Date: Sat, 14 Feb 2009 15:20:14 +0000
From: Kevin Berry <kgberrywriting@hotmail.co.uk>
Subject: Boris Johnson's Other Side

This story is NOT TRUE! None of the people in this story have done any of
the things I suggest they do in it. Nor have I, it's pure fiction. If
you're too young for your country's law to read this, don't. If you don't
like the idea of men getting a little sexy with each other, don't read
it! If you do, I hope you love Boris Johnson as much as I do, and I hope
it gets you nice and hard and horny. If you like it, please tell me...
it's what keeps writers going (cos it makes them fucking horny). I'm
kgberrywriting@hotmail.co.uk (and I have copyright on this story, please
don't steal it. If you want to use it, ask me! I'll probably allow you.)

Unzip, get comfy, and get ready for the ride!

Boris Johnson's Other Side

I am a Londoner, born and bred. I love London, it is my home and I am
sensible enough to care about the politics that run the place. That's
why, when it came around to the time to vote for the new mayor, there was
only one man I was going to vote for. Boris Johnson. His debonair but
carefree style, his sharp wit and intense humour balanced by his
no-nonsense attitude to policy - there was no other. Even his hair, the
way he kept it messy as hell despite its conventionally pretty-boy bright
blond colour: it says, "I am Boris, and I will do things my way, thank
you very much." His persona was magnetic: confident, yet cheerful.

When I say things like that, people look at me like I'm a geeky
politician: maybe I am, on the inside, but you wouldn't think me one if
you saw me on a crowded train. I like Rage Against the Machine, Nirvana
and Korn. I dress accordingly. No expects me to say things like that,
normally, but I like to surprise people.

When it came time for me to study at University, there was only one place
I was going. Or rather, there was no way I was going to leave. London was
it for me. I enrolled in the London School of Economics and Political
Sciences to study Government (Politics). I plan to become Mayor of
London, just like Boris. London is in my heart, and so is its policies,
its people, and its politics.

Every day I took the tube from my home to Temple Station and walked the
short way to the Campus. But one day was a little different, in a way
that I don't think I'm likely to forget.

You have to understand the tube in London, especially at the rush-hour
commuter time. Crowds of people just fill the stations and everyone has
very little space. It's like being in a tin, compressed from every side.
This was my daily way, pretending to have space while actually having
none, packed in with a crowd of people who, in the rush, became things,
obstacles. Un-people don't stare, speak to you or pay any attention to
you at all. That makes all the forced touching, the contact, the brushing
by acceptable. Even with my pierced and stretched ears, fuzz-head and
sideburns look, no-one cared like they would in other places. It's one
reason I love London: you can be you and no-one will give a damn.

This morning, I was flowing in the torrent of people flowing through the
station like normal. I checked the turnstile with my Oyster card and
flowed through, down the escalators (is it still an escalator if it's
going down?) to the platform and waited. In the next train, there were no
seats. Not unusual - I entered and stood  by the doorway, and breathed so
far as the crowded train would let me. Bodies pressed into me on all
sides, and I tried to space out to the gentle rocking motion and the
soothing voice of the tannoy announcing the next stop and destination of
this train.

Then I looked. Over to my right at the end of the carriage I saw the
shining golden head of my all-time hero, Boris Johnson. He stood,
patiently waiting, looking a little surly, crowned by his boyish golden
hair. I broke a rule. I stared. As his gaze cast around the carriage in
typical spaced-out commuter style, his blue eyes met my own hungry ones.
Embarrassed by my lack of London etiquette, I lowered my gaze, blushing a
little behind my longish sideburns. But I had to look again. His persona
was magnetic. As the train pulled up to a station, people filed out and
more sardines crammed into the tin can; and these two fish found each
other closer than before. Now I had a full-on view of his face. Our eyes
met again, and this time, he smiled at me. No-one smiles at you on the
underground. Maybe a politician would, and he was the Mayor of London. I
smiled back; but something in my head made me do it shyly. Maybe it was
because he's kind of like my idol. I determined to get his autograph. I
tried to catch his gaze again but he was staring out of my window now,
into nothingness.

The next station came and went, and with the shifting and dispersing of
the crowd I managed to stand next to him. Casually, not looking like I'd
done it on purpose, I'd managed to get myself next to him. This time,
despite it still being full, the train was a little more empty and there
was a little more breathing room. Feeling more human with the space and
the air, I stood in awkward silence beside him, trying to think of what
to say to start a conversation. My mind was blocked and foggy. I asked
what could have been the stupidest question ever asked in a tube train.

"Are you Boris Johnson?" Of course he was Boris Johnson. No-one looks
like Boris Johnson.

A little startled he looked around at me and smiled. "I am, yes. And you
are?"

"Maddock. Alex Maddock," I stuttered back. My voice was really quiet and
my face was red. I'm never like this - except, I guess, when I'm talking
to the Mayor of London, as I learned. "I voted for you," I added. Wow.
Now I looked like an ass-kisser.

"Oh, a fellow Conservative! Well, thank you very much. I hope I'm living
up to your expectations."

The way he kept looking at me was making me feel uncomfortable for some
reason.

"Could you sign this?" I gave him my notebook and pen from my punk-style,
badge-ridden messenger bag. It was at this point that more people crammed
into the train. I was squeezed and pushed into Johnson's side. I stood
there. Close. Embarrassed. Aroused. Aroused? As he was scribbling in my
notebook, my attention was drawn to my cock. It was stiff. It stood up in
my baggies and boxers. I was against his thigh. My cock was touching
Boris Johnson's thigh. He was soft. His thigh was soft. I was not.

He gave me a sideways look. It seemed to last a long time. I was mentally
begging my cock to go down but it only got bigger and harder in the
process. He wrote another line, closed the book and handed it back to me
with my pen.

I accepted it back with a quiet, "Thanks." I stood there, lost for words,
with my cock sticking into the side of his body. It was like some kind of
social torture. What about poor Boris? What was he supposed to do in the
situation. I smirked to myself as I imagined him turning around and
politely informing me that my penis was sticking in my thigh and could I
please not be so horny.

The next stop rolled around. It wasn't my stop, but I got off in shame.
Thoughts tumbled around my head on the extra-long walk to Campus. I
couldn't bear to read what he had scribbled down after giving me that
knowing look. It wasn't my fault the train was so full! My one time
encounter with Boris Johnson was messed up by my own fucking lack of
sense. Then I began to realise: I had become aroused about Boris Johnson.
It felt kind of nice. He was, after all, a respectable man. It was a
man-crush, which is OK. These things needn't freak you out.

The rest of the way passed with vague thoughts of Boris and the feeling
of his thigh against my crotch on the train. During the long lectures I
got stiff a couple of times thinking of his angel face. His round body.
His masculine name. I couldn't bear to destroy my vague fantasies with
the note he wrote. I allowed myself until the night, when I could be
alone in my room, to do that.

But the night came. I sat on the underground - much quieter after having
studied in the library after Uni until after 8 - and opened my back pack.
I pulled out the notebook, opened it to the back, and there sat Boris's
own autograph, his own scribbled hand. It took me a while to decipher the
scribble, which was probably not helped by the fact he was standing in a
moving train while writing.

"To Alex,
Thanks for your support. Keep up your political interest.
Signed,
Boris Johnson"

But then there was something underneath. This was the last sentence after
the look. That look.

"Need some help?"

I was bemused. What was written after clarified everything. It was a
phone number.

Boris Johnson had given me his phone number.

 * * *

When I arrived home, I dived on my bed. And reached for my phone line. I
couldn't believe what was happening. I dialed the number from the notepad
with a shaking hand and sat on my bed. My hero, on the phone. I couldn't
believe my luck. I felt a shot of cold dread for a moment, that I didn't
know or like him enough, and what if he noticed? I dismissed the thought.
It was silly.

He picked up, "Hello?"

He picked up. It was his private line!

"Hello? This is Alex. Maddock. Alex Maddock. Erm we met on the train?"

"Oh Alex, hello my boy. How are you?"

"I'm - er good thanks. Yeah good. You?"

"I'm marvelous thank you. Never better. I was wondering actually, about
today on the train..."

Cold fear shot through me again. I felt guilty, for some reason. "Oh
yeah?"

"Do you... have you got that problem now?"

"What?"  We sat quiet.  I stroked my problem. "Well, yes I have. Mr.
Johnson. Sir."

"Could I be of any help to you, Mr. Maddock? Could I be of any service to
you, as your Mayor, in this field?"

"I don't know. Maybe." How do you answer a question like that without
looking like a slut? "Sir, I have a girlfriend."

"I completely understand. But I was wondering, even so, if perhaps...
Maybe you would care to come over for a drink? I can send a car to
collect you and I swear you'll return safely back home after the
night's... hmm... events."

I was stunned. I know that politician's talk is always more than it
seems. And this way a very thinly veiled invitation to something a little
stronger than a drink. But... he was Boris. Boris Johnson wanted me? I
mean, out of any guy I might like to try a drink with - Boris? It was
just like the vote. There was only one answer - if it was going to be any
man, it would have to be the best.

"Sir, Mr. Boris er Johnson Mayor I mean. How soon can they come?"

Boris hung up.

A number of agonising minutes passed before a car honked outside and I
sped from the house without a word to my housemates. Two large men
grabbed and blindfolded me and led me to a car, where they gently let me
down into a seat. "We don't want you knowing where we're going, Mr.
Maddock," the gruff voices explained. "We'll unblindfold you as soon as
you're inside." I felt the car driving slowly over gravel, and stopping
gently. As I passed from the car to the house, excitement flooded my body
and I felt an electric warmth fill my from deep inside, pressing out
against the faint evening chill. My body was primed, locked and loaded
for the evening.

I felt my body cross a threshold. Hands unlaced my Converse and pulled
them from my feet. I was led up a carpeted stairway and into a room which
felt dark, even under the blindfold.

"Welcome to my home, Alex."

"Boris!" I smiled. Being under the blindfold made me feel curiously free
and I smiled widely. The blindfold fell away from my eyes and filled with
the dim yellow light of the room. There was a bed, double, with white
covers, and a large comfortable chair. Books lined one wall, and the
carpet was green and lush. Boris was wearing a typically smart suit and a
dark blue tie. Grey socks covered his nice looking feet. His smiling face
came close to mine and he laid a hand on my crotch through my low jeans.
He pulled my cock up over my waistband so it showed in my white boxers. I
got a little freaked out.

"Sir, no man has ever touched me like that."

"Am I too bold?" He asked.

I searched my feelings. I looked at him. Everything was making me horny.
Everything screamed at me to let him do what he wanted with me.
Everything still told me what we were doing was wrong. Was he too bold?

"No sir," I replied. I blushed and put my head down.

He ran his hand up my arm, over the tattoos of stars and a gothic angel
that I'd had done when I turned 17. Up over my biceps. He squeezed the
bit of muscle and fat I had there. I felt like he was testing my body, to
see who he was holding. To know me. Up inside the sleeves of my faded red
tee, and back down. Down my back, over my round ass cheeks that sat above
my jeans. A gentle feel, no more. A thumb inside the black elastic
waistband bearing a gray and white pattern. No words, just probing. I sat
under this inspection, enjoying the touch of my father-like hero. His
appreciation built my cock up, harder, damper. Precum oozed and pooled in
my boxers.

He held me tight in his suited arms. My hard body leaned into his older,
softer man's body. I felt safe and comfortable to be held by him. His
cock was stiff in his suit; it was smaller than mine, but maybe only
enough to tell the difference. He pushed it against mine with his hips as
he bent his head to whisper in my ear, "Alex, you're perfect." He rubbed
his cheek against my sideburns and inhaled. Pleasure and testosterone
seeped from him and drove me to kiss his lips. I kissed Boris Johnson. It
was almost magnetic. It wasn't even like a dream; it was too new, too
amazing. The tenderness in this large man was intense. Intense, but no
less tender for it. Not like any other conservative. He was a real lover,
and he loved me.

Boris wandered a few steps, with me close in his arms, and flopped back
into the large comfortable chair I'd seen before. I spread my legs either
side of his large, round body and kissed him again on his beautiful face.
He pushed me away, and asked so pleasantly, "Alex, please undress for
me."

I nodded. "Yes, sir, Mr. Mayor."

Stood in the middle of the floor, I turned my back to Boris. I lifted my
Billabong T-Shirt over my head and showed my admirer the dragon that
slept on my shoulder, trailing down my back. Then I let go my jeans,
which thumped to the floor. I wanted him to see my back and know it,
before I gave him the front. I needed him to love my body; I was full of
desire for attention and praise from Mr. Johnson. I wanted to please him.
I heard the zip of a fly slowly being undone.

Stepping out of my jeans, I turned around. Gently, I removed my socks. My
white boxers clung to my cock, black waistband holding them in place. I
held it, feeling sheepish, watching Boris. He undid his button, and let
his cock out of his boxer shorts. Wide, round, short. I had never watched
a guy jack off before. I just stood, amazed, as Boris Johnson jacked off
at the sight of my waiting body. I pulled down my boxers, showing him my
trim brown pubes and pierced cock for the first time. One bar, through
the frenum. I could see he liked this part, and I smiled and started to
gently jack off as Boris smiled at me, looking me straight in my brown
eyes like he did before, on the train.

Boris stood, and pulled away his trousers and light cotton boxers. His
cock stuck out in front of him, juicy and wet. He stepped towards me and
cupped my smooth balls with his right hand, then stroked my cock. With
his left he guided my hand onto his. It was the first time I touched a
guy's cock, and I liked it. I started stroking him, like he was me, and I
just sat in bliss, my vision foggy and my whole body numb, like all my
feeling had just decided to rally in my cockhead. This this, slippery
skin slid over his glans and back down; I felt the bush of his brown
pubes and hairy ball sac. The sensations merged together like a mosaic of
sexually tense fragments thrown together in a strange portrait of two
male lovers, each at the mercy of the other. Johnson's thumb rolled over
my frenum piercing, sending me wild with pleasure. I groaned and purred
like a lion in the shade on a burning hot day and closed my eyes.

Next I knew, Boris's tongue was drinking up my clear, thick precum from
my penis. The rough, soft tissue leaped, electric, up and down my cock
and balls. He licked my bar again and again and I groaned as I felt his
tongue over the metal and skin. He jacked his cock the whole time, fast
then slow, pounding to the rhythmic beat of his body. My hands gripped
his messy-haired head as I began to lose the strength to stand. Then he
took me all the way into his throat. The warm wet mouth and his bobbing
head drew the orgasm into my cock as I began to buck and warn him, "Boris
if you keep -"

He breathed out hard. I breathed in.

"I'm coming," I told him. My semen flowed into him as the universe
exploded and disintegrated around me. Floating in that heavenly void, my
orgasm filled my brain. Boris jacked his cock even harder and lines of
sperm soldiers arranged themselves in chaos on his carpet. Gagged by my
penis, he made strange animal noises and breaths before pulling off and
screaming. Together, united as one, we were in utter bliss - lost in a
virile cloud of testosterone and maleness, groaning for the depth of the
moment and the pleasure shared between us.

Calm returned to the room. Boris slumped to the floor on his back, half
naked and unashamed. Pleased.

Squeezing my cock, two drops of come leaked to the floor. Two or three
steadying breaths, and the intensity seeped away.

I reached for my boxers and pulled them up over my waist. I felt too
exposed after the heat of the moment. How weird was that? I was just
given a blowjob by the Mayor, my political hero. It felt late. It felt
strange, being in a strange home with this beautiful guy, half naked on
the floor before me; sexually spent in a strange new way with the man of
my dreams, when my girl should be the one down there. Didn't Boris have a
family?

I pulled my jeans up over my ass and let them drop to show my buttocks. I
put my socks and T-shirt on, then said, "Thank you Boris. That was really
great. I'd like to go home now."

"Did I solve your problem?" he asked, rising and pulling his own clothes
back on. Despite the fact that my fingers had just been running wild in
it, like children in a playground, Johnson's hair looked the same as
ever. Even after oral sex.

"I think you just made one, to be honest," I said. I kissed him gently on
the lips. He blindfolded me once more.

"Thank you, Mr. Maddock." He whispered in my ear. He kissed me gently on
the neck and on my stretched earlobe. His tongue licked where flesh met
metal. "Take him home please boys!" He announced. Rough hands led me back
to the car I had come in. When I arrived home, I felt like a different
man.

 * * *

That's it... I hope you enjoyed this story.

If you did, or if you want to get in touch (or if you are Boris Johnson -
hey, you never know), please email KGBerryWriting@hotmail.co.uk