the outsider

Part One originally published in the February/March edition of The 50-ft Mail-Out

Part Two coming soon

The Insider is the second in a collection of short stories combining social and political satire with erotic fiction. As such, this story is sexually explicit in parts.

Content Warnings: Building destruction; rampage; giant dyke sex.

INTRO

This story is not technically a follow-up to She’s Fucking Canary Wharf, the short story I wrote for last year’s #SeptKinkyScribble challenge, and which I published in print in the October/November edition of the Mail-Out, but its creation was certainly influenced by how much I enjoyed writing that earlier story. Writing it, I began to realise that vaguely realistic social satire that also just happened to include giant dykes fucking each other, fucking cities full of sexy little skyscrapers, and fucking social and political hierarchies while they were at it, might well be my niche as a size-fiction writer. And pretty much as soon as I’d finished writing She’s Fucking Canary Wharf, I immediately came up with the concept for The Insider, and dedicated myself to writing it as soon as I had a spare moment.

The Insider is inspired by an encounter I had with someone at a house-party in a basement flat in west London, thrown by a non-binary photographer friend of mine who genuinely had a fuck-off trapeze rig in their backyard. In said backyard, I got talking to a recent journalism graduate from SOAS — one of the most left-wing colleges in the country — who was embarrassed to tell me that she had recently taken up a job at the Daily Telegraph, which as many of you might be aware is a notorious right-wing broadsheet and Conservative Party mouthpiece that has grown increasingly extremist in recent years.

I believed her when she said it was just to get her foot in the industry. She was a SOAS grad. Our mutuals were all queer. We had a good laugh mocking some of the Telegraph’s utterly unhinged (and stinking rich) regular opinion columnists. Alison Pearson. Allister Heath. Celia Walden. The aristocrat’s daughter who loves to complain about the supposed political envy and lack of ambition of the British left, whilst completely ignoring the impacts of systemic socio-economic injustices, whose name is literally Sophia Money-Coutts. Under capitalism, it’s hard not to feel tempted to sell your soul to the devil to get ahead in any profession, let alone one so brutally dominated by privately-educated Oxbridge graduates as British journalism. I understood why she did what she did. Iron-clad principles are a great thing to have, but so is deposit money to buy yourself a flat in a decent part of Zone Two. Steadfast ethics, or financial stability and career advancement. Which would you choose?...

Chatting to her in that tiny backyard in Westbourne Park, freezing my arse off in the January cold as she puffed on a fag, I hoped she would find a way out of the transphobic, xenophobic hellhole that is the Daily Telegraph’s newsroom. Hoped she would find a post at a decent investigative outlet, full of decent fellow journalists who didn’t dog-whistle about “cultural Marxism” whilst in the same breath decrying pro-Palestine protesters as being inherently anti-Semitic. But as a queer person who also fell into the trap of sucking up to elite conservative institutions as a form of seeking social mobility before she came out, woke up, and finally  realised how fucking evil and heartless these institutions really are, I know full well how insidious their powers of corruption can be. And that is what this story is all about. The corrupting allure of elite institutions to the principled, yet aspirational outsider who would do whatever it took to break in.

This has been a real heavy intro for a story that features a couple of evil giant kinky leather dykes destroying major financial centres through the power of BDSM. But I really thought it would have been doing my creative process an injustice if I published this story without discussing the context behind its creation. It’s a story about class, irrepressible ambition, and major ethical dilemmas; it’s a teasing slow-burner, and it’s sizey and sexy and sapphic as hell.

PART ONE

She was alone in the back of a Bentley Mulsanne, driven by a chauffeur whose name she had begun to think she might well never discover and whose basic appearance was more of a mystery still, sailing gracefully along the London-bound carriageway of the Western Avenue. Nonchalantly parting the Friday evening traffic as though that one limousine single-handedly possessed the authoritative gravitas of an entire prime-ministerial motorcade. Ten minutes earlier, feeling every bit like Bridgitte Bardot risen from the dead, she’d descended the staircase of a private jet at RAF Northolt to discover the car parked on the taxiway barely half a dozen yards away, anticipating her arrival. Passport control and security clearances permanently taken care of by some good old-fashioned financial corruption involving some higher-ups at the MOD, and a few hundred million in prime foreign real-estate that had suddenly come on the market for a knock-down price, let’s just say. All she’d had to do after touching down was clamber into the back of the car, allow her exhausted bones to sink deep into the plush leather upholstery, and neck the martini waiting for her in a few hundred quid’s worth of crystal cocktail flute on the armrest. And as she necked that martini, rolled down the near-side window, and flung that cocktail flute right out of it just so she could watch it shatter on the tarmac in full view of the Hoover Building, she thought to herself: fuck me, life is good.

She had never been a girl to give a shit about the finer things in life until about a month ago. Truly. Ostentatious displays of wealth had once made her feel sick to her stomach at best and frankly genocidal towards the billionaire class at worst. Once.

A month ago, she would have told you she would have been completely satisfied flying Economy home from an assignment that had taken her halfway around the world. Twelve straight hours spent strapped into a cramped, bolt-upright Poverty Traveller Chair with fuck-all legroom even for a woman of five-foot-six. Trying to snatch a moment’s sleep with her nose buried in a neighbouring passenger’s armpit sporting body-odour that the Geneva Convention would have classified as an illegal chemical weapon. Enduring the endless border queues at Heathrow Terminal Kill-Me-Now. Sure.

Furthermore, she would have told you — possibly facetiously, admittedly — that she would have been proud to endure the further bleary-eyed hour and a half it would have taken her to get back home from Heathrow on the Underground. Praying she could keep herself awake long enough to hit her connection. Praying she wouldn’t have to suffer the ignominy of getting rattled awake by some gruff-bloke member of Tube staff at arse-end-of-nowhere Cockfosters. 

(Possibly facetiously, as that particular ignominy was one she had suffered before. The night she flew home from her very first international assignment as a rookie journalist. When she had to slog all the way back to south London on night buses because fuck knows she wasn’t affording a cab as a twenty-three-year-old who’d only just graduated from horrifically exploited intern to horrifically exploited newspaper employee they could at least be bothered to fucking pay now.)

A month ago, she would have told you all those things. A month ago, the girl had earnest principles. And she knew damn well she wasn’t going to compromise them for anything. Even if she was an avowed leftie who had turned to the dark side and taken a post at The Telegraph. “Only to get your foot in the door,” she told herself with a heaving sigh, repressing her dread as she prepared herself to enter the office on the first day of her internship. “We’re gonna have a good job in a decent investigative newsroom that’s not full of Tory pricks before you know it, but sometimes you’ve just got to whore yourself out to pure evil to get ahead. And that’s all we’re doing.”

But, you know, all that was before they corrupted her.  

Somewhere along the line, her resolve crumbled. Somewhere along the line, she realised that if she was ever going to get by in the cut-throat world of Fleet Street journalism as a woman who, for all her industriousness, integrity, and intellect, hadn’t gone to posh school, hadn’t gone to Oxbridge, hadn’t got the professional connections you could only get from being born with a silver spoon up your cunt and a white-tie birthday suit, she was going to have to tell every single one of her earnestly-held principles to absolutely go and fuck themselves with a thousand-fucking-foot horse-cock.

She wondered if they had a thousand-foot silicone horse-cock somewhere in their collection. It wouldn’t have surprised her. But then again, a thousand feet of horse-cock probably wouldn’t have been big enough for them. Seeing what they did with the Shanghai Tower last night, and that thing was at least twice that size… 

And I mean, really, at this point, you know, she was in so deep with it that she’d actually stopped wanting to punch Allison Pearson every time she saw her smug arse ambling into the newsroom, and started actually kind of agreeing with her. Because she was right. You could chalk her previous ignorant opinions regarding the trappings of luxury up to a success-hating politics of envy. If you want to get ahead, sometimes you have to just stop moping about how evil and unfair the world is like all those defeatist, lazy, loony leftists want you to do, and do whatever the fuck it takes to claw your way up that professional ladder. Ethics be fucking damned.

BBC News on the telly built into the back of the driver’s seat. Playing all our expertly-framed footage from yet another localised apocalypse last night. Lady-boner fuel for all the lesbians out there. Freaking truly.

I mean, it’s just a couple of horny leather-dykes having a steamy, sweaty night on the town. Don’t worry about it.

Don’t think about how literally you should be taking the phrase “night on the town”. And don’t you dare think about what that one’s about to do with the Oriental Pearl Tower riiiight about now. It’s got nothing to do with sounding a giant kinky billionaire’s girldick in full view of a city of twenty-four million terrified inhabitants. Absolutely nothing at all…

“Agh! Jesus fuck!”

You could easily drift off in the back of a Mulsanne after a twelve-hour flight. Sink deep into those plush black leather seats knowing you’d be delivered safely to your front door without having to worry about it. She was so agonisingly fucking close to relenting to her jet-lagged stupor and letting the tiredness take her when suddenly, the sound of a muffled high-pitched PING emanating from deep within the padded black duffel in the boot of the car shocked her bolt upright again. Alert as you like.

She’d kept her bleeding phone in her bag in the boot for a reason. No distractions. No work messages. Just get me back to pissing Kennington so I can curl up on the sofa and catch up on The Traitors. Life is good, life is perfect, when I’m in the back of a poncy limousine after twelve hours on a private jet, sipping on a martini, sure, if I’ve got absolutely fuck all work shit to worry about until to-mor-row mor-ning. Why those stupid fuckers at Bentley thought it was a good idea to have her phone auto-connect to the in-car entertainment system and blast the Signal notifications she was specifically trying to avoid throughout the cabin at full fucking volume, she did not know. But now she’d heard it, and could see the message she’d received in big, bold letters on the television screen in front of her, she didn’t really have any choice but to engage with it really.

It was from the World Affairs Editor. Decent guy. Kind of a creep, but not too much. The bar was somewhere in hell, but it could always stand to be a few circles lower.

“We’ve gone for drinks. Globe on Borough Market. Come join us if you’re back in the country already. You know you want to.”

Followed by:

“Drinks all night on me. Superstar.”

Ugh.

Fucking, you know what. Scratch that kind of bit. Why the fuck was she defending him? When she was the only person here. Talking to herself. Silently. In her own head. With no-one else around but a faceless chauffeur on the other side of a pane of soundproof glass. At least ten miles away from where the man she had to keep quiet about, had to stay on the good side of for as long as her future depended on it, was inevitably gonna be swigging down London Prides way faster than his nonexistent tolerance could handle, and feeling up the thighs of every woman under twenty-five he could get his hands on. 

She could say it here. She was safe to open her mouth. The man was a complete fucking creep. He looked like the unholy, greasy, flabby fucking lovechild of Nigel Farage and Prince Andrew, and in a just world Emily Maitlis would have exposed him as the stinking rich pervert nonce he was on Newsnight too. The World Affairs Editor — her editor, her boss, the man who signed her on to the job — was a slimy fucking lecherer with an old school tie that gave him life-long gold-plated protection from suffering any consequences for his actions, and that sickening filthy-old-man Sid James laugh that he, and every other ex-public-schoolboy over the age of sixty, had picked up from the private member’s club or the golf course.

Fuck me, if that man was still able to clear the bar of “not a creep”, then Christ, the bar really had plumbed depths of hell that Alighieri Dante himself could absolutely fucking never.

She really didn’t want to go. Naturally, she didn’t. Of course she didn’t. But it was worth it to stay in the man’s good books. Especially as she knew that the very man who’d just sent her that work-drinks booty call was retiring soon, and there were rumours going round the newsroom that he was about to hand-pick the twenty-something new girl as his successor. And believe it or not, she wouldn’t even have to sleep with him for the privilege...

The Signal messages from the World Affairs Editor had faded from the television screen, which had returned, at last, to broadcasting BBC News. Broadcasting some harrowing footage from the Chinese city of Shanghai tonight.

“The BBC has received reports that the Prime Minister will be heading to Washington D.C. tomorrow morning, along with the Chinese, Russian, and French presidents, the German chancellor, and the Japanese prime minister, for an emergency meeting at the White House to discuss a plan of action to prevent these two giant women from inflicting further destruction upon the world’s major global cities. Reeta Chakrabati, BBC News.”

Well, well, well. I guess we know which city is next on the agenda, don’t we. It’s a shame the meeting’s not happening somewhere there’s more lovely skyscrapers to play with — they did Manhattan two weeks ago, so maybe Chicago if the Big Apple’s now permanently off the table — or even somewhere like LA or San Francisco. Surrounded by hills and mountains to grind against tits and gushing fucking pussies, or flatten beneath their huge naked bodies as they fuck each other over Silicon Valley using the Salesforce Tower as a thick fucking strap-on. Quivering, quaking titanic dyke bodies giving each other seismic, squirting orgasms triggering earthquakes that would make 1906 look like nothing. But I’m sure we can find ways to play with D.C.. Even if all it’s got to offer us in the way of toys is the Washington Monument’s pathetic little granite micro-dick of an obelisk. It might just mean us having to use our imaginations a bit more. That’s all.

They do say that D.C.’s built on top of a massive swamp. Maybe that’s the answer. A big, messy, sexy naked mud-wrestle in the steaming wet sludge-pool where the National Mall used to stand proud and gleaming white. The Capitol and the White House melting into the brown, bubbling, boiling, sweat-drenched bog beneath a smoking hot stone butch bull-dyke and her tranny fag girlfriend with a shaft that’d put the Burj Khalifa to shame. Oh, yeah. I think we can work with D.C.…

Deeper, and deeper, and deeper she sank into the tender, massaging caress of the glossy black leather upholstery. A tender bite of her blood-red lips. Smoky eyes drifting shut in what she might well have passed off as snoozing off the jet lag — London is an awfully long way away from the east coast of China, after all — until her fingertips involuntarily began to slip beneath the waistband of her Valentino trousers, beneath the silky black lace of those sultry, seductive five-hundred-pound panties her magnificent partners-in-crime — her mentors, her mistresses, her dommes — had bought her from Honey Birdette as a reward for being such a perfect little accessory. In more ways than one… 

Amber flashes from the street lights hurtling past her, seventy, eighty, ninety miles per hour, blazed across her body. Lightning bolts shooting through her squirming carnal flesh. Her cunt was soaking fucking wet. Her clit on fire. Four hundred thousand volts of rabid, screaming, toe-curling, nail-digging feral femme pleasure seared through every single millimetre of her body the moment her fingertips trickled down her bush and struck their target; with it, an uncontrollable moan — an atomic sexual shockwave — escaped her tightly bitten lips. 

UNHHHH!

She came to the very brink of it. Succumbing to her fantasies. Masturbating in the back of the Mulsanne. But the moan snapped her out of it. A self-conscious fear that the supposedly soundproof tinted glass separating her from the chauffeur only five feet in front of her might not actually have been as soundproof as advertised — and she was a loud fucking moaner in the bedroom — meant she instead hurriedly came in quite a different way: immediately to her senses. Remembering once again that, as of five minutes ago, she now had somewhere to fucking be that night. Worst luck.

She quickly straightened up her outfit. Her hair. 

With a click of a button, down slid the pane of soundproof glass.

“The office has gone for drinks in Borough. Drop me off there and take my bags home, will you?”

On second thoughts…

“Actually, drop me off on the north side of the bridge. Let’s not have them see me getting out of a car like this. Arousing suspicion.”

The chauffeur nodded once, silently. The tinted glass slid back into place without another word. 

Park Royal. White City. Notting Hill. Uncompromising in its completely deserved aristocratic arrogance as ever, with careless abandon the glistening black Mulsanne carried on carving through the sodium-bleached night, and through the unwashed masses of plebeian traffic bound for the heart of the city. Gliding along the soaring Westway; gliding along meandering river-rapids of motorway tarmac rushing sixty feet above the culture-clash cityscape of West London below: strange intersecting clusters of rancid, decaying concrete-jungle council blocks rammed right up against streaks of slick little posh-bitch townhouse mansions that might well have cost five, ten million quid apiece — the fuck even was the going rate for luxury property these days if you were actually having to pay for it? — but which, nonetheless, would almost certainly have paled in comparison to the mansion they’d promised her if she just kept her little mouth shut and her camera at the ready.

You can do that for us, can’t you?

Do you really want to make it in the cut-throat world of journalism — and maybe full-on break into the global elite while you’re at it — or don’t you? Do you want to spend the rest of your life just watching success from the sidelines, pathetically waiting for someone rich, someone powerful, someone far fucking superior to who you are now or the person you ever will be, to give you the time of day long enough for you to get on your fucking knees to beg them for connections — or suck them off, in the blind hope they’ll involuntarily grunt out the name and contacts of the Economist chief editor while they’re spunking down your throat?

Yeah. Thought so. Listen. Witanhurst Mansion. Back entrance on Highfields Grove. Covert. Discreet. Get your arse there tomorrow at eight and we’ll set the plan in motion.

And by the way. Little Miss Morally Principled Good Girl. Welcome to the dark side. You’re gonna fucking love it here…