Afghan Bound (4 page)

‘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.

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 ominous 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.

‘Yes,' Petr continued, ‘I may just buy her for myself. So you had better make a move before she's shipped north.'

Desire finally triumphed over guilt and David went across to unclip the chain that held the Afghan beauty against the wall. He turned to Petr, but before he could speak the Russian pointed to a room where they could have some privacy. Carefully guiding his prize by the chain, he led her past the others who were all either drunk, or drugged, or both.

David laid her on the large bed that dominated the room before removing his own clothes. Her skin felt as soft as silk, and he ran his hands over her body until it was rudely stopped by the cold metal that was used to restrain her. Upon examination he found he could release the chain by opening a small catch.

She was free now, probably for the first time in weeks. Whether through fear or through Russian conditioning, David wasn't sure, but she made no attempt to defy him or to escape. Her hands made not to protect her nakedness, but slipped gently down to the tip of his straining penis. He lay back against the pillows and she rose to her knees, displaying all her beauty to leave him in no doubt that she was his and prepared to do his bidding, whatever that may be. While he considered his fancies she dipped her head and tenderly sucked his whole erection into her moist mouth.

In the room outside the women were being fitted again with their rubber masks, ready to be returned to building eleven now that they had fulfilled their duties. The masks made it impossible for them to see where they were going and where they had been. The captives were brought here from all over Afghanistan, and part of the interrogation and eventual training for the brothels of Moscow was sensory deprivation. As an added insult they were returned to building eleven by male Afghans who had themselves been captured. Three of the men had wives among the group. They had been forced to serve their Russian masters while witnessing the indignities heaped upon their women.

When the last female was finally locked in her cell Petr went back and knocked at the room where David lay with the Nutmeg. Quickly David reattached her clitoris chain and led her out to the main room where a guard tugged her away in the direction of building eleven. Petr poured a glass of the ever-present vodka which the Englishman accepted before flopping into a chair.