Death Of A True Love

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.