Afghan Bound Read online

  Without removing the gag Ustinov began his questions, one after the other in rapid succession. ‘Where? When? How?’ he shouted. ‘Who is the boss? Where is his base?’

  David thought it a bizarre way to carry on; how could the poor girl tell them what they wanted to know if they didn’t even give her the chance to. But he soon realised that was the intention. When and only when Ustinov knew she was totally broken would he let her speak. Only then, when her power to resist was spent, would she tell the truth.

  Ustinov walked calmly to the foot of the table and placed a hand on each of her ankles. With a sudden thrust the table split in two and her legs were splayed wide apart. He took her now dangling clitoris chain and passed it through one of the many rings that hung within easy reach from the ceiling.

  ‘Here you are,’ he grinned, pulling the chain until her clitoris strained out from between her lips. ‘We don’t want that in our way, now do we.’

  Ustinov moved further in between her legs, took a length of pipe from one of the trays beneath the table and eased it up her open vagina, leaving it sticking out of her like the barrel of a Chieftain tank. Once the pipe was in place Karl brought across a glass case that contained a squirming, hissing snake. The realisation of what was about to happen hit David straight away.

  ‘You’re crazy! You can’t put that up her! What if it bites?!’

  Ustinov reacted angrily, annoyed at David’s outburst. ‘Be quiet!’ he growled. ‘Just you do your job and shut up!’

  ‘How the fuck do you expect me to keep her alive if that fucking thing bites her? I know nothing about snakes and their venom.’ On the table the prisoner tensed at the word snake. Aware now of what was coming the only thing she could do was clench her fingers until her knuckles turned white, otherwise she was completely helpless. Despite the Englishman’s protestations Ustinov carefully took the wriggling creature from its case and began feeding it, tail-end first, down the tube. David looked on in horror, his only relief being the sight of a tightly drawn thread behind the jaws of the reptile to prevent it from biting. The snake squirmed, and so did she, which meant that part of it must have already slipped inside her; perhaps four or five inches, no more, but inside it undoubtedly was, twisting and writhing against the wall of her clenched vagina. David was repulsed by the actions of the men, but they were obviously loving every sadistic minute of it.

  ‘What’s the matter with you anyway?’ laughed Ustinov, ‘we’re not hurting the snake.’ The other two men roared at this pathetic joke while David was forced to witness their disgraceful behaviour.

  Shortly afterwards they pulled the snake back out and Ustinov declared that they had done enough for the day. David helped Karl remove the nipple presses and unhook the clitoris chain from the ring, then they removed her shackles and helped her to stand.

  ‘I’d like to examine her,’ said David. ‘She’s taken quite a bit today.’

  ‘Then do it in her cell,’ Ustinov dismissed him with little interest, then said to Karl: ‘Strap her up again at eight tomorrow.’

  Karl took up the clitoris chain and led the compliant prisoner back to her cell. David followed anxiously; relieved that her ordeal was over but strangely aroused at what he had witnessed. He was confused by the erection growing in his trousers; an erection brought on by thoughts of this beautiful female and what she had had to endure.

  His bizarrely erotic thoughts were interrupted by their arrival at the cell. Karl kicked open the door and led her to the back wall where he pulled her wrists behind her back and fixed them together with heavy rubber cuffs.

  ‘Turn around,’ he ordered. With her back to the wall he reached between her legs for her chain, drew it beneath her and attached it to a metal ring embedded in the stone. With a twisted grin he signalled his departures to David and left the room.

  At the sound of the closing door the girl dropped to her knees and collapsed on her side. David crossed the cell to help her, but the sound of his step betrayed his unexpected presence. She at once struggled desperately to her knees, back straight, breasts pushed out. There was little doubt she had been trained to present herself in this provocative manner.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he whispered as soothingly as he could. ‘Don’t worry.’ He placed a steadying hand behind her back and eased her down to the dusty floor. ‘I just want to see if you’re all right.’ He ran his hands over her body; caring, professional hands, searching for any broken bones. She seemed detached, uncaring. They were just more hands feeling, groping, probing, the same as the others, touching and pulling at her simply because they could. David wouldn’t have wanted to see her like that. He was a doctor, a healer. He examined her ankles, her calves, her thighs. He lifted her legs until she lay like a laboratory frog and carefully felt inside her to check that she was unharmed – but it did feel good; warm and soft and so available. His fingers no longer belonged to the doctor, but to the man. In and out he pumped – harder, faster. He located the pin that pierced her clitoris and squeezed her hard between his finger and thumb. His fingers pumped ever faster and with little consideration for her comfort; he was suddenly like a man possessed. With his free hand he frantically tugged and pulled to open his trousers. He was close to coming in his pants. Never before had a sexual encounter brought the rush of climax so irresistibly quickly. His head was in a spin. What was happening to him? This was no way to behave – he was letting down his whole profession.

  Suddenly the door swung open. It was Ustinov carrying a dish of something that resembled food. He surveyed the situation and smiled sarcastically. ‘Now that’s what I call a thorough medical examination.’

  David snatched his slicked fingers away as though he’d been scorched by a hot iron, blushed, and bumbled something about giving her an internal.

  ‘Then put your thermometer away,’ laughed the Russian, dropping the metal dish onto the floor and spilling most of its contents. At the sound of this the woman struggled back to her knees while David removed the tongue restraint. She remained in the kneeling position until she was given permission to eat. With the blindfold still tightly in place she looked like a chicken pecking at the ground in search of food. Eventually her face fell into the dish and she ate hungrily and quickly. In no time the slop was gone and, unable to hold the dish with her tied hands, it began to scrape over the floor. In a rare show of compassion Ustinov stooped and held it steady for her to lick. When it was clean he straightened, motioning for David to follow. In the corridor Ustinov told him of a small party being held for the officers and staff.

  ‘It would be a good idea to be there,’ he suggested.

  ‘Why not?’ said David. ‘I’d better start making a few friends.’

  Ustinov slapped his new colleague on the shoulder. ‘Eight-thirty, my quarters.’ He made off towards his own room without telling David where it was.

  3.

  It was almost eight-thirty before David started to get ready, not thinking it would take long. He had the choice of his own trousers and shirt which hadn’t seen a wash in months, or the sandy coloured kit issued to him that morning which could, if need be, double as a three man tent. He went with the tent; at least it was clean. The evening was hot and dry, with little or no wind to offer a cooling respite from the constant glare of the sun. Suddenly the baggy clothes didn’t seem so ridiculous, the little currents of air moved refreshingly between his skin and the material.

  Ustinov’s quarters were quite easy to find, only a few yards from building eleven. Nikolai, the KGB officer, was standing outside the door shrouded in the pungent vapours from an aromatic and irregular shaped cigarette. In his other hand he had the staple drink of the Russian military machine, a large glass of vodka. David expected to hear some sarcastic comment from him as he neared the hut but Nikolai seemed to be studying the hills that loomed along the one side of the camp. Gunfire crackled and spat somewhere behind the ridge. Being ever present, its otherwise ominou
s sound seemed to have faded into insignificance. Nikolai prevented David getting past by cursing the rebels.

  ‘We’ll never win this war as long as those bastards stay in the mountains. The Americans must be laughing their bollocks off. It’s our Vietnam.’

  David nodded his head in mock sincerity. ‘Take a tip from the Brits. Never pick a fight with someone who fights back. It ruins your profits.’ He left Nikolai pondering his wise words through a cloud of marijuana and entered Ustinov’s rooms. Inside the heat doubled, which was further compounded by the stifling blue haze from countless joints. Being an unknown no one came to welcome him. The only smiling face was that of Stalin, framed and hanging above the drinks table. David went across to join him, impressed by the selection of bottles on offer. Unfortunately all of them were vodka. Thankfully, though, there was some ice and he poured himself a long cold drink.

  ‘Not a good idea, my friend.’ It was Petr Ustinov, vodka in one hand, and clitoris chain in the other. Attached to the chain was the Afghan with the nutmeg skin. ‘The ice – it cools down your insides, stops you sweating. I thought you were a doctor?’

  David looked at the beautiful Afghan standing obediently behind the Russian at the end of the chain. Dark eyes of jade, strangely vacant, peered through and beyond him. ‘And I thought you were finished for the day?’

  Petr gave a gentle tug on the chain. ‘This is strictly for pleasure – my pleasure,’ he said with a wicked grin on his face. Turning away he told David to enjoy himself. ‘Have a little hashish. Plenty of it here. Complements of the Muzzies.’

  David took his drink and sat in a wicker chair near the window. There was a tray of joints on a nearby table. He took one and lit it, drawing deeply on it’s root before adding his own smoke to that already clogging the air. Considering they were in the middle of a savage guerrilla war, the room was remarkably civilised. One could possibly think of it as decadent. The spoils of two years of fighting were on show; couches in purple and red, wonderful pottery from the four corners of Afghanistan, and intricate metalwork from the craftsmen of Kabul, all of it stolen and displayed by the invaders. Even their native women were exhibited. Dusky, sensuous females, all naked, smoothly shaven and paraded on the ends of light chains. Even Nikolai, who David thought held feelings for only Mother Russia, had now come inside and was guiding a teenager through the throngs of men. David felt inadequate. There was nothing he could do to help her or any of the other females. If he made the wrong move now he knew his life would be over. He was merely a spectator, in some way as helpless as the women who were paraded in all their naked shame for the pleasure of these men.

  It made him angry to be so helpless, so totally unable to help the women who were being forced to bend forward while fat Russians pushed their cocks into whatever hole they found first. Women, once married and proud, now forced to suck on other men, their heads bobbing up and down in compliance with their new masters. There were a number of teenagers. They were held down on their backs, legs apart, the playthings of an invader who cared for nothing but his own satisfaction.

  David pulled again on the root of his joint, hoping the pungent vapours would soothe his body and ease his mind. It did just that, cooling and calming him until the sights that a moment earlier had assaulted his senses now appeared of little consequence. Resignation replaced anger, and where there had been disgust, interest took its place. Even the sight of Nikolai fucking his young slave didn’t disturb him. In fact it was quite exciting, thrilling even, to see how she strained to please him. She obviously knew that failure to satisfy would make her life very unpleasant; she held herself open on command, kept herself constantly ready for penetration, and made her young firm body available whenever and wherever he required it. David could see the trade off; she got sympathetic treatment in the interrogation rooms, and he got free and uncomplaining access to her body. He watched as Nikolai finished his fuck and withdrew his wet, semi-erect cock from between her thighs. Without having to be told the young girl turned around and dropped to her knees. She gathered his prick into her mouth and cleaned away his semen and her juices that glistened along its length. She continued her job with enthusiasm until he tired of her tongue.

  Before Nikolai could return the girl to the others he was joined by a tall blonde woman, a Russian officer whose penchant was for Afghan girls who had demonstrated their usefulness with a willing tongue. David watched with increasing interest as she took Nikolai’s teenager over to a row of high stools upon which were seated a number of her comrades. The female officer sat on one of the stools, tugged her skirt up her very shapely thighs, and forced the girl to kneel at her feet. There was no need to tell her what to do. The girl began her task as the uniformed woman smoked and talked nonchalantly to her comrades. Everyone ignored the girl’s efforts, except of course the officer receiving the attentive tongue. This went on until the joint had been finished, and then the officer pulled the girl to her feet and took her across to the wall where a row of naked Afghan women were standing with their backs to the party. The teenager’s chain was clipped onto a bar that ran along the wall, and she was left with the others, like a row of horses shackled outside a Western saloon.

  As a lovely numbing warmth crept over David he cast his eye along the women. They remained passive and silent, shoulder to shoulder. Some were tall, some were short. His eyes followed the line of beautiful bottoms on display; large ones, tiny ones, some red from the cane or marked with the print of a hand.

  Second from the end was the Nutmeg, tall and defiant despite so much. Petr must have tired of her charms. David wondered what would happen to her now.

  The row was gradually getting longer as the soldiers and camp officers lost interest once they had satisfied themselves; most of them now turned their attention to the drugs and alcohol. One officer though appeared to be still hungry for sex. He walked the length of the row and with thumb and forefinger eased open the buttocks of each one, searching, it appeared, for an unstretched sphincter. David watched him pause at the Nutmeg. For some strange reason he found himself breathless, anxious that the Russian wouldn’t choose the beauty. With an inexplicable sense of relief he watched him return to Nikolai’s much sought after teenager, unclip her chain, and take her to a couch where she was bent over and penetrated once again.

  He was the last soldier to choose a girl from the line, and was finished very quickly before returning to his friends where the idle chat drifted into the early hours.

  David made no attempt to join them. He remained in his seat, except for frequent visits to the drinks table for fresh vodka. He was filling his glass for the umpteenth time when Petr came to do likewise.

  ‘You don’t have to make a booking, you know.’

  David sipped his long cool vodka and scanned the women fettered to the wall. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The girls,’ said Petr, resting a hand on David’s shoulder in a fatherly fashion. ‘They are there for our pleasure.’

  The Englishman wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. ‘I don’t know. It seems wrong to me. Isn’t there a Geneva convention or something about all of this?’

  Petr exploded into laughter. He took his new friend by the arm and guided him across to where the row of stinging backsides smiled out at the party. ‘You English,’ he spluttered through a wide grin. ‘Always playing it by the rules, toeing the line, and not upsetting the apple cart. Life isn’t all a game of cricket on the village green, you know.’ With that Petr shoved a hand roughly between the legs of a girl who looked little more than seventeen, forcing her to push her bottom further out towards him. ‘Why do you think God gave them that split? It’s not just for pissing. It is for you my friend, for me, for men. It doesn’t matter whether the meat she has up there is Afghan, Russian or English. It was designed for us, and any man who refuses his duty is an affront to his God.’ He released the girl with a heavy slap that brought a crimson imprint instantly to her cheeks.
/>   Doubt, however, persisted in David’s mind where it fought against a growing desire to possess the Nutmeg. He longed for her, craved her, coveted her – yet he knew it was wrong, knew he shouldn’t. But here there were no laws, indeed they were the law, they made them and they could break them.

  Petr could see his predicament; he could see the guilt and the desire fighting for supremacy within. ‘You don’t have long,’ he told him. ‘She’ll be shipped out to Moscow soon. A fortnight at the latest.’

  ‘Who will?’ David asked.

  ‘The beauty. We’ll get the information from her in a day or two, and then she’ll be sent to one of the government brothels in Moscow. Don’t worry; she’ll be all right there. A beautiful girl like her will service only the top party members. She may even be bought by one. In fact I may even buy her myself. I’ve got a little place of my own you know. Not big, about six or seven girls, but they’re all top class.’

  When he was back in Moscow at his private little whorehouse near the Beloruss train station, Petr’s speciality was to throw parties for members of the politburo and top officers of the KGB. They usually entailed a display of the girls he’d had shipped home from the conflicts he’d been involved in. His own particular favourite was a discipline show detailing some of the punishments meted out by the invading Russians. To this end he had designed several of the rooms in the brothel to resemble a torture chamber. Most of it was authentic, including the pommel, a contraption shaped like a pyramid atop a base. The unfortunate woman was made to sit on the pinnacle and weights were attached to her legs. The point of the pyramid would embed itself in her vagina, or if the fancy took the audience, her anus. The pain was further increased by spinning the woman on the point, increasing her discomfort tenfold.