"Come in," growled Margaret, her voice boring and dry. Another hard day destroying people's lives was wearing her incessantly droning voice rather croaky. It was hard work to announce further pain and suffering for millions of people.
The large oak door opened to reveal a small man. A very small man. A miniscule, tiny, barely-visible without the use of a microscope, man. Or perhaps he was a boy, the heartless pensioner wondered to herself. But as this figure moved closer to the table, she realised he truly was a man, and licked her extremely thin lips.
The man approached the table and waited for her to speak.
"How may I help you Sir?"
To her shock and horror, the voice that greeted her, was not one of a man, but of a creature, who came from the terrifying and unimportant land of Ireland. Her eyes widened: how could she have found him attractive?
"My name is Steinhegvanhuysenolegbangbangbang and I'm here to call you a cunt. It's not political, of course," the Irish swamp monster declared.
The evil prime minister looked at him curiously for a second, before letting out a small chuckle.
"What do you do for a living Mr Steinhegvanhuysenolegbangbangbang, that gives you the authority to call me such a name?" She gently touched her massive lump of hair on top of her head, where she stored all the milk bottles she stole from young children in the early 1970s.
Steinhegvanhuysenolegbangbangbang attempted to stand tall and proud as he spoke, "I'm a singer in a band. We're very very very good and not political at all."
"I see," Maggie replied, looking both uninterested and intrigued all at once,"But why on earth....would you come here....to say such a thing....when your contemporaries....prefer the method of....dangerous shows of....hatred? Are you scared? Weak? Or did you just want to see me in the flesh?" She gasped at the end of the speech (her lungs were clogged up with dust so speaking took her a rather long time).
"I want to change the world and I'm starting her, in England."
The milk snatcher snarled and lifted herself up from her chair, made up from the dead bodies of the working class.
"Go play your instruments little boy and leave politics to the bigger boys."
His eyes were full of venom as he snapped back at her, "If we don't stop, the bigger boys will kill every last little boy and that's hardly fair, is it?"
His hands gripped the desk, whilst her knucles burnt down onto the table (made from dead women as she hated women).
She glanced down at his hands and secretly admired them; she loved veins, especially when she could bite down and suck every last drop of blood out of them. Once again, her eyes moved back up, ashamed of her wild mind. However, Steinhegvanhuysenolegbangbangbang was admiring her wrinkly old face and the displeased frown she wore constantly (unless she had just heard news about a poor persons death).
Their eyes met suddenly. They simply stared for a moment or two, eyes fighting for dominance. With a surge of confidence, Maggie took Steinhegvanhuysenolegbangbangbang's face into her hands and pressed her wafer-thin lips onto his. He didn't react straight away, but when he finally began to kiss back, Maggie moaned loudly. Steinhegvanhuysenolegbangbangbang could taste the bloody of the weak and needy on her lips and groaned in sinful pleasure.
"steinhegvanhuysenolegbangbangbang" she whispered as she pulled away from him, "let me peg you on my desk."
She feared he would say no and back away. Instead, he leant in close to her again and whispered, "Call me Bono." Maggie felt her own wetness splash down onto her knicker fabric (M&S of course).
Their lips met once again and Maggie began to rip his clothes off with her sharp fangs. He was hairy, just how she liked her victims to be. She found that hair tasted rather delicious.
Bono helped her out of her toilet-cleaner-blue suit and his jaw fell when he saw her body. Margaret Thatcher was his dream MILF.
"Bend over my desk Irish peasant," she ordered and Bono felt himself harden even more at her words. He did as she said immediately.
He heard her desk drawer open and saw the blue dildo in the corner of his eye. He was very excited and began to tremble.
In his bedroom, for years, he had dreamt of this moment. Despite the monstrous way she treat the Irish, Bono had a whole catalogue of fantasies about Maggie. He feared what people would say if they ever knew, but he had to take the chance of seeing her, at least once, to soothe his aching cock. All his dreams were coming true.
Maggie prepared her strapon (official Tory merch, available at all shops the working class can't afford to go to) with the lube (tears of working class children who just wanted some milk) and got ready for the big moment.
"Are you ready boy?"
"Yes Ma'am," Bono said desperately, pushing himself closer to her body.
When she entered the terrible singer, he groaned so loudly, that Thatcher's American lover Reagan could have heard her in the USA. Margaret was not a merciful woman (unsurprisingly) and began to pound harder and harder, faster and faster. An array of insults left her lips as she thrusted back and forth into the Irish twat.
"Scum!"
"Filth!"
"Undesirable!"
(And many more, far too offensive to mention).
Bono felt himself getting closer; he begged himself to not cum too early but this was his greatest fantasy, and his usual time was only 1 minute and 3 seconds. Maggie was relentless and when she noticed Bono at his weakest, she took this as the opportunity to strike.
"Let me snatch your disgusting Irish cum!"
As he reached his climax, she forcefully bit down into his flesh. It was pleasurable for him on impact, but a wave of sinister fear washed over him, when he realised she was eating him.
Once she got her first taste, she couldn't stop. She gnawed and chewed and devoured every last piece of Bono, finding his cries to be hugely satisfying. As the last piece of flesh landed in her stomach, she sighed happily.
Within minutes, she was dressed, her strapon cleaned and neatly packed away. The clothes and bones of the dead man were placed inside her blue pastel handbag, so she could sniff his remains during the long day. Margaret altered her necklace slightly, as she called for her husband to enter the room.
The middle-aged man walked in with a smile and chuckled when his eyes landed on the table.
"Oh lord, another one darling? That's the fourth Irish man you've had his week, and it's only Tuesday! You're insatiable my love."
"I know," she chortled with a smug grin on her face, "but don't I deserve a little fun every now and then?"
The End
