“Well, if you really want to make my day, then you should do what my wife can't do for me.” It was meant to be sarcastic, but, the second it was verbalized, it came across as humorless. Pierre just wasn't a funny man. If he'd just let the air settle, he could’ve most likely just moved on with the awkward conversation, but Pierre was never one for having Justin get the last word. He cleared his throat. “What I mean is— You've made my job so busy I haven't relaxed one bit. Being such a wacko.” Trudeau’s eyes widened. “What your wife does for you?” Justin repeated. He put his hands on his hips, too dumb to know he was boxing himself into the seat, tilting his head downward. He did his classic Justin Trudeau pout. “Leader of the Opposition, I don't know what that means. I think you should explain further.” That wasn't surprising. Or maybe he was being equally sarcastic. Trying to corner Pierre, embarrass him with the vulgarity of the statement, but Pierre was far too collected for that. He wasn't some emotional liberal. He was a MAN. An Alberta conservative, glasses-wearing, five-foot-something MAN. “Uh-ah, obviously get fucked by me,” he said. “That's the one thing you could do for me. Only thing you're good for.” Only the slightest amount of heat warmed his face, but he still chickened out. He stood up. “I-I’ll be going now. You've wasted enough of my time.” Justin suddenly straightened his posture. He blinked a few times, and then he rose up from his seat, those pretty lips pursed. He had such an expressive face, although he always looked slightly stunned and more-than-slightly stupid. He was surprised and open and wanting and waiting—impatiently waiting because he'd never had to ask for anything before in his entire life—and then Pierre took the first step, and then, as quick as the market falling under the liberal’s leadership, they were on each other like mating beasts. Pierre got on his tippy toes to kiss Justin—Justin made a short little sound, like a total whore—and then, feeling weak, he grabbed him all over, finally got his hands on that perfectly round ass, squeezing and feeling up. Justin whined and helped and tried to move back, but Pierre smushed their lips together. Hotness pulsed between them like an energy, pure sex. Their tongues were lapping at each other’s cheeks, and mouths, and even missing to the chin. Pierre pushed Justin to the ground, making the liberal fall on his back, all long legs everywhere, too stupid to know what to do with his body. Justin was panting, “Pierre, Pierre, Pierre,” like he was going to vote for him, and Pierre wasn't responding to his insipid cries. He was nipping at his neck, going on top of him, and he was yanking at his collar and stretching at the fabric. He was going to leave him a wreck. He pressed hickies and fat kisses on his collarbone and neck, on his cheeks, behind his ears, everywhere he could. He pressed his erection into Justin every moment he could, grinding and shuffling on the poor prime minister. Pierre finally pressed down hard on Justin's clothed erection. Justin moaned loudly, practically wetting himself, and Pierre tore down those slacks he was wearing without a single care in the world. He was working on a stolen clock, he knew. This was what Justin wanted. This was what Justin deserved. “Prime Minister, can't you wait a moment,” he breathed, as he carefully rolled down his own pants just enough. He had a job to do after this. An important one protecting the Canadian people. Unlike Justine here who hung around queers and drag queens every day. Mr. Dress-Up in a new costume everyday. Once a drama teacher, always a drama teacher, but God, how Pierre could think of a new job for him… Finally he forced Justin's long, pale, beautiful legs up in the air. Wrapping around his neck as the Conservative’s large cock—large and pumped full of blood, almost purple with how horny he was—heeded forward and pressed into the hole. Justin had been used before, this morning exactly, and while he wasn't stretched out like a total slut, he was still able to take Pierre’s cock without prep. It helped that Pierre was absolutely thick with precum too, slithering in and just pummeling this prime minister, as Justin cried and wiggled around, choking on his own spit, eyes bulging out one moment and then closing tightly the next. His cute cock came at least thrice while Pierre fucked into his tight, eager, dripping hole again and again. “I'm doing this better than whoever you used last, aren't I?” He asked, low and hoarse. His mind was out of control. “Of course you're passing yourself around. Just can't help it.” Justin was flushed. He was drooling all over himself, sticking digits in his mouth and sucking on his fingers. Too stupid to jerk himself off. “N-No! That's slut shaming!” “Yes,” Pierre said, victorious. “Shaming a slut. That's good, Justin.” He wondered if Justin could feel him in his stomach. “The prime minister is finally smart enough to— to—” “Leader of the opposition! S-stop!” Justin's plush thighs quivered as he spasmed helplessly, being used. And he liked it too, his cock getting mercilessly rubbed in Pierre’s hand. All hard and needy. Pierre started going even faster, feeling his balls tightening. It was a quick, dirty fucking, in such a crowded and enclosed environment. Despite the hundreds of seats around them, it was like they were the only two people on earth. Pierre knew he didn't have much time, so when he felt his orgasm coming, he just slammed into that opening as hard as he could, going deep into the other man's bowels, and then promptly filling up the whiny liberal prince with all his seed. Pierre couldn't stop cumming, even when Trudeau’s sloppy fuckhole couldn't accept more cum. Leaking out like a fountain of cream. Overpiped, overstuffed, whatever you call it. Trudeau whined, hot and confused, when he pulled out, leaving behind a boatload of hot semen. As soon as his legs were down, and it was clear Pierre wasn't going to jump into him again, Justin rolled over without a second thought, laying on his tummy and offering up his ass at an eager angle. As though Pierre would want to fuck his gaped self! “L-leader of the opposition?” He sounded absolutely miserable to be empty again, and confused as to why anyone would dare to reject his advances, as greedy and self-centered as he'd always been. Nobody wanted to fuck a whore, especially after the good man had just finished using it. Pierre’s common sense snapped into place and he moved quickly, smacking the prime minister right on his pale bottom. Justin creamed himself again, because of course he did. “We have work to do today,” he reminded, in his nasally voice that shook just a small amount. He drew himself up, fixed his pants and adjusted his belt. Trudeau lazily remained on the floor, his pants all the way down, squirming. Just bare legs and his shirt and jacket. With those ridiculous socks too, of course. The man had no care at all for the disrespect he'd put the House of Commons through. He ought not to embarrass Canada any further. Pierre unsteadily walked back to the Conservative side of the room, where he belonged. When he reached his destination, he sat back on the bench like nothing had transpired at all, because that was what you did when you had others relying on you. You got up and you did your job. The Prime Minister was speaking some awful French, very Québec and informal. Pierre couldn't see any of that thick, dark hair, nor any shuffle of his body. He wasn't going to get himself together. The session started in two minutes. He could hear footsteps pouncing down the hall.