One can imagine the leather clad aspirations of Theresa May gone wild in the dark dank depths of Number 10, a place where she charges a fair price to overworked Cabinet ministers and lonely single white male politicians in their sixties.
Your imagination can run wild, but what if some of it was real, like it actually happened?
There are secret rooms and chambers in 10 Downing Street, possibly accessed by pressing a well worn dusty copy of Spycatcher in the library, or by turning a certain brass knob 34 degrees to the left.
At midnight, the strains of Motley Crue’s song Girls Girls Girls emanates from one of these dungeons, and if you listen carefully Mistress Theresa May is whipping someone very hard.
And after the frenzied whipping sound ends, the groans can be heard.
Nicky Morgan is going to have to be very careful of what she says next time to the the papers.
The taste of fresh leather, expensive, and sweaty exudes a sultry seductive side to the PM, as she adjusts her whip, and calls for the next recipient.
