Bertie and the Kinky Politician

BERTIE
&
THE KINKY POLITICIAN

Mike A. Vickers

Macaw meets masochist – what could possibly go wrong ...

Drawing on a fine history of British eccentricity, this tantalising tale is sprinkled with some distinctly dodgy politics, peppered with astonishing official ineptitude, garnished with much erotic dysfunction, and strewn with ludicrously unlikely coincidences. When a shadowy organisation at the heart of the government oversteps the mark, when devious minds conspire to deceive the public, and when criminality becomes a Downing Street tool, Bertie the hyacinth macaw steps forward to save the day – but at what cost?

To Jan

Wife, best friend, soul mate, giggler.

Anodorhynchus hyacinthinus

The Hyacinth Macaw. The largest of all macaws and widely regarded as the most majestic, with fully grown specimens reaching almost forty inches in length and possessing a wingspan of up to five feet. The species is noted for the brilliantly rich violet-blue plumage which covers almost the entire body, the only contrasting colour being bright yellow spectacle rings around the eyes and similar small patches bordering each side of the lower mandible. Now critically endangered, those small populations still found in the wild are concentrated in the open savannahs of Eastern Paraguay and the Matto Grosso region of South-west Brazil. Hyacinths are friendly, sociable and unusually long-lived, with authenticated cases of specimens reaching the age of sixty. In nature these beautiful macaws are normally shy and gentle while hand-reared birds tend to be inquisitive and outgoing. However, its sheer size, powerful bill and large claws make the hyacinth an intimidating and formidable creature when roused.

You've been warned …

Chapter One

There is a sound, of all the sounds in the world, which has long tantalised and fascinated men. Some sounds evoke delicious memories, such as the comforting hubbub of conversation in a friendly pub or the soft breath of a sleeping lover. Other sounds are entirely natural in origin; storm waves thundering up a shingle beach, for instance, or the exquisite call of a nightingale. We live on a surprisingly noisy planet and as a consequence are thoughtfully endowed by nature with the means by which to detect these sounds. The provision of ears, in addition to simplifying the design of spectacles, has also proved especially beneficial for those who need to keep a pencil handy.

Sounds permeate our existence. Language has led us to a position of complete planetary domination. With language came argument, and argument, when combined with that other early discovery of mankind, alcohol, naturally evolved into philosophy. Which in turn busied itself with the nature of sound. Sadly, all philosophy appears to have come up with – bearing in mind we've been labouring away since the Ancient Greeks – all philosophy has provided us with on the subject of sound can be distilled down to the single conundrum of the branch in the forest. Does it make a sound if there's no one about to hear it fall?

It would be fair to say this has been the subject of much debate over the years. Assuming the observer is close enough to the action to witness the event then the answer is yes – unless, of course, the spectator is deaf, at which point matters get really complicated.

In short, the ancient and exceedingly lively history of Earth has been peppered with examples of colossal noise; the planetary collision which produced the moon, titanic volcanic explosions, the walloping great asteroid impact that finished off the dinosaurs, terrifying storms of catastrophic magnitude, but frankly, since no one was around to hear these momentous events, who cares? After all, a sound is merely a noise that can be heard.

But there are some sounds that are entirely human in origin, owe no debt to nature, are not unduly associated with prickly matters of philosophy, and it is one of these sounds with which we are concerned at this particular time.

It is the rap of steel-tipped stiletto heels on a bare wooden floor.

A man detected the approaching tip-tap-tip and quivered in anticipation. He reached out blindly, wrapped in a comforting darkness, warm and safe. The sound stopped directly in front of him and he searched until his questing touch settled on a towering instep, gloved fingers tracing the curvaceous foot and spiked heel. He took his time, savouring the moment before finally reaching his destination.

Somehow, the straps seemed more awkward to tighten than usual.

Celeste – whose shapely feet filled the boots – watched with a fond smile. She stood in the centre of her salon looking down at the bizarre figure crouching in front of her, his knees cracking ominously on the highly polished parquet. His touch on the loosened buckles beside her ankles was gently respectful.

‘I would've thought you were accustomed to this task by now, James, so why the fumbling?' She shook her head with mock disapproval, bright copper hair sliding across the back of her shoulders. James replied, but his muffled snort was not really identifiable as speech. She felt his diffident caress again until at last he was able to finish tightening the straps of her leather boots.

Celeste examined herself in a nearby dressing mirror. A haughty, powerfully feminine reflection stared back, her body laced and boned into a sensuously erect severity. Leather gleamed softly as she turned this way and that, checking the symmetry of her elaborate costume. She was generously gifted with that obsessive fastidiousness found in every true fetishist. Flowing scarlet enclosed her from high collar to mid-calf. An old-fashioned Victorian hourglass corset imparted a significant reduction to her waist, making her pant slightly. She did so suffer for her hobby! Long sleeves overlapped evening gloves made from the finest kid. With her burnished copper hair drawn back and bound into a pony-tail with a studded thong, she projected an image of implacable female superiority. There was no doubt she was in charge, which, of course, was exactly what James wanted.

Celeste turned to face him again, teetering on the outrageous stilettos. These were bedroom boots, their polished tan soles unsullied by London's gum-spotted pavements. The heels imposed a dramatic arch to her feet, lengthening her leg line to create a shapely silhouette and forcing her to walk on tip-toe with an exaggerated swing of the hips. Their steel tips rapped sharply on the wooden floor whenever she moved and James's head turned blindly to follow the noise, his response was classic Pavlovian. She had him well trained. Maybe he was even drooling under his hood, but it was difficult to tell. She slowly flexed her hunting-crop between gloved hands and stared imperiously at the figure squatting before her toes.

Completely covered in black leather, the vaguely human shape was bound with chains and swinging padlocks. Lifting his chin with the tip of her crop, Celeste gazed with heavy-lidded anticipation into the blank ebony oval of his hide-covered face. ‘Time for a little punishment,' she purred.

James trembled at her words, struggling within a world of constricting warmth. He tried to ease his weight from one aching knee to the other, conscious of Celeste's presence on the other side of his self-imposed darkness. She wouldn't spank him if he complained – and he so wanted to be spanked – but her parquet was just too damned painful. A lazy but very pleasant stiffness stabbed at the tough leather of his punishment briefs; he gasped for breath through tiny eyelets piercing the helmet covering his entire face. A runnel of sweat trickled down his spine, the collar was too tight, a muscle quivered ominously in his thigh, his back was cramping and both calves burned like hell.

God, wasn't life great!

He revelled in these timeless moments of erotic bliss with Celeste.

Before they'd met, James had been forced to tread a wary path among the professional dominatrices of Pimlico, constantly fearful of recognition. It said much for his compulsion that he was willing to take those risks despite the devastating effect discovery would have on his career. Oh well, you can't fight nature. On top of all these inherent problems, which always had a debilitating effect on his libido, to actually have to pay for his arcane pleasures really galled him; after all, it wasn't as if he wanted to sleep with any of them. No, indeed, his sole pleasure in life was to be tied up by a beautiful woman and spanked – but not too hard – until he achieved satisfaction! Now where was the harm in that?

Only after meeting Celeste had he finally been able to fulfil his complex fantasies. Unburdened by guilt and in complete confidence, James had grown to adore this exceptional woman as his Mistress. He heard the crop whistle through the air followed by a spectacularly loud crack. A keen cut lanced across his middle-aged bottom. Sweet pain exploded and he twisted from side to side against the binding chains, breath panting, a moan escaping gagged lips. His leather costume was no protection from her vicious sting – and without bidding a sudden memory of their first fateful meeting came flooding back...

‘Ah, James, hiding again, are you? Anyone would think you didn't enjoy my company. Now, stop guzzling my food like a starving refugee and pay attention. I'd like you to meet Celeste Gordon. She's recently returned from Brazil and the poor girl simply does not know a soul in London, so do be a good boy and entertain her for me.' Patti Duke-Warrender's gushing introduction annoyed James.

As did Patti herself.

James had only accepted the invitation to her party because the unpalatable alternative was the Institute of Chartered Accountants' annual dinner and liver-pickling booze-up – and that was definitely to be avoided. Besides, he had a life – and quite a good one as well – despite the insurmountable social handicap of being an accountant. Consequently, in comparison, Patti's party actually looked like a promising affair, especially as her catering was, to his bachelor stomach, much more of a lure than the ICA's traditionally unimaginative cuisine.

However, one had to balance the siren call of the canapés with the dubious attention of the hostess and so, employing that aura of bland camouflage all in his profession possessed, he'd melted quietly into the background, flitting from room to room, nodding here, passing a few murmured words there, while all the time navigating his way through the house like a grey-suited phantom, homing in with quiet determination on the comestibles. Once there, he'd worked his way manfully along the buffet table until spotted.

James felt irritation at her intrusion into what was undeniably the most agreeable part of the evening. The table was brimming with all manner of juicy morsels laid out on Patti's best porcelain. Exotic dainties invited him to sniff, sample, and scoff. He remained uncommunicative and concentrated on his choice of nibbles, so Patti propelled Celeste forward and took her leave, no doubt to seek out and introduce more totally incompatible people to each other. Despite his natural West Country amiability, James found it difficult to show enthusiasm and did not even bother to turn around as he spoke.

‘So what brings you here, Celeste?' he asked around a mouthful of delicious honeyed ham. Not very original but it would have to do for the moment.

‘The same as you, my dear James – utter desperation!' He noted absently that her voice was a lovely contralto. There was an awkward pause. James fervently hoped this Celeste woman was sufficiently bright enough to take the hint and move on to pastures new. No, he decided, he really wasn't in the mood. Ten more minutes at the table and then he could slide off home, having satisfied his rumbling stomach and discharged his minimal duties as a guest. His pockets were already stuffed with a few tasty snacks purloined for consumption off the premises. BBC Two was screening a classic Bogart film later on and he felt sure he could successfully combine both to round off a satisfying evening.

He leaned across the table and ladled something yoghurty onto his plate, but a few wayward dollops succumbed to the call of gravity and plopped onto the knee of his trousers. They looked uncommonly like bird droppings. James tutted irritably and, hoping his questionable manners would further discourage the silent woman behind him, scooped up the goo with a bread stick and popped it into his mouth.

‘A man who turns a crisis into a dip! You have a rare talent.' Despite his grey mood, James had to chuckle at the witticism, delivered in a dry tone that tickled his funny bone. He turned and found himself instantly seized by a pair of penetrating malachite eyes dancing and sparkling with girlish mischief. Celeste Gordon stood only a few inches shorter than him, a trim woman with amazing copper hair tumbling down in glorious waves over her shoulders. Her flawless complexion, although not exactly tanned in the traditional way, seemed to glow from years of exposure to the sun. Of course, she would have had to cover up for most of the Brazilian day; redheads burned terribly. That was a tough genetic predisposition in a society where a bronzed skin was still equated with healthiness rather than incipient melanoma.

A pair of generous lips twitched in amusement. Her open face displayed a striking bone structure, with high cheeks and fine, arched brows. She wore a green and blue patterned waistcoat over a cream silk blouse and a plain black knee-length leather skirt. Dark nylons sheathed shapely calves, but it was her shoes that caught his eye.

James had always been a sucker for killer heels and, to his great delight, found himself confronted with the shiniest black Oxford pumps he'd ever seen, the vamps laced snugly over precipitously inclined insteps. Towering heels transformed her stance, gracefully elongating her legs and boosting her height. The shoes were obviously new, the soles unblemished, the steel-tipped heels unscuffed, and she stood in complete comfort. Now that took practice! James found himself staring. He was a man who could easily become mesmerised by a decent pair of stilettos!

He dragged his gaze upward from her feet and, for a second, the cool stare of those incredible green eyes reached right into the deepest recesses of his soul and lay him bare, stripping away those onion layers to touch the real man beneath. His heart thumped hard, his internal organs jostling like pensioners on the first day of a Co-op sale. He gaped, struggling to maintain his equilibrium, and knew instinctively he was in the presence of a supremely powerful and utterly intoxicating personality.