Afghan Bound by Henry Morgan Page A

interested in me, me, me. In the East our women know their position in the way of things, but if they are contaminated by western ideas we send them to schools to be re-educated. Sarah was a little apprehensive at first, but look at her now, straining to please.’ He signalled for her to stand, then added nonchalantly: ‘Remove your clothes.’
    Without hesitation the woman who once dressed in smart skirts and jackets for her lectures now teased down the silk trousers which, her veil apart, were the only garment between her and total nudity. Divested of the flimsy material she stood proudly for the attention of Malek and the Englishman.
    â€˜Does she please you?’
    David could only gape and nod.
    â€˜Do you like her cunt? She is the only one of my wives who I’ve allowed to keep her hair. It is so blonde and soft she almost looks shaved anyway. Touch it.’
    It felt like wisps of cotton wool between David’s fingers. Fine gossamer strands that failed to hide the swollen lips beneath. Eagerly his fingers slid between her engorged labia, seeking her entrance now slippery with juice.
    â€˜Fair compensation?’ asked Malek.
    â€˜For what?’
    â€˜I have granted you a night with Sarah in return for the kind gift of your lovely Afghan.’
    There was little point in argument, especially if he wanted to come out of this in one piece. Nonetheless he knew life would be different without the dusky beauty. She had possessed his thoughts since the time he first saw her strapped to the table in Herat. He had made love to her, saved her life – but now he must give her up. In order to save his own skin they must part. Looking at the veiled, almost naked figure of Miss Haines, he considered it not too bad a loss.
    Suddenly a crash sounded from a cymbal near the entrance, and in through the flaps came David’s Afghan, surrounded by at least a dozen Arab women, all attired in veil and silk. The party travelled to the centre of the floor where, at some invisible signal, everyone except the girl began to dance. For ten minutes their bodies swayed and turned in rhythm with the music then, as suddenly as they began, they stopped. Each girl fell to the floor, and then crawled backwards until she was left at the centre of everyone’s attention.
    It was, to say the least, a short wedding ceremony. The girl was held on her knees in front of Malek who, taking up an iron offered by one of the guards, burnt his insignia onto her thigh. It was an abacus, with which he said, a man could keep tabs on his possessions. The pain from the branding iron clearly seared through her body until she fainted and hung limp in the hands that restrained her. Malek was unperturbed, he had branded many wives and many were unable to stand the pain. He returned to his cushions, which was the cue for the woman to take the girl and prepare her for the marriage consummation. To restart the festivities Malek clapped his hands and a line of women were marched into the tent. Each was attached to the other by a metal chain connected to a collar.
    â€˜Russian soldiers,’ he explained. ‘When we are finished with them they will be sold in Iran. Big healthy women like these are worth a lot of opium. If you like any of them, feel free. Sarah won’t mind. She knows the art of female love too.’
    The line of Russians was brought to a halt near a pole in the ground and the first was attached to it. The last was attached to another pole in likewise fashion, leaving the whole group looking like clothes on a line. Before long the first of the men came to inspect them. He was a short muscular Iranian who considered his choice very carefully, weighing their breasts in his hands before running his fingers between their legs, and finally finishing each examination by inspecting their teeth. He chose a prisoner with broad shoulders and a pinched waist that led to wide hips. Taking her left breast he wrapped a leather thong