4 comments/ 9782 views/ 1 favorites Death of a True Love By: Pussyrider I was in a meeting with Dick Stewart, the Foreign Secretary, and a number of our policy advisors when I heard the news. Mary Walsh, the Foreign Office's Chief Media Officer, tapped on the door and poked her head round it. "Sorry to interrupt folks, but I thought you'd want to know this as soon as possible. The wires are reporting that Nusrat Mohammed's been assassinated." Amid the tutting, headshaking and faux expressions of surprise from my colleagues, I sat completely numb. My stomach filled with mercury, and I felt icy cold. I blinked, hard, to fight back the tears which threatened to erupt from my eyes. I'd told Nusrat I feared this would happen, but I still couldn't grasp the dreadful reality of it. Naturally, our discussion of the upcoming Royal visit to Japan ended and we immediately turned our attention to the ramifications of her death. Britain didn't have enormous financial investments in Rajistan, but we supported the USA's anti-terrorism policy there -- naturally -- and such a high profile killing could easily destabilise what was at the best of times a highly volatile, strategically important country. Dick led the discussion; as an acknowledged specialist on South Asia, and his deputy minister, I should have made a healthy contribution, but I was too stunned and just sat staring at the table. As the meeting progressed, more facts emerged. It seemed that, just three days before the election which the entire world expected to sweep Nusrat back into the presidency of Rajistan, a student had simply strolled up to her house, called her to the door and put two bullets in her brain. He had been torn to shreds by gunfire from her police guards before he could be questioned. It was unclear at this point how an armed stranger had got past the guards in the first place. The early list of likely sponsors of the act read like a who's who of politics in the region -- the military, another political party, a rival in her own party, the CIA, the Taliban... It was agreed that the Prime Minister should consult with the US and Rajistani presidents before issuing an official UK government reaction to the murder. The Bank of England would make an announcement aimed at preventing any serious impact on the money markets, and the Defence Minister and Home Secretary would consider any request from Rajistan to quell resulting civil unrest. With that the meeting broke up, and I stumbled towards the door and a comforting bottle of Chivas Regal I kept in my desk drawer. As I did so Dick, ever the bluff Scot, clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Dreadful news about the Mohammed woman, eh Charles? You used to know her quite well didn't you?" Oh yes, I knew Nusrat all right... The mid-1980s was an exciting time for me. The left and right in Britain had rarely been more widely divided, the political landscape was changing before my eyes, and I was smugly ensconced as a student at the prestigious and very trendy London School of Economics. I hung with a crowd of like-minded young lefties, and Nusrat was dating one of my friends. Even though she and I sat at the same group of tables in the public bar of The Wellington several evenings a week, I didn't really know her; but nobody could fail to be aware of her. In Rajistan she was the equivalent of royalty. Her grandfather had led the team which skilfully negotiated independence for the ethnically distinct Rajistanis when India was partitioned in 1946. Her great uncle had been the country's first president. Her father was in his third term as president, easily shrugging off widespread accusations of financial and political fraud. Her brother was Rajistan's chief minister, and their father's nominated successor as leader of the Rajistan Democratic Alliance and occupier of the Marble Palace, the country's official presidential residence. Not that Nusrat needed a famous family to stand out: star quality oozed from every pore in her body. She was stunningly beautiful, with skin the colour of strong white coffee, arrogantly arched eyebrows, mesmerising honey-coloured eyes, high cheekbones, full pouting lips, and a figure to die for. She had the enormous self-assurance that comes with her sort of background, and extraordinary presence. She was one of those people who, when she walked into a room, the whole place went quiet for a moment as every eye turned to her, as if people were somehow telepathically aware that they were in the presence of a demi-goddess. My pal Phil might have been her boyfriend, but as we sat in that bar I was quite certain that every bloke at the table, and at least one of the girls, was in love with Nusrat. One night she noticed me gazing absently at her. She caught my eye and, with a puzzled smile, asked, "Charlie, what is it?" I spluttered for a response, but Phil cut in, "It's your eyes, Nuzzy. He thinks they're 'limpid pools of heaven', isn't that right Chuck?" At that moment I could happily have throttled Phil with his own tongue. But, to my surprise, Nusrat's smile widened and she said, "What a nice description, thank you. You've got beautiful eyes too Charlie. Such long lashes." Her smile turned into a giggle as I began to blush the deepest shade of red. After that I began to become aware of Nusrat sneaking glances in my direction. I began to sit that bit closer to her within our circle, and we started to chat a bit more. One night, maybe a couple of weeks after the eye discussion, she and I got into a furious argument over economics. Much as I loathed Margaret Thatcher as a person I had a grudging admiration for her liberalisation of the economy. Nusrat dismissed that with a wave of her hand, and started to outline for Rajistan a quasi-socialist economic approach similar to the rubbish being spouted by some of the anarchist nutters dragging the British Labour Party towards disaster at that time. We became more and more heated, our friends watching in bewilderment, until finally I slammed down my glass, sloshing beer across the table, and snarled, "And you're supposed to have such a brilliant intellect. I thought you wanted to improve Rajistan, not send it running cap in hand to the US Treasury after you've bankrupted the country." Fuming with rage I stomped off to the loo. By the time I returned I was feeling embarrassed at having so insulted Nusrat. She was laughing with the others, I assumed at my expense. As I sat she grinned amiably and said, "Nobody's ever spoken to me like that before Charlie." I began to apologise but she interrupted me. "I like it when someone stands up to me, it doesn't often happen. I find it quite...arousing." I felt myself blush again, and avoided Phil's gaze as Nusrat squeezed herself down next to me on the pub bench and started asking me about my family and my home life. About 10 minutes later she finished her fruit juice and, standing, said, "Charlie, would you be a darling and walk me back to my apartment?" I glanced nervously at Phil, but he just looked sullen and flapped his hand at us in a dismissive gesture. It was a chilly evening, and as we left the pub Nusrat slipped her arm through mine and snuggled close to me. I felt my groin twitch guiltily as the delicate scent of her perfume replaced the smell of beer and tobacco in my nostrils. We walked in uneasy silence for a few minutes then Nusrat steered me towards a small alleyway, which I assumed was a shortcut to her flat. After a few more steps she pushed me into a recessed doorway and, to my astonishment, dropped to her knees and began tugging at the zip of my jeans. "Nusrat," I gasped, "for Christ's sake, we can't do this -- not here, anyway." Wrapping her cool, slim fingers around my painfully hard cock she muttered, "Yes we can -- right here, right nmmm". The last word was muffled as her warm mouth closed over the tip of my dick. At first I was terrified that someone would see us, but my concerns evaporated as her silken tongue began caressing the underside of my shaft, up and down. In fact a young couple did walk past, pretending not to look at us then bursting into fits of laughter as they moved on. But I was in ecstasy, my whole being concentrated in my prick as Nusrat sucked and licked me. My hips jerked spasmodically as I shot my load into her mouth. She stood, smiling, wrapped her arms around my neck, pressed her lips to mine -- and smeared my spunk around my mouth with her tongue. I was momentarily revolted, then I remembered who it was kissing me, and began to respond with equal enthusiasm as she chuckled into my mouth. We raced back to her apartment in Covent Garden, but we didn't even make it past the entrance hall. Nusrat sank to the richly carpeted floor, pulling me down on top of her. After a few seconds of fumbling I surged into her and fucked her with every ounce of my strength as she whimpered and sighed, her feet flat on the floor, her knees raised either side of me. Her hips bucked at me as she came, with a series of grunts, and moments later I joined her, exploding my jizz into her boiling cunt. Later, in her king-sized bed, after I'd got over the miracle of this beautiful woman draping her small perfect breasts across my chest, we talked about our dreams of the future. I saw myself on the Labour front bench by 30, and the next-but-one Prime Minister. Nusrat said her father wanted her to become Rajistan's Attorney General, so that she could declare legal anything he and her brother did. She actually had no political ambitions at that time, preferring a career in diplomacy, perhaps her country's ambassador to the United Nations. After that Nusrat and I spent almost every evening together. I couldn't look Phil in the eye, and he soon faded out of our group. Increasingly Nuzzy and I enjoyed our own company more than that of other rowdy students as well. Socially she totally overshadowed me -- I was like a shooting star to her supernova -- but I didn't care. I was astonished and delighted that she had chosen me as her lover, and I felt I was the envy of almost every man who knew us. In private, she had the most amazing sexual appetite, loving to fuck and suck. She made love wildly and passionately, sometimes drawing blood as she raked her long nails down my back and across my bum. After one occasion when I found it uncomfortable to sit in a lecture on my shredded arse I insisted that she trim her nails! Even when I started on top as I fucked her, at some point she would usually flip me onto my back and ride me, gasping as her powerful thighs pumped her up and down on my thrusting prick, her tits bouncing before my eyes. I adored sucking her lovely boobs -- small but perfectly shaped, with wide very dark brown areola - but I could usually only get away with it after she was fully satisfied, otherwise she started getting impatient and pulling at me to get on with it. She loved sitting on my face, squirming her soft hairy pussy down onto me as I drove my tongue and nose into her, my fingers rimming her labia, her thighs pressing against my cheeks like velvet cushions. She also did wonderful things with her feet. I'd never thought of the feet as a sex tool, but Nuzzy would sit with hers in my lap, kneading my cock and balls, then pump my erection with her soles until I came onto her toes. Then she would either get me to lick my own jizz off her feet or, showing remarkable flexibility, she would lick it off herself, while I enjoyed the view that afforded me of her sweet pussy. She liked me to toe-fuck her too, grinding her pussy onto me, her head rolling, eyes closed and tongue lolling out, as she whined like an excited terrier. One of my favourite sexual positions was where Nuzzy sat on my prick, facing me, her legs wrapped around me while I supported her bum with my hands, as our bodies pressed together and we kissed as we fucked. One day Nuzzy phoned me, very fed up, after a lecture and asked me to come over. I poured her a rare glass of wine then ran her a rose-scented bath and soaped her back. Then I lay her face down on her bed and began to massage the tension from her neck and shoulders. When I reached her buttocks, she groaned, "Oh not my bum Charlie, I hate it -- it's huge." In fact, she had a gorgeous, neat, pear-shaped bottom. I told her I thought it was perfect, and kissed each cheek. Then, on an impulse, I gripped a buttock in each hand, pulled them apart and thrust my tongue between them. She squealed with laughter. "Oh God, you pervert! Fuck that feels good, don't stop." I wormed my tongue into her puckered hole, kneading her buttocks with my fingers as she pushed back at me. After a minute or so she rolled onto her back, a wild look in her eyes, and gasped, "Lick me out, now." I was happy to oblige, and sunk my tongue deep into her pussy, pressing her clit with my thumb and worming a couple of fingers inside her. Almost immediately she started wailing with arousal, and before long she had one of her most intense, energetic orgasm of our relationship to that point. After that my rimming her bum before licking and fucking her cunt became a regular part of our love play. We graduated together, both with decent degrees, and I secured a good job with a City bank. I had feared that Nusrat would return to Rajistan, but to my surprise she started working for peanuts at a local law centre, giving free advice and representation to clients with housing, benefits and immigration problems. I got my own flat, but we spent most of our time at her luxurious apartment, owned by the government of Rajistan. One day I was astonished to stumble across a piece of paper on which Nuzzy had been practising her signature -- with my surname! I read 'Mrs Nusrat Webster' and 'Mrs Charles Mohammed-Webster'. I had never quite understood why such an incredible creature was so attracted to me. I'd never considered myself outstandingly good looking. I suppose it was a combination of my intellect, my skill at making her laugh and cheering her up when she was down -- and the sex was pretty good too! I didn't mention my discovery but, a few nights later, as we cuddled up in post-coital bliss, she gazed up at me, her eyes shining, and murmured, "You know Charlie, I think I've fallen very much in love with you. I know Papa wants me to go home but, well, I think I could be very happy practising law in London, as the wife of an English merchant banker." My heart swelled with joy -- I adored Nusrat. If I'd taken the hint, and proposed there and then, our lives may have turned out very differently. As it was, I was just about to make the biggest mistake of my whole bloody stupid life. I'd been touting for selection as a Labour parliamentary candidate, and through a business acquaintance I'd secured an invite to a garden party being held by the local Party chairman in a rock solid safe Labour constituency. I knew that it I could get them to take me on I was guaranteed a seat in Parliament, with secure tenure pretty much for life. The place was about two hours by train from London, and on a sunny Saturday Nusrat travelled up with me, dressed in a beautiful silk salwar kameez (a traditional trouser suit). The constituency had a significant population from the Indian sub-continent, so I was sure she would be an asset. I'd never been more proud of Nusrat than I was that day. She absolutely sparkled, a deity among mere mortals as she mingled with the other guests, laughing and singing my praises. The Party chairman's daughter tried to chat me up, but I only had eyes for my darling. I was certain my selection was in the bag and we arrived home that night tired but ecstatic. We made love unusually tenderly, with a lot of hugging, nuzzling and stroking. Afterwards, as she cuddled up to me, Nusrat whispered, "I like the sound of the Honourable Charles Webster, Member of Parliament". The next morning I woke early and stumbled into the lounge. I flicked on the TV so I could watch it over the breakfast bar as I made myself coffee. But I froze as I stared at the images on the screen. It was the Marble Palace in Rajistan, with a military aircraft swooping low over it and dropping a bomb! In disbelief I sank onto the couch and turned up the volume, to hear the popping of gunfire and the louder explosions of bombs. A voice breathlessly reported, "As the army forces tightened their grip on the capital both President Mohammed and his son Bilal took shelter in the Marble Palace. Within an hour the residential quarters of the building had been reduced to smouldering rubble. The president's body was brought out about half an hour ago, amid cheering from soldiers. Chief Minister Bilal's body has yet to be found, but an eye witness has claimed to have seen him killed by falling masonry. And so, as the latest coup d'état in the history of this troubled state takes hold..." The rest of the sentence was cut off by a wild, agonised scream from the bedroom door. I leapt across the room to Nusrat and caught her as she collapsed, howling with hysterical sobs. For more than an hour I sat stroking her hair and nuzzling her as she wept. I tried to switch the damned TV off but she wouldn't let me, absorbing every moment of the news special on the overthrow of her father. At nine a.m. a representative of her father's political movement turned up at my flat out of the blue, and told Nusrat that a flight to Rajistan had been arranged for her, to attend the small private funeral the new military junta was permitting. In a daze she showered, dressed and packed a suitcase. She suddenly seemed terribly calm, as if all emotion had been drained out of her. I offered to go with her to Heathrow Airport, but felt a secret wave of relief when she said it was best that I didn't. As she got into the waiting limousine she looked pale and somehow shrunken by her grief. It's funny how fate sometimes throws important events in one's life into a tiny timeframe. On Saturday I had touted myself as a would-be Labour MP. On Sunday my girlfriend's father had been bombed to death. And on the Monday I got a 'phone call from my City contact who'd put me up for the parliamentary nomination. He said the local Party activists were very impressed by me, and were keen that I put myself forward as a candidate for selection. "There's just one thing Charles. There's no way to say this tactfully, but, well, you'd be best to lose the Raji girl." I stared at the 'phone in utter astonishment; did this prick know what had just happened? He continued, "People here are a bit, well, conservative in their views, and mixed race relationships aren't looked on happily. Apart from that, she seemed very full of herself, and she's got some quite radical views that wouldn't play well in the constituency. And with what's happened to her father, God rest him, it looks likely there's going to be a lot of stuff coming out about him, human rights, corruption, that sort of thing. That could rebound on his daughter, and that sort of publicity wouldn't do you any favours if you want to be selected as our candidate. I'm sorry old lad, but there it is." I was unable to speak for maybe ten seconds. I should have told him that he and his hypocritical racist chums could shove the nomination up their fat self-satisfied arses -- of course I should. But something held me back and, as if in a dream, I told him I'd take on board what he'd said and get back to him. My family had been Labour activists since the day the Party was formed, and a career in politics had been my ambition for as long as I could remember. Such a plum opportunity wasn't likely to come my way again. I didn't get much sleep over the next few days, but the day before Nusrat returned I submitted the form officially applying for the constituency selection. I'd rationalised a plan of action to myself: as long as Nusrat stayed in the background there was no reason why the Party should know about her, and once I was safely in the House of Commons I could work at winning them round. After all, the oh-so-liberal Labour Party could hardly de-select an MP for having a Rajistani girlfriend. Death of a True Love Nusrat was emotionally and physically exhausted when I met her at Heathrow. She slept all the way to her flat, and I didn't see or her from her for two days after that. In the meantime I got a 'phone call giving me a date for a selection interview in my prospective constituency. When Nuzzy came round to my place, she had news for me. "I need to go back to Rajistan for a couple of weeks. There's family business to sort out, that kind of thing. Charlie, I was hoping you might be able to get time off work and come with me." Sheepishly I told her that I couldn't go because it would mean I would miss my selection meeting. She replied, "Oh, you've got an interview. Good, I'm pleased for you", but I could see hurt in her eyes - clearly, when she was at such an emotionally low ebb, she longed for the support of the man she loved. I felt like an absolute shit, but at the same time a small part of me was relieved. I could live without an 18-hour journey to a hot, dusty country, and being submerged in the emotional maelstrom which would be Nusrat's extended family at that time. Besides, she was so high profile in Rajistan that the presence of a white man at her side would be sure to cause comment, which could easily get back to my constituency. We saw little of each other in the few days before Nusrat left again. We made love a couple of times, but she seemed listless and unusually passive, as if all the energy had been drained from her. When I kissed her on the cheek in Departures at Heathrow it somehow felt, to me at least, like more than just a temporary parting. A few days later I travelled up for the selection meeting. I had been assured that as long as I didn't put my foot in it in any way the nomination was mine. As I walked in for my interview I still had no idea what I would say if the subject of Nusrat came up. The interview went well right to the end, when someone casually asked if Nuzzy and I had long-term plans. Before my brain could engage I herd my mouth saying, "Oh no she's just a friend, well, more of an acquaintance really. She insisted on coming to the party with me the other week." I felt sick at the small, satisfied smiles that broke out among my interviewers. The constituency chairman's daughter, Naome, was acting as receptionist for the meeting. As I was the last to be interviewed she asked if I had time for a quick drink before I caught my train. I did, and I couldn't see any harm in it -- after all, her father and I would hopefully be working together for years to come. As we made small talk in the local pub I surreptitiously studied her. She was an ash blonde, attractive in a superficial sort of way, not fat but with big tits and hips. Despite her father's supposedly socialist principles she'd been privately educated and, even then, was a bit of a snob. Pretending casualness, she said, "Daddy tells me you and that Rajistani woman are just friends. So, does that mean you're single and fancy free?" Trapped by my own lie, I said that I was. She smiled broadly, cupped her hand over mine on the table, and murmured, "Oh good, this constituency needs a handsome, eligible bachelor." As I left she put her hands on my shoulders, reached up to peck me on the cheek, and whispered, "I look forward to getting to know you much better Charles." I travelled home thinking not about Naome, but about whether I should officially change my name to Judas. Naome was a quick worker, I'll say that for her. The following Saturday, just as I was preparing for a lazy afternoon watching an international rugby match on TV, my 'phone rang and it was her, saying she was in town for some shopping, and wondered if I fancied a drink. Trying to mask my reluctance, I named a wine bar quite close to my home, and we arranged to meet there. Naome didn't have any shopping bags with her, but she was beautifully made up and had had her hair done. After a couple of drinks and a pleasant enough chat, she started dropping heavy hints about seeing my 'bachelor pad'. I walked her back there, trying to think of any sings I might have left lying around of Nusrat's frequent presence. When we arrived I offered to make coffee. When I returned to the lounge Naome was nowhere to be seen. I assumed at first that she'd gone to the loo. Then I heard a sound in my bedroom. I walked in to find her sprawling stark naked on the bed. Before I could react she was on her knees on the carpet, swiftly undoing the belt of my trousers. I managed to put my guilt over Nusrat out of my mind while Naome licked just about every inch of my body. She was an enthusiastic and energetic lover, but had none of Nusrat's fire. She had no wish to be on top but lay under me, gasping and biting her lower lip, eyes tightly shut and legs wrapped firmly around me, as I fucked her. Afterwards, as her lips and fingers trailed across my body, I lay staring at the ceiling, cringing with self-loathing at my continued betrayal of my true love. Despite that, we screwed twice more before Naome left for home on the Sunday morning. Her boobs were much bigger that Nusrat's, and I thoroughly enjoyed burying my face in them, and sucking her hard little pink nipples into my mouth. Naome really enjoyed 69ing, slurping over my cock while I drove my tongue into her blonde pink pussy, gripping her hips. A couple of days later I received the confirmation that I had been selected as the Labour Parliamentary candidate for my chosen constituency. I should have been elated. Instead, I felt miserable. I had yet to work out how the hell I was going to explain the situation to Nuzzy. After all, not only did my new political friends not want her in my life, it was also clear that Naome was intent on sinking her hooks into me. I thought back to that farewell at Heathrow, and how there had seemed something final about it; I began to convince myself that maybe Nusrat had felt the same way. Maybe she had no intention of returning from Rajistan; either way, maybe our relationship was truly at an end. My eyes grew damp with that thought, but I had to admit it would resolve all my problems. What I should have done, of course, was taken firm steps to establish the position, told Nusrat I wanted to move on and drawn a clear line under our relationship. Instead, I took the traditional approach of the typical English male -- ignore the problem, do nothing about it and hope it'll go away. It didn't, of course. One evening I got home to find a message on my answerphone, a tired but happy Nusrat saying she'd just arrived at Heathrow and was looking forward to seeing me. After a couple of days, another message -- this one a bit confused, asking where I was and why I hadn't contacted her. Finally, I got home one evening to find, as I suppose I should have known I would one day, a fuming Nusrat sitting in my lounge waiting for me. She got straight to the point. "What the fuck's going on Charlie? Why have you been ignoring me? Have you met someone else?" The abruptness of her opening, and the incisiveness of the last question, caught me off guard. I blurted, "Yes...I mean no...look Nuzzy, it's complicated, let me at least get my coat off." I didn't mean to, but under her intense stare, with the look of sadness which had dwelt in her eyes ever since her father's death, I told her everything; well, almost everything: about the comments from the constituency, what I'd told them, that I'd been on a date with Naome. I left out the bit about me humping Naome in the room next to the one we were sitting in. I expected Nusrat to rage at me, to call me all the names under the sun -- and I would have deserved that. Instead, at first at least, she simply sat gazing at me in unnerving silence. After some time she stood, and walked behind the couch, leaning her hands on the back of it. "So Charlie, this is the end of us, is it?" I stared miserably at her. "Well, it needn't be. I mean, we could still see each other -- quietly. Even if Naome and I are officially together, well..." I withered under her look of contempt. Then, shockingly, she gave a barking laugh. "Oh, so you become the respectable, upstanding married MP, and I'm what -- your little Raji whore, hiding up dark alleyways for you? Perhaps you could loan me out to your parliamentary friends too. Jesus Christ Charlie, I loved you so very much. I was prepared to give up the grand life I'd planned for myself, all for you. Now I know why people use the term 'merchant banker' as rhyming slang -- you fucking WANKER!" With that she collapsed in tears on the back of the couch. Overwhelmed by guilt and sympathy for Nusrat, I rushed over and hugged her to me, even as she tried to bat me away. I pulled her tightly to me...somehow my hands found their way to her breasts. She pressed her backside into me, still crying, and I found my lips pressed hungrily against her throat. Suddenly the passionate emotions of the situation overtook us. We both scrabbled at our own trousers and underwear, and within moments I was pounding my prick into her, as she gasped and thrust her smooth buttocks against me. My hands slipped under her shirt and bar and roughly gripped her tits, squeezing them hard in rhythm with my stabs into her cunt. Her hands supported her weight on the back of the couch and howled like a wild animal as, together, we reached a shattering, sobbing, wonderful climax. As we slowly recovered our breath, Nusrat gently disengaged from me, pulled my hands from under her shirt, and pulled up her trousers and pants. Then she turned to me, rested her forehead on mine, and whispered, "I'm leaving you now Charlie. Go to your woman, and may she make you happy, you fucking bastard." Shortly after that I found a new job in my constituency, and Naome and I moved in together. Before long I was elected to Parliament with a huge majority, and almost immediately appointed assistant to one of the Party's front benchers. I flattered myself that Nusrat's subsequent career and international profile resulted directly from our break-up. Within weeks she was on TV across the globe, with an emotional address to the UN, pleading for help in suppressing the vicious civil war which had broken out in Rajistan, and in deposing the military dictatorship which had overthrown her father. I followed her continued career with interest: the negotiating an end to the bloodshed in her country; the rallies in New York, Paris, London; the triumphal return to Rajistan, mobbed by thousands of supporters; the protest marches she led through the streets of the capital; the months of house arrest and subsequent expulsion. After a couple of years Naome and I decided to get married. I couldn't honestly say I loved her, but we were happy enough together, she worked hard for me in the constituency, and we had an excellent and quite active sex life. I sent an invitation to the London office of Nusrat's political movement, never believing for a moment that she would attend. I heard nothing back and didn't expect to. On the day, however, 10 minutes before my bride was due to arrive at the cathedral, three black armour-plated limousines with tinted windows pulled up. Out poured seemingly dozens of big, muscular Rajistanis, identically dressed in dark glasses and tightly fitting black suits, and all with conspicuous bulges under their left arms. Then Nusrat emerged on the arm of her fiancé, a wealthy Rajistani business tycoon. She looked like a queen, poised, sophisticated, and breathtakingly beautiful. Every eye turned to her, and my prick twitched with nostalgia. We spoke briefly, and Nuzzy was clearly a lot more worldly than when I had known her. She also seemed to have developed a hard edge which hadn't been there before. She completely overshadowed poor Naome, who never really forgave me for what she dubbed "the Raji pantomime". These days, when the last shreds of affection have long since dissolved from our marriage, she still occasionally snaps, "You even let that black bitch ruin my wedding day for me." At the reception my eyes kept drifting to Nusrat, and eventually, under Naome's glowering eye, I plucked up the courage to ask her to dance. As we glided across the floor, Nusrat ground her groin hard against mine and, her lips brushing my ear, murmured. "Well Charlie, I'll bet that insipid little English girl doesn't fuck you as well as I used to. Does she keep you as satisfied as I did for all those years? Is her tongue as sweet on your cock as mine was?" A photo of that dance made it into the press -- after all, I was a rising star in the Labour Party, Nusrat was a beautiful and internationally known democracy campaigner. The tabloids had great fun captioning the picture -- they referred to my 'parliamentary erection', my 'member standing', The Sun even speculated as to whether I'd 'lost my deposit', and one rag ended the story with the line "We'd bet he'd like a prominent part in Nusrat's cabinet". In the years that followed our respective careers continued to develop. As Labour gained power in the UK I got my first Ministerial post. In Rajistan, the generals reluctantly agreed to allow democratic presidential elections, bowed to popular demands that Nusrat be allowed to stand, and she stormed to victory. With the benefit of hindsight, it was obvious that electing a woman in her mid-thirties, with no previous experience of day-to-day politics, to the presidency of a traditional Muslim state always going to be a recipe for disaster. Every reform she tried to make, especially those to give women more freedom, was frustrated by her cabinet of mainly middle-aged men. The religious fundamentalists tied her up in months of court cases, over both her policies and her right to occupy the presidency; the judiciary, whose corruption she was pledged to tackle, rode roughshod over the law to find against her at every opportunity; and there was always the threat of another military takeover if Nusrat did anything of which they deeply disapproved. As if that wasn't enough, there were constant claims that she and her husband were plundering the national treasury, and that the husband was manipulating his position to boost his business interests. Finally, after carefully orchestrated street demonstrations against her rule, which led to violent reprisals from her supporters, Nusrat was removed from office by the generals, and she and her husband were imprisoned on corruption charges. For a while it looked as if Nusrat's life was in danger; but she was eventually released and expelled from the country. Her husband remained in jail and -- allegedly -- committed suicide shortly before his trial was due to commence. For years Nusrat continued to be a thorn in the side of the Rajistani government, highlighting every rigged election, human rights abuse, political assassination and dodgy business deal. Finally, a few months ago, the old man who had replaced her as president decided he'd had enough, and promised free and fair elections. Nusrat's supporters mounted a successful legal challenge to the corruption charges she still faced, and the way was clear for her to return. The general view was that Nusrat's re-election as president was a foregone conclusion. Despite her family's wealth and aristocratic background, they have always enjoyed almost slavish support from the poor masses of Rajistan. Over the years I've made myself something of an expert on the Indian sub-continent, and the intelligence reports I was reading scared me rigid. The fundamentalists loathed Nusrat for her support for US foreign policy in the region, yet the White House regarded her as too radical, and was openly briefing against her. There was deep resentment among some of the leaders of her party at her being 'parachuted in' to be their presidential candidate, and other political parties in the country had always hated her family. The army, though not directly involved in politics for some years, was still a major influence and also had no love for the Mohammeds. I was convinced that if Nusrat returned home she would be signing her own death warrant. The night after Nusrat confirmed her intention to return I didn't sleep a wink. The next morning I made a few quick 'phone calls, and by lunchtime I was on a flight to Brussels, where Nuzzy had her powerbase. My appointment with her was at 6.00pm local time. A bodyguard who looked as if he was carved out of the Himalayas showed me into a palatial room where Nusrat reclined on a long gold brocade sofa. Sitting near her was her new husband, a glamorous Rajistani actor several years her junior, idolised by men as a tough guy, worshipped by women for his beauty. Nusrat sat up, smiled politely and said, formally, "Welcome Minister Webster. To what do I owe the honour of a visit from such a senior representative of the British government?" I shifted uncomfortably, my eyes darting towards her husband. How could I tell her, in front of him, that I was afraid for her safety? I stuttered, "Well, actually, Ms Mohammed, I'm, er, here in a personal capacity..." Nusrat's smile widened, and she said, "Ali darling, I think the minister would feel more comfortable speaking to me of political matters in private. Would you mind, my love?" Ali smiled and left. I glanced after him, and congratulated Nusrat on her recent marriage. She shrugged, and smiled conspiratorially. "Ali's a nice man, but he's basically a convenience. A woman in Rajistani politics needs a husband, and he looks good on my arm. He keeps the Bollywood fans on-board and leaves me to get on with what I need to. In return, he gets the prestige of being my husband and, as long as he remains discreet, he gets to sleep with his young men without the press questioning his virility. Now Charlie, come and sit next to me." She patted the sofa beside her. I sat nervously, at the far end from Nusrat. "So, how's that lovely wife of yours?" In Nusrat's presence, I was momentarily unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice as I replied. "These days our marriage is as much of a sham as yours is." She edged along the sofa and sat very close to me. God, she was still such a very beautiful woman. She murmured, "Oh Charlie, I'm so sorry to hear that." She didn't sound it. I jumped as I felt her fingers stroking the nape of my neck, toying with my hair. Both the suddenness of the move and the inappropriateness of it shocked me. I stammered, "Nusrat, I didn't come here to..." My voice died as I felt her lips on my earlobe, then moving down to my throat. She murmured, "I know Charlie darling, but it's a while since I've been with anyone, and even though you were a total bastard to me I never stopped loving you. I hate to admit it, especially to myself, but I still think about you -- often." I shuddered as her hand alighted on my thigh, and started to chart an upward course. "That day when you got married, I had a terrible urge to take you upstairs and fuck your brains out, on your wedding day, just to remind you what you would be missing each time you screwed that plain little blonde thing." Her lips slipped onto mine, and her tongue entered my mouth. The palm of her hand was rubbing my straining erection. As if of its own volition, my hand pulled the hem of her blouse from her trousers and slipped beneath it, onto the warm, pampered flesh of her back. I heard a door squeak, and suspected Ali was getting his jollies by watching his wife seduce me, but I was past caring. Nusrat broke the kiss just long enough to pull my polo shirt over my head. She sucked my nipples, and I heard a growl rise in my throat as her fingers wrapped once again around my prick. I had the most rigid hard-on I could remember in years. I automatically lifted my bum as Nuzzy slipped my trousers and pants down my thighs, then her lips trailed down my belly. A moment later her tongue traced the underside of my shaft, just like that first time more than 20 years earlier. She sucked my balls into her mouth and lapped at them as my hand mingled in her lush black hair. Then she closed her lips over my dick and began to mouth fuck me, her tongue driving me wild with lust. It didn't take long, and my fingers curled in her hair, pulling at it, as I gushed into her mouth. Death of a True Love We lay full length on the couch and kissed tenderly as we undressed each other. Then I dropped my head to her chest. I refused to be rushed this time, and enjoyed a long, languorous suck of her tits. She moaned and pressed her chest to me as I chewed a nipple and flicked it with my tongue. After a couple of minutes I could feel her hips pushing against me, the soft carpet of her pubic hair tickling me. I eased myself between her thighs, then leant forward and blew lightly on her pussy lips. She gasped, "Oh God, yes." I leaned in and stroked my tongue the length of Nusrat's pussy, then pushed it deep into her. Her feet began to stroke my back, and she groaned, over and over, as I tweaked her clit with the fingers of one hand and supplemented my busy tongue in her pussy with the other hand, squeezing in as many fingers as I could manage to fuck her. She whined and jerked at me as she came. I continued to lick her sweet pussy juices as she tugged at my hair and gasped, "Please, pleeaase". My face wet with her juices, I rose and kissed her on the lips, my sticky tongue roaming her mouth. Then I twitched my hips and the first inch of my cock entered her. I held it there, see-sawing in and out, until she grabbed my buttocks and groaned, "Please Charlie darling, now." Then I slammed it into her and fucked her as hard as I could, my balls slapping against her with each powerful stroke. She gave a long groan which became a scream as she came, bucking wildly under me, her pussy muscles tightening satisfyingly around my prick. I managed a few more strokes before I finally released my love into her. We sank into the couch, my head resting on Nusrat's chest, her fingers lightly stroking my hair. After a few minutes, she asked, "So Charlie, what did you really come here for?" From feeling wonderfully satisfied, and so very warm, I felt a chill run through me. Hesitantly I explained exactly what I'd read, and that I believed the evidence pointed to only one possible conclusion -- her violent death. She was silent for a minute or two, then kissed the top of my head. "Charlie, I'm so very touched that you came all this way to say this to me; but it will be all right, really it will. I have good security, and President Farookh has personally guaranteed my safety. I have to do this -- the people of Rajistan expect me to lead them back to true democracy. I know it didn't go well before, but it'll be different this time. I have new people, people I trust, and with US support the fundamentalists won't be able to block me." Taking a deep breath, and hugging Nusrat to me, I played my last card. "Please darling, I love you, and I don't want to lose you -- not again. Look, let's just take your children -- my daughter hates me anyway -- and take a flight out of here tomorrow morning. We don't need to tell anyone. We can go anywhere you like, anywhere in the world, and start over. And I'll never let you get away from me again." Even to me it seemed a little crazy, but I would have done it in an instant. Nusrat chuckled. "Oh Charlie, you're making it so hard for me. I used to dream of spending the rest of my life with you. Now you're offering it to me. It's very tempting. Look my love, let me think it over tonight. I so want to be with you, and my country is a very dangerous place. I'll come to your hotel for breakfast tomorrow, and we can talk about it further. Okay?" I returned to my hotel buoyed with confidence that Nusrat was going to agree. As I went to sleep that night I was thinking about how I could capitalise my assets, to help fund out new life together. I awoke the next morning to find a message on my mobile 'phone. Nusrat had called just after 3.00am, when she must have known I'd be asleep. "Charlie, my beloved, I've been thinking about what you said ever since you left here. I want so very much for us to be happy, to have the life we once wanted so much. But you must understand, my love, that my people really do need me. I am their one true hope. I have to go back, and do what I must for them. Once I've been elected I'm sure you and I can persuade Dick Stewart that you would be the perfect UK ambassador to Rajistan, and then we can be together, often. And I will not be president forever. Once democracy is fully established, I will stand down, and then you and I can be together for the rest of our lives, I swear it on the grave of my father. Please don't be angry with me darling, and please wait for me. This has been the most difficult decision I've ever had to make, and I cannot change it, so please don't try and make me. Just remember Charlie, I love you, and I will never stop loving you. Goodbye my darling -- for now." I was in a daze when I returned to London. That day I told Naome our travesty of a marriage was over, and the next day I moved into a small flat on my own. I followed the Rajistani election campaign with fevered interest, until that day when some 20-year old shitbag murdered Nusrat, fully aware that his only reward would be his own instant death. I still have that last message Nusrat left on my 'phone. I've cried myself to sleep with it every night since she died.