The following is a fantasy of non consent. The author wishes you to understand that in reality any act without prior full informed consent is rape, and deserves the fullest punishment of the law. Further, the author wishes to be very clear that to be a woman in the armed forces is difficult because you must always hold yourself to a higher standard of professionalism in your work, your professional relationships, and your private life as there are enough people in and out of uniform who don't want to look past your tits and accept that you frequently represent a better soldier than the ones whose only job skill seems to be they have a penis and opinions about those who don't.
I am a reserve army officer in the Canadian Armed Forces, which I honestly took up partly out of family tradition and partly to pay for my studies. My family has been soldiers for as long as there has been an Empire and I grew up on the poems of Kipling, with the side notes of which ancestors were part of which campaign the poem mentioned.
Partly as a result of that lifelong interest, my degree was in Middle Eastern Studies and Literature, with a specific linguistic specialization in Pashto, the language of the Parthans. When the army went looking for people to work with the Provincial Reconstruction Teams in Kandahar, I was a natural choice. The only drawback from the army's point of view was one they were not by regulation allowed to mention.
I stand about five foot seven, five nine in combat boots, measuring a curvy 48G-40-46, even in CADPAT with body armour my breasts and hips do not exactly fade into androgyny. Afghanistan is a deeply patriarchal if not misogynist culture, and I am an unveiled western redhead, speaking as a Leftenant, or officer of the Crown to the locals. Part of what our mission was is served by this, as the areas under our control were to be freed from Taliban restrictions. A nation of widows cannot ban unescorted women from walking the streets or working. For change to happen, girls need to learn something other than silence and obedience, something like job skills and literacy of more than the Koran.
Many of my interactions stand out sharply in memory. Some with laughter, some with fear, some with that confused intensity that the few intense bouts of combat I took part in are marked with, but some were disturbing in ways I could not easily process.
As part of the PRT (Provincial Reconstruction Teams), one of the things I was to do was build relationships with what passed for friendly authority in Kandahar. This meant taking off the armour and trying to normalize relationships. It meant meetings, and feasts. Food and hospitality is a big part of formal culture over there, so I ate a lot. The desire to feed sweets to pretty women is pretty hard to get them out of, so if it wasn't for all the running around we did, and the dancing I did on my own time, I would have gained ten pounds.
I first met Azmaray in a village outside of Kandahar. He was older than me, perhaps forties to fifties, with the deep-set eyes and fierce brows that make the Pashtun look so fierce to outsiders. He had brought a set of dancers, beardless boys they called them, to dance for the locals. The music was some of the belly dancing music that I learned to dance to back in Canada. We had finished our discussions about reopening the local farmer's market, and the musicians were playing, but Azmaray had his boys gathered off to the side, worried we would interfere with them. We had been told in no uncertain terms to keep out of local cultural matters (as in trafficking of young boys for sex), so he had nothing to fear.
I blame being tired, and lightheaded from the heat and too much over strong coffee. I began to sway to the music, and when Azmaray called out to me that I shouldn't bother, this music was for real dancers I took it as a challenge. I danced. I lost myself in the music and belly danced there in my CADPAT greens in front of a room of old Afghan men, and Azmaray the pimp.
Looking him in the eyes, I drank in his hunger as my due, and left the old men shocked and dismayed at my wanton behaviour. Call it a slap back for all the misogynist mansplaining shit I had to smile and take during the negotiations, but I left them with balls of blue and tented robes as I left.
I saw Azmaray one more time in Kandahar. We were doing a ride along with the local constabulary. Stamping out corruption in Afghanistan is like trying to sweep up dust in the desert. Just give up now, and save the effort. We were at least trying to keep the corruption from affecting security matters. I encountered Azmaray in his knocking shop, his brothel when the police went in to "inspect" the place and take their payoff where I could be excluded on gender grounds.
I was left in the atrium, while the police squad went into to the brothel itself to make sure there were no abuses, no hidden weapon caches, and of course to be paid off to look the other way. There was the manager's office behind a little screen. There was no door to get to it from here, but he had a wooden screen series of windows to allow him to watch the entry where I stood. He had thrown open the shutters, and I turned when I heard the music start, the music I had been dancing to.
I turned to see Azmaray the pimp. He was holding a woman on her knees in front of his cock. He slapped her face and jammed his cock in it. He looked me right in the eye and face-fucked her. When I went to turn away, he shouted at me in Pashto that if I didn't turn and look at her, he would have her fucked by donkeys.
I turned to look, and he pushed her on all fours, face pushed into the wooden screen, and began to ram her into the wall as he fucked her with his big meaty cock. He looked me in the face, pulled her hair until she was chest to chest with him, and reached around to slap her tits as he fucked her.
"This is your place." He sneered as he came, pulled out, shook his cock at me, and stalked back in his office, leaving the woman on the floor, fingering her pussy.
I masturbated to that so often when I was over there, and more than a few times since I got back. I tried to process it, like all the Afghan experiences, stick it in a little compartment where I could keep it out of my daily life and move on. I was successful until my breakfast routine caught me in a trap laid in Kandahar, in my mind, and in my soul.
Fast forward a few years, and now I am working on base to educate the next generation of Special Forces types who are going over there to help the Afghans lose a little more slowly to the Taliban. It is sort of expected that dusting off my old skills would bring back the old memories, and I found myself frequenting a little Afghan restaurant near the base for Mantu, or little meat dumplings.
The Afghans who are always in the little shop are super polite to me when I come in, the respect/fear of the uniform is so ingrained in them that their deference is almost embarrassing. I try to work a little of my old PRT magic to keep things friendly and make them feel accepted here in their new country, even as I express a genuine love of some (good lord, not all) aspects of their culture.
They all smile and bow at me when I leave, chanting "thank you for your service". I admit, I began to look forward to coffee strong enough to make my nipples crinkle and Mantu tasty enough to let me survive the slop of the base mess at lunch.
Then came the morning last week where things changed. Everyone was bowing and smiling, treating me like I was armed to the teeth or ready to deport them, and I was doing my best to smile and disarm them when I heard a doubled belt slam down on the counter like a whip crack.
I turned and froze, there was Azmaray, hot eyes burning contemptuously into me, and belt doubled in his fist like he used to whip his whores with. He reached out a nicotine-stained finger and touched the play button on an actual cassette recorder (who knew any still existed?). I heard the song I belly danced to in Kandahar so long ago start to play.
