Boris Almighty

4th of July 2022. It was a balmy evening in Westminster, and Prime Minister Boris Johnson settled back in his Lazy Boy Ecliner 3000 and gazed thoughtfully out into the Downing Street garden. He loved these evenings throwing ponderance at the current political hullabaloo, and his mind wandered to the pressing issue of the day... who was this woman kneeling in front of him and providing testicular entertainment... at a glance, only able to see the top of a head, Boris cast his thoughts to who he was piping curently... it can't be Arcuri because security wouldn't surely have let her in... it isn't Carrie because she's at her Bridge class over at Zac Goldsmith's house... hairdresser maybe? Boris quickly reminded himself that she'd been packed off to Nova Scotia with a baby and a gagging order so it couldn't be her... "ah well" he thought, "one of the Whips will probably update me later... may as well sit back and enjoy the party" All was pleasing... or was it? Boris couldn't help but notice he couldn't rid his immediate thoughts of a nagging doubt which at first he couldn't place. There was something pressing, and if only his penis wasn't enjoying the spoils of the two Viagra he'd snorted with his liquid supper, maybe he could focus his mind. Another minute passed before the eureka moment landed like a wet fish in his lap... "Pincher dammit...", he exclaimed suddenly while sitting bolt upright in his chair... "Oh i'm terribly sorry", exclaimed the as yet unplaced figure at his genitals... "It's this brace the dentist fitted me with to get my teeth straight before I start uni next September!". "Not you ffs" declared the suddenly troubled PM... "Bloody Chris Pincher and his Swiss Army Hands that just go everywhere!" The mood was somewhat dampened, and the fellating came to a halt as Boris felt the blood rush from his cock to his temporal lobes, those that controlled his ability to spin a good yarn... he shooed the young lady from his study, remembering to request that she left her name with security on her way out... well she seemed like a good shout for a place in his chicktionary for a future tumble in the covers... briefly he felt pleased with his day's work, but his satisfaction was shortlived, and the Pincher issue needed urgent attention... The PM once again fell back into his leather chair adjusting the massage setting from normal to "Heavy Fret", and he considered his next move... experience had taught him well. He knew he needed to entrust the Tuesday morning media round to a Boris stalwart... the safest pair of hands in his cabinet was required given the intricacies of the lies he had sent his minions out to parrot across the news channels. The David Seaman of Boris purists must be utilised given the gravity and scale of the allegations. Only a handful of his finest droids fitted this bill... "Well let's take a look at the options to hand" mused Johnson as he finally placed his man biscuits back inside his fly carefully zipping it up once more secure in its greasy lair. "Braverman" pondered Boris, "but that would require unplugging her from the Matrix which is nothing if not a giant faff". Racking his brain for the optimum candidate his intuition turned to Nadine Dorries. A journeyman cultist who'd insist day was night at his behest... was he on to something? Optimism soon turned to despondancy as the dawn of realisation struck that the media round began at 0700am but Spoons near the Sky studios opened at 6am so trying to navigate the Minister for Digital, Culture, Media, and Sport past an open bar may not be quite the Einstein moment he'd first thought... It was slim pickings and the PM knew it. Surely there must be somebody he had overlooked? Someone just revolting enough to face the cameras and declare that he, Boris...the Lord Boris... was in no way culpable for promoting a renowned and proven sexual predator to the role of Deputy Chief Whip... but who? Where would he find somebody so utterly odious that they'd literally soil themselves on live television in their endeavour to justify him having placed a groper in a position whereby he was the man who staff went to to lodge complaints about him having pummelled their buttocks in the staff canteen... It was getting late, and Boris thought his travails to identify his perfect stooge had fallen short. "Ah bugger it. I'll throw on my USSR onesie and finish these pickled swans before retiring. Tomorrow is another day" Then it came to him. In a whirlwind of brilliance, a name arrived in the PM's mind. Infallable, unshakeable, and averse to melting down and making a holy cunt of himself... The man of the hour was of course Dominic Raab. "By Jimminy Boris, you are a genius" he told himself while readying his svelt athletic frame (as he saw it) for bed... "You've only gone and done it again Boris" he mouthed to himself in the wardrobe mirror before falling onto hus mattress pleased as punch that he'd put out yet another political skip fire using only his ingenuity and craft... "Raab... solid as a rock... he'll tie those news presenters up in knots... They won't know what's hit them. The Depty PM will put in a performance that Laurence Olivier would be proud of... Boris you've done it again...". Hunkering down cosily into his Union Jack covers, he felt contented. It was decided. Raab would do the 5th July media rounds. Safe as houses. "You're far too cute for these amateurs to ever catch you out" he told himself as slumber came upon him. He'd outsmarted them yet again. He was Boris Almighty, and his throne was as safe as the day he was elected...