Central to the debate on the importance of Mrs. Brassington’s suspenders in her ability to make me hard was a rattle-trap thigh-slap black-lace strap that progressed in sequence almost faster than I could pump myself off.

I love an angry woman. Mrs. Brassington’s mouth stretched and flapped with rapid disapproval as she took the replacement garment from the pretty blonde girl in the white blouse who blushed helplessly through the verbal spanking and regarded the taller straight-haired brunette lady in the Chanel suit with a thrilling wide-eyed awe. Pulling up her skirt with rude brevity, Mrs. Brassington proceeded to clip the new belt into place, pinching each secured strap and making it slap against her long, creamy thigh. Her lips puckered with each pinch, a precise and close-mouthed bitch insistent in her art, and it was this that set the sperm twisting from my blurred fist onto the changing room wall as the petite young shop assistant waited outside Mrs. Brassington’s stall opposite, biting her lip skittishly and blushing at the sight that was visible through the gapped curtains.

I know that Mrs. Brassington likes Agent Provocateur, but has time for Dottie’s Delights, too. She does not patronize M & S, preferring instead the Elle Mystique across the square. I know these things from our close encounters. Today, I view from a distance. This may seem to be unsatisfactory, but it lasts a lot longer.

All gentlemen rise. All gentlemen rise. This is not just an instruction (the necktie pulling tighter around my testicles as I yelp pitifully, Mrs. Brassington’s full red lips pinched with contempt as she pushes her stilettoed foot into my face, get up you dickless worm, oh Jesus Christ) but a statement of fact.

Every Wednesday afternoon I rise, and occasionally on a Monday. Everyone thinks I’m a sucker for volunteering the weekend shifts; they have yet to learn of the delights that mid-week can hold.

I hold the Faber Castell over the blank notepaper before me. This is difficult. When addressing your desire, a certain application of effort is seemly as well as prudent. I lean over the table, pen poised, before stopping and looking up at the television. My breath clogs in my chest, heartbeat lurching like a doomful drum. Things are starting to get underway.

All gentlemen rise. All gentlemen have risen. Ladies and gentlemen, quiet now, please be seated. The next order of business, order, please, the debate on doctors’ certificates for doyennes of the skinny and the skimpy. I call on the right honourable member for Quigley on the Marsh. Mrs. Anabella Brassington.

Here she comes. Long of thigh and forearm, sleek figure snug in deep blue Armani. A twinkle of Tiffany, a puff of Dior. I know she’s wearing Dior from the way she raises her face and smiles disdainfully, exposing her slender aristocratic neck for just the briefest breath. The bitch would make them as lyrical as me if these Lords and Ladies were allowed to speak, which they mustn’t until she’s finished.

Dear Anabella . . . I write, but it’s no good. I put my pen down. I have to watch.

Here she is now, carrying her sheaf of papers up to the lectern, fumbles, drops them, the papers see-sawing to the dark oaken floor of Westminster. She bends, tight navy skirt slithering over silky nylon, but the real action is in that plunging neckline that yawns cavernously as she stretches for her notes, a glimpse of gleaming lace cups, heavy, and the soft velvet slash between them, the uncoiling below my belt already. I remind myself to use my left hand and to keep my eyes on the screen. Yes, writing these letters is so difficult . . .

Dear Anabella, I’ve been following you for some time with much interest . . .

Of course, she maintains a presence on social media, everyone does these days, as do I.

First came the lingerie shots; full-frontal soon followed. A four-poster bed and acts that require much flexibility. My inbox was swollen and glossy. I asked her half-jokingly if she thought she was safe to do this. She responded by sending me a picture of herself staring into the camera and holding a whip, tits bulging out from a black leather corset. Are you safe to deny me? was the terse reply. I read it several times, gazing heatedly at her stern and pale face, her puckered pinched lips.

. . . I have often admired your ideas and your forthrightness . . .

She will, of course, deny she knows me if it ever comes out. She insists that I can watch, but not being seen together. I agree, knowing the truth behind that genteel and queenly façade.

. . . would like to meet to discuss your stance on . . .

(. . . the podium. Do me on the podium . . .)

On the TV screen, Mrs. Brassington attends to some itch, long red nails lazily catching the underside of one breast and tipping it upward.

. . . find your speeches so uplifting. Perhaps we could meet one day . . .

The urgent ache and searing heat as I discharge in my pants, Mrs. B. wrapping up with a smile that may be a smirk.

All rise. All gentlemen rise. Afternoon recess, the declaration echoes, and all file out, silence falling in the House and liquid warmth below.

The right hon. member for Quigley on the Marsh picks up a carrier on leaving. Eyes blurred, I squint at the brand name, complete my letter. Twitter is anonymous, safe, but this is better. A letter is something anyone could find, and I know this makes her wet.

. . . meet in Lewis’s. There’s a very good restaurant, just beyond the changing rooms . . .

Which I think she was from the very first.