Death of a True Love

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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.