The Further Adventures of Boris

I must admit, when all this kicked off and then he ended up in bloody hospital I didn't feel overly inclined to share this, but now he's ok (and his son has been born) I can ease off the guilt. It's probably a little out of date, but it might raise a smile nevertheless...

************************************************************************


    With a lazy yawn, Boris shuffled casually into Downing Street’s kitchen, eyeing up the cafetiere that was brewing on the granite work surface. To his chagrin, the Dark Lord Cummings was already sat at the table. Jacob Rees-Mogg and Michael Gove were on the opposite side.
    “Ah, morning!” Boris spluttered.
    “Good morning,” offered Gove, jovially.
    “May I offer my deepest, most sincere greetings at this splendid collation,” Rees-Mogg stammered, adjusting his glasses and brushing some crumbs off his lapels. “One might even go as far as to say bonum mane.”
    “I’ve prepared your coffee,” Cummings announced coldly. “Black, no sugar. Slices of melon in the fridge.”
    “I’m still on the old diet then, eh?”
    “For now yes. There’s a war to be won.”
    “Humph, so what’s on the agenda today then, eh?”
    “Cabinet Meeting. Should have started twenty minutes ago. You’re announcing that wind farms are being scrapped.”
    “Ah, yes I remember now.”
    At that moment the door opened, causing Boris to jump in alarm as Carrie entered the kitchen, slinking past him wearing nothing more than a pink silk nightie. Moreover, it was evidently quite cold.
    “Is my coffee ready?” she asked.
    “Er, yes, just about to pour it dear,” Boris replied, his eyes widening at the sheer length of her nipples poking out from beneath the silk like hooded ghosts.
    “What was that you were saying about windfarms?”
    “Er, nothing babe.”
    “We’re binning wind farms,” Cummings announced in a matter-of-fact tone. Alongside him, Gove and Rees-Mogg sat with their mouths open, dribbling at Carrie.
    “No we’re not,” Carrie replied. She turned to Boris with a look of steel. “ARE we?”
    “Erm...”
    “It’s decided,” Cummings stated, casting a look of disdain in the direction of the two gentlemen who sat opposite.
    Carrie shot him a look of pure evil and then turned to Boris.
    “Well?”
     “Well, the thing is,” Boris began, breaking off in an assortment of incoherent mumbles, suddenly becoming fascinated by a small blemish in the corner of the table top.
    All of a sudden, Carrie changed tack and sidled up alongside him.
     “Remember what we said last night, my big bear.” She lowered her garment, slipping out a tactical boob, before whispering something inaudible in his ear.”
    Boris lurched a little and then let out a helpless grin.
    “Actually Dom,” he boomed, “I think we’ll stick with the wind farms for now.”
    “You what?” Cummings snapped. He then caught sight of an enormous bulge in Boris’s crotch. “Oh for god sake man!”
    “What? Oh, er, hmm.” He made a feeble effort at covering up his erection and quickly wiped away a slaver of dribble with his sleeve.
    “That’s what we like to hear!” Carrie smiled. “Come on my brave bear.” She ruffled his hair and led him playfully out of the room.
    “Is that all it takes?” Cummings muttered, slamming his fist on the table. “A quick flash of her tits and he turns into a pathetic teenager!”
    “I rather feel that one should wash ones mouth out with carbolic soap,” Rees-Mogg uttered, still transfixed upon the spot where moments ago the two lovers had stood.
    “Nevermind,” Cummings snapped. “We can get going with the agenda items here. Gove, have you got the latest on No Deal planning?”
    Gove made a noise in the manner of Rowley Birkin from the Fast Show.
    “Christ, what is wrong with you two?” Cummings barked.
    At that moment the floor above them began to shake and a distant sound of rhythmical squeaking

Upstairs the floor starts to shake and there is a distant sound of rhythmical squeaking.

Gove and Rees-Mogg both stand up with bulging errections.
Priti Patel walks in and then frantically try to cover their crotches like footballers standing in a wall about to defend a free kick.

Comments