist! Don't forget to ignore everything he says though, because scientists don't actually know anything."

The policeman looks confused. "Carry on like that, Ms Smith, and you'll be in the cells on suspicion."
She gasps. "You'll hold me... without charge?"
"If needs be."
Jacqui practically explodes. 42 days in police custody without a formal charge. It's her wildest fantasy, and he knows it. He knows just what to say to make her whole body throb with anticipation.

"What now, officer?" she whispers, lip quivering.
"I think it's time... for some extraordinary rendition." He stares straight at her. "Of my shit. Into your mouth."
She faints on the floor in a fit of sexual ecstasy. (Not actual ecstasy, mind you, that would be illegal.)

After they're done, she gazes lovingly into his eyes as he wipes the mess off her face with a copy of the UN declaration of human rights. Doing so only makes her want more. Jacqui's face now clean, he gingerly prises himself out of the bed and rummages around on the floor, collecting his ripped and soiled clothes. "I should have told you before," he whispers. "But I'm only a PCSO." There is a tear in her eye as he clambers down the stairs, never to be seen again. She knows their love can never be.

As he walks off into the sunset, Jacqui reaches down to find her briefcase. Choking back tears, she starts filling in a parliamentary expenses form to get the carpet cleaned.

Permalink || Posted 29/3/2009 by Pete

4 comments »«

  1. Heath & Ken - 29/3/2009 - 5:41pm

    Very good Peter, we laughed.

    Glad you got a haircut last year. About time, too.

  2. Mr Charles Boon III - 29/3/2009 - 5:47pm

    Dear sir,

    I am very impressed by your literary wonders, my mangina was positively tingling with excitement throughout. Subsequently I would like to extend an offer to you which would have you become responsible for the new Mills and Boon 'Politarotica' Collection.

    Yours,

    C

  3. Jacqui Smith - 29/3/2009 - 7:03pm

    I'll have you in an orange jumpsuit sooner than you know you cheeky little shit.

  4. PCSO - 17/5/2009 - 11:05am

    I'm arresting you under anti-terror legislation. We have 28 days to up the law to 90days or push you over to death in your cells!

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