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Election Night Fireworks

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The phones were ringing off the hook. Footsteps were running back and forward throughout the building, causing soft rumblings in the woodwork. Outside, fireworks exploded, and the singing voices of a nation rejoiced.

But none of that was heard by you. Your eyes were closed, your ears focused. The only things that mattered at this time were the stately hands grasping your buttocks, and the silver tongue now plundering your mouth.

“Oh,” you moaned as he pulled back, panting a couple of breaths in your ear before mouthing down your neck. “Oh – Prime Minister!”

Justin Trudeau pulled back sharply, and your eyes met. The electric charge that zapped between you was punctuated by the explosion of a firework outside, as though even God destined you to be.

Mon Dieu,” he gasped. “J’adore ta voix, dites-moi encore, s’il te plaît.”

Prime Minister,” you said breathlessly. “Tu es le premier ministre, the most powerful man in the country, mon amour.”

“Oui,” he cried, and now urgent hands pulled down your pencil skirt, your underwear coming with it. He didn’t bother with your shoes, tiny black ones you had worn for his victory speech. You knew from previous liaisons Justin had a thing for women’s shoes. Suddenly, he swept a hand up, and sent all those carefully placed speeches and policy documents to the floor.

When he picked you up and threw you down on the heavy oak table, you remembered where you were. The Prime Minister’s office. Such a long journey had led you to this illustrious place, and so many, including Justin’s own father Pierre, had sat here before, changing your country for the better.

You groaned, and felt your cunt throb in anticipation.

Suddenly, Justin got to his knees and began mouthing at your pussy. You had been able to tell his tongue was long when it had been in your mouth, but now you let out a high pitched cry. It was incredible; it felt as good as a Québecois whom had just been told she would be hosting the World’s Fair in her native Montréal, as mind blowing as a Yukon prospector finding his first gold nugget.

Your hands came up, grasping the supple material of the beloved Canadian flag, and you tugged it. It fell free from its pole, and you wrapped it around your shoulders. “Oh yes!” you cried. “O – o – o Canada!”

Justin stopped suddenly in his work, and you moaned at the loss of his tongue.

“Our home and native land,” he cried, and he was up again – but to your surprise and frustration, he did not immediately pay you mind. Instead, he reached next to him, grasping a small bottle. In the dimness of the prime minister’s office, you couldn’t see the label. Was it lubricant?

Justin drizzled the liquid along your body. It ran across you in rivulets, running between your breasts and pooling in your belly button. And you realised. It was maple syrup.

You groaned as Justin’s tongue followed the liquid down your body. He paused to pay special attention to your nipples, and your thighs closed around his hard abdomen as you let out a moan, twisting the material of the Canadian flag in your fingers. Justin looked up, grinning. “Un cabane à sucre, tout pour moi,” he said cheekily, his stunning blue eyes glinting in the light of another red firework.

“Unh!” you cried out as he tongued at your belly button, making a filthy slurping sound as he worked to drink up all the sweet syrup.

“Oh!” you said. “Oh Prime Minister, I’m ready!” you gasped, gripping his torso with your thighs harder. “Please Prime Minister, give me your French baguette!”

He had such white teeth, white as any northern snowfall. They glinted as he smiled. He stood up – and he was just the picture of magnificence. Then, with long fingers, he ripped open his white shirt. Buttons flew everywhere, one hitting you squarely on the forehead, but you did not mind. Justin Trudeau was beautiful, as muscular and manly as any Albertan lumberjack at the prime of his life.

You didn’t let up on the grip of your thighs, so Justin just pushed the front of his pants down. You moaned, this time not with lust but with sadness – sadness that you would not bear witness to the magnificent prime ministerial buttocks this time – but there was always the future.

His French baguette was worthy of its name. It was truly a beautiful cock, sitting tall and proud from a nest of the most well maintained pubic hair you had ever seen.

But the leader of the parliament did not grant you time to admire what he had been bestowed by his parents. He leaned down, his hands joining yours in the wonderful fabric of your great country’s flag. And then his prime ministerial rod was spearing into you, filling you up with glorious, nation-leading thrusts.

“Oh!” you cried, stunned at how much more glorious sex felt when it was with the leader of a country – the most beautiful leader in all the world. “Oh yes! Daddy Trudeau!”

“Oh!” he cried. “Oh yes!! O Canada!”

Your moans were breathy and high, spurred on by your leader’s powerful thrusts. “Our home and native land!” you gasped.

Justin lowered his face to your bouncing, bountiful breasts. “True patriot love,” he murmured, “in all thy sons command!”

“Car ton – Oh! – car ton bras sait porter l’épée!” Your voice jumped another octave on the last word – Justin had found your G-spot.

“Il sait porter la croix,” Justin groaned into your fleshy mounds. He brought one of his beautiful long fingers down to rub at your clit, and you had to bring the flag to your mouth and bite into it to stop from screaming.

“Ton histoire,” you began, and you could now barely get out a sentence. “Est une épopée!”

Oui!” Justin cried, breaking your joint recital of the anthem for just a moment as his thrusts grew more erratic. “Des plus brilliants exploits!”

“God!” you cried, high pitched. “Keep our land glorious and free!”

“O Canada!” Justin groaned, and he laid a small, stinging bite on your left breast. “We stand on guard for thee!”

“O – O Canada!” It was becoming harder and harder to form words as you raced towards your climax, fast as a Buick Allure across the Saskatchewan plains. “We – we stand on guard - for thee!”

With a final shout, you climaxed together, the magic of your making love now imprinted on the skies like the blazing North Star.

You loved your country. From the wilderness of Bathurst Island to the bustling heart of Toronto, you loved it. Justin Trudeau was as close to having sex with your country as you could manage it.

You would do it over again, with all the passion and heart of a member of the Van Doos storming through the forests of Europe.

You loved your country, and you had proved it tonight.