Mastana: Part 5

Part 4

Again she was disturbed from her reveries, this time by her servant tapping her on her veiled shoulder. Mastana got up knowing what was to come, for it was the same everyday. It was time for the Zuhr prayer. She followed her three other shrouded sisters into the Rang Mahal where their prayer mats were laid out ready for them. They got into position and waited and after a minute or so the sound of the muezzin in the palace mosque echoed across the courtyard and into the chamber. Mastana performed her prayers as she did everyday. Prior to her incarceration in the palace she had never been particularly religious and deep down she suspected that she still was not, but recently she had begun to find strength and solace in the reflective ambience of prayer.

Not that reflection was something that she would be unable to do later, quite the opposite in fact for everyday following the Zuhr prayers the king had decreed that all of his wives must enjoy a Contemplation Hour… well, all of them unless he had an urge for something else!

Silently her girl servant climbed under her burqa and guided her arms to the back. Then she fastened the sleeve around them so that they were fixed, elbow to wrist behind her back. Of course, she was pretty much unable to use her hands anyway, but this further immobilised her and forced her into an upright position which encouraged contemplation. It was all based on the practices of the suspect pir whom the king was much influenced by and who, like many Sufis, advocated the quiet reflective life.

The girl exited and then helped her mistress to stand. A thick black shroud was then draped over her so that her world became totally dark and her hearing was further muted. Then she was led to the wall where her Contemplation Cushion was positioned. She knelt on this and then the girl crawled under her layers and fastened the straps the went over her legs forcing her to stay in the kneeling position. Then with her back against the wall, she was left to contemplate.

When their husband had introduced the Contemplation Hour to his wives he had instructed them to focus their minds on Allah and His Prophet but even though she tried hard, Mastana was never able to do that for long. Always, after but a few minutes her mind drifted to the topic that occupied most of her thoughts both waking and sleeping. Rather than relaxing her, the forced position made her more aware of the rings in her nipples and clitoris and the more she was aware of them the more she thought of them and the more she got aroused. She felt her breasts pushing hard against the tight fabric of the salwar kameez due to the position her sleeve forced her into. In the past her breasts had never pressed hard against her clothes and had never been that impressive at all, mere handfuls if that, but immediately following their marriage the king had had all his wives checked into the Cure Hospital and gifted them with generous implants. The result was two firm globes that jutted out from her chest lewdly, without any sag whatsoever. She remembered when she’d woken up in the hospital bed and felt the extra weight on her chest and been angry, angered that she was being turned into some sort of sex object. But at night when the king lay with her and caressed them, tingles of joy had fluttered through her body and she had felt very sexy and desirable.

Except that she wasn’t, Mastana wasn’t sexy and desirable at all, because Mastana no longer existed. Her head encased in black plastic she was a nobody these days. Valeriya had had large fake breasts and so he had given his wives fake breasts. Was it Mastana he was making love to or was it Valeriya? She did not even need to answer her own question yet despite the awful truth she still longed for his touch, still obsessed about him and…

What’s that, a hand on her shoulder? Surely the Contemplation Hour is not over yet. It’s impossible to measure time in a silent black world but it doesn’t seem long enough…

She is guided along the corridors and she knows, yes indeed, Contemplation Hour is not over at all, her three sisters are still knelt their in silence. But he has an urge and today she has been chosen! Excitement pulses through her veins and her beauty lips moisten. Not that she will receive what she wants there, that is haram, but even so, even the other type, to provide him with pleasure, that is enough.

The walking stops and first the shroud and then the burqa are removed. Then the sleeve is unlaced and she is allowed to flex her stiff arms. Then the rest of her clothes are removed until she stands there in the middle of the king’s bedchamber wearing just her hood and hands.

Across the middle of the bed is a stiff leather bolster. Mastana knows well its purpose and she gets onto the bed and crawls up to it, positioning in under her stomach so that she is provided with support. Then two padded rods are produced. The first goes in front of her thighs and the second behind them so that she can neither move forwards or backwards. Then the girl fastens her wrists to the head of the bed and then it is time for the final piece of her bedtime preparations. Her servant brings out an item of rubber with long golden tresses attached to it. Locked into place as she is, she cannot see it, but she knows all too well what it is. The servant takes the rubber hood and fits it over her blank plastic head encasement. The fit is perfect as it was expensively made to her own particular specifications. Once smoothed out and the eye holes carefully aligned then she is ready for the king and the two servants retire. Mastana merely waits in anticipation and as she does she gazes at the image that confronts her in the large mirror at the foot of the bed.

Valeria-Lukyanova-Vital-Statistics

The doll-like unsmiling face of Valeriya stares back at her with her long blonde hair and huge blue anime-like eyes. Inside her blood boils as she realises that once again, she has been turned into someone – or something – else purely for the satisfaction of a man whom she never chose, who stole from her a promising career and life of freedom. The anger fills her veins and she wishes to explode with rage.

Then the door opens and she hears him come in. In a second the anger disappears and desire takes over. Like her mother said to her when she last visited two days ago, she was called ‘Mastana’ for a reason.

She hasn’t got a care in the world.

Mastana: Part 4

Part 3

Six months later

The Harem of the King’s Palace

Queen Mastana of Afghanistan, one of the four Wives of Equal Standing of King Muhammad Akbar Khan, stretched herself out on the grass in the Women’s Garden of the Darul Aman Palace. Not that she could feel that grass of course, these days all that Queen Mastana felt was cloth and plastic, but it was nice to be out there, the warm sun beating down on her and the faint song of birds in the air. Just across from her sat the three other queens playing with a new kitten that the king had given them all that morning, but Mastana has lost interest in both the cat and her ‘sisters’. For a few minutes she wanted to be alone.

“What am I? What is my life?” she said to herself silently. She could not say it out loud because of the solid gag that filled her mouth twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. She hadn’t spoken a single word or indeed made even the faintest sound with her mouth for over four months now and she wondered that, if the gag ever were removed, she would remember how to do so. To think, she who had once engaged in debates, chatted to her friends – male and female – on the phone and in cafés in no less than four different languages. But that was when she had not been a member of the Royal family, now everything had changed.

For starters there was her dress. She was clad in the most beautiful and expensive outfit imaginable. From the outside all that was visible was her burqa, and what a burqa it was! Yellow silk with the finest embroidery. No arm holes of course, since they weren’t really needed these days, but beautiful pleats billowing out at the back when she walked. She always wore a burqa these days, it was mandatory for a queen to be covered at all times, but even though she had rebelled against the garments at first, now her favourite part of the day was after she awoke in the mornings and she chose which burqa she would be wearing that day. She had dozens to select from, all of the highest quality and uniquely crafted by some of the finest fashion designers in the world and she loved viewing herself in the mirror as she tried them on.

But under that burqa there were other fine clothes. A silken salwar kameez set in deep blue with more exquisite embroidery and on her hands black embroidered silk gloves. Under the salwar kameez she had the finest black panty hose and her underwear was an extremely alluring lacy bra and knickers which made her feel very sexy indeed. She loved the feeling of them on her and of the silk brushing her skin. It made her feel special, hell, she was a queen, she was special!

Mastana shifted her position onto her side and two tiny bells tinkled. They reminded her then as they always reminded her of the places where they were attached to, her aroused and pierced nipples. Instinctively her hands rose to caress them but of course, she could feel nothing. She longed to relieve her frustration but it was impossible and so the frustration just grew and grew.

With these feelings, Mastana’s thoughts turned to her husband. She remembered when she had first seen him, dimly through the pinholes of her hood and the grill of her burqa at the coronation. And then that night when the four wives, all identically dressed had been led from the banqueting hall to his bedroom. They were all stripped naked save for their blank black plastic hoods and blank black plastic hands. That was the first and only time that she saw her sisters’ unclothed. It was weird, they looked like anonymous robot clones, inhuman almost, created merely to pleasure a man. Then she realised with horror that she looked identical to them, she was a sex droid as well and at that moment she hated the king for what he had done to her.

His bed was huge and they were all made to lie down on it, Mastana the second from the right. Her outstretched legs were raised and fastened to two chains hanging from the ceiling of the bed, her equally outstretched arms fastened to two other hanging chains. All the other wives were similarly restrained, all four identical, chained and helpless in a row. Tradition insisted on virgins being taken like that in case they might try to harm their Master.

Then they waited, in the dark and the silence. After some time he came. He stripped slowly, but she couldn’t see him, only the ceiling above her head. Then she heard him kneel down next to him and a gasp as he entered the wife to her left. He pumped in and out of her for a minute or so then exited and came to her. This was not how she had envisaged losing her precious virginity! To a husband, yes, but chained like a mare, unable to see or move! But whether it was what she expected or not, it was what happened. She felt his hands caress her breasts and play with the rings and bells adorning her nipples and then his manhood pressed against her beauty lips. Slowly but surely he entered her now moist passage and with a powerful thrust he broke through her virgin hymen. Oh how degrading! How awful! She felt so violated and used and yet, perversely, at the same time, it excited her beyond all measure. She began to enjoy his thrusts and feel her long-awaited climax draw nearer but then, without a word he exited. No!! No!!! She wanted him in her! Come back! But he was already penetrating her sister to the right. She listened with intense jealousy as he plunged in and out of her, before exiting and entering his fourth wife. It was only with that last wife that he came and how jealous she was, surely she should have had his seed! Oh how she hated her husband yet at the same time, oh how she longed for him… oh how she longed.

She recalled a conversation with Taahira, the wife from the Barakzai clan about a week or so after they became queens. Conversations between the wives were difficult and limited. With their encased hands they could not write and with their gagged mouths they could not talk, but every day for an hour in the afternoon the King allowed them to communicate with the aid of special computers. These had enormous over-sized keyboards which her blunt and rigid hands could operate, albeit very slowly. They typed their messages laboriously letter by letter and they appeared on the screen. That was the only time that they could communicate with another human being.

They were talking that day, as they did most days for there was little else to talk about, about their husband. Although he was not particularly handsome and some of his sexual predilections a little strange, Mastana found herself longing for his attentions which was awful since he only slept with each wife every fourth night. She wondered why and so decided to ask her sister.

So is it surprising that I find myself longing for his touch and dreaming of him?

And I dream about him, too replied Taahira. It’s partly those pictures everywhere on the ceilings. They’re the last thing you see at night in the bedroom and the first thing you see in the morning.

It was true, in each of the queen’s rooms there was a large portrait of their husband to gaze at on the ceiling above their beds. And it was no normal royal portrait but instead a view of him naked, his manhood jutting out firm and strong.

Yes, they really understand women in Afghanistan added Mastana. In some ways I hate him for how he has destroyed my old life and turned me into some sort of sex slave but I also simply can’t help secretly admiring him.

All the queens in the harem do. He’s so strong and virile! So ruthless! It makes you jealous, jealous of the other wives.

It is brainwashing, I know it, yet I can’t help it, I need him right now and I need him every minute of every day!

It was true, he used psychology to transform her. Six months ago her mind had been focussed on study and the future, now all she thought about was pleasing him. She imagined lying in his bed, wearing the…

A gong sounded. The other wives stopped playing with the kitten and Mastana was shaken from her reverie. They all got up off the grass and trooped indoors, their colourful burqas billowing behind them like the sails of a great fleet of galleons. Inside they walked noiselessly, their soft slippers making no sound on the marble floor, across the Rang Mahal to the Moti Mahal where they all sat cross-legged on the floor, their burqas draped elegantly around them. It was lunchtime and today the same ritual was followed as everyday. Firstly the first four servants would bring each queen a glass of water to wash out their throat so that the food may be tasted better. Each servant, a young girl of about twelve dressed in a gorgeous salwar kameez in colours that matched her mistress’ burqa, would approach the queen bowing, then kneel down before them, carefully lift the burqa so that none of the person beneath was revealed and climb underneath. Then they would attach a drinking tube to the hood of the queen and guide the other end into the glass of water.

When the water was finished the girl would remove it and place it outside of the burqa. The second four servants, all of these grown women dressed in burqas of matching colour but lesser quality than the queens and who had served their apprenticeships as the young girls were currently doing under the last four queens, would then approach, remove the empty glass and replace it with a bowl of soup. The girl would take this and guide it under the burqa to the drinking tube and then tap her mistress on the breast to signify she could “eat” her meal. This she would do and then when finished the empty bowl would be placed outside the burqa and replaced by the second servant by a glass of fruit juice. When this is finished the final course would be provided, a bowl of yoghurt or perhaps some blended fruits. Then, to wash it all down there would be tea.

As Mastana sucked down today’s meal – lentil soup with mango juice and then plain yogurt – she mused on how her mealtimes had changed. She so used to enjoy her food! She loved lamb kebabs and in India some of the hot curries! But now she was always hungry and although the soups, yoghurts and fruits were tasty, they were more like drinks than foods. Still, they had one positive effect: she had no need to worry about putting on weight. They also contributed to her new toilet routine which at first she had found most strange and humiliating but now, perversely, like everything else about her royal life, quite normal.

On her first day in the palace after the king had taken her virginity along with those of his other wives, after she had woken she was led by her two servants to the bathroom which adjoined her chamber and was lit by tiny skylights in the domed ceiling. Looking around she’d noticed a cupboard high up on the wall that had been opened to reveal three large glass bottles, each containing a different coloured and strongly scented liquid. The liquid in the first bottle was green and soapy-looking, the next was bright red and fizzy like sherbet and the third was bright blue. The sides of all three bottles were graduated to show how much liquid each had dispensed.

Hanging down to the floor from each bottle was a long length of rubber tubing. The tubes terminated in a strangely shaped nozzle made of stiffer rubber. Little taps at the end of each tube enabled an operator to use his experience to repeatedly close down the supply of one liquid to the nozzle and to momentarily open one of the other two.

The work of the operator, who turned out to be the older servant in the burqa – the girl in the salwar kameez was there to assist and to watch and learn as she was undergoing her apprenticeship – was thus not unlike that of a skilled barmaid making up a complex cocktail.

The end of the nozzle itself was gently pointed and covered in grease, but it then quickly became quite large, like a lozenge. However, a few inches back from the tip of the nozzle, there was a strange circular indentation where the nozzle became much smaller. Mastana did not at first realise the purpose of all this. However, she was soon to learn that this was a traditional harem enema and it was very different than those simpler ones used in health clubs such as she had tried once when on a trip to Malaysia with some fellow students at the university. With its choice of different highly scented liquids, it was designed to give a better and more carefully controlled clean out and finish. This was not for medical purposes but rather, in the harem, to prepare the way for the king to enjoy to his heart’s content a popular Afghani pastime – the penetration of the cleaned and scented rear orifice of a wife.

King Muhammad Akbar Khan had the reputation, to everyone outside the women’s quarter of his palace, of being a rather puritanical and religious man. And this was in fact partially true since King Muhammad Akbar Khan had “found” religion some four years ago at the Shrine of Khwaja Abu Nasr Parsa. However, before that life-shattering event he had been quite a different man indeed. He had gone to Moscow to study at the university there and whilst in the decadent West had indulged in all manner of haram sexual activities. In particular he had fallen under the spell of a beautiful blonde Ukrainian woman named Valeriya who had pushed forward the boundaries of his sexual knowledge more than he would have thought possible. She was a strange woman indeed, incredibly skilled in the harem arts and with an appearance almost like a cartoon doll which, Mastana was told, is a fashion in that part of the world.

Anyway, the long and short of it was that Muhammad Akbar Khan had fallen into depraved ways, but whilst enjoying his Muscovite life in one way, he also felt a profound sense of guilt. So it was that after his return he went on the Hajj to see if he could mend his ways but he could not follow the strict injunctions of the Wahaabi mullahs who told him to stick only to his wives – who did not, of course, include Valeriya who had now begun a modelling career – and stray away from perversions. He lapsed but still wanting to attain salvation he went to the holy shrine and sought the advice of a renowned pir there.

This pir, who was from a Sufi tradition far removed from the puritanical Wahaabis of Saudi Arabia explained to him that to have pleasure in sexual activities was only natural and that he should not feel ashamed for enjoying women’s bodies. He cited the Prophet himself as an example who famously loved women and was said to have been an excellent lover. But he cautioned that Muhammad Akbar Khan should only fornicate with his wives though how he did this was of no concern. However, the issue of his having given his heart to Valeriya could be resolved in an Islamic way as Mastana was soon to learn.

But returning to her first toilet, the younger servant pointed to a rubber mat on the floor under the strange-looking bottles. She gestured for her to kneel down on it on all fours. Mystified and nervously Mastana quickly did so.

In front of her, low down on the edge of the mat, was a strange-looking wooden contraption that rather reminded her of an old fashioned stocks. It was hinged and there were small holes and it was securely fastened to the floor.

Before she realised what was happening, the older servant had put her two wrists into the bottom half of the holes and then closed the stocks. Her hands were now held helpless, down close to the floor.

Then, assisted by the girl, the older servant quickly fastened her ankles to the side of the mat with little straps. With her immobile encased hands fastened in the stocks, she could not stop him. Then a padded bar was slipped under her belly to keep her nicely raised. She was now firmly secured kneeling on all fours with her knees parted and her rear orifice well displayed.

The older servant picked up the operator’s stool and, placing it behind Mastana between her outstretched knees, sat down on it. She stroked the queen’s trembling bottom with her gloved hands reassuringly but Mastana still did not quite understand what was going to happen.

The apprentice turned on the taps of each of the three coloured tubes in turn to test that all was well. She was rewarded by little jets of three differently-coloured liquids shooting out from the tip of the nozzle onto the tiled floor. Satisfied, she handed the nozzle to the older servant.

Suddenly, Mastana felt the servant’s hands part her cheeks. She blushed as she felt the end of the greased nozzle press against her rear orifice. It slipped in and she felt the servant slowly pushing it up her. Then she stopped; the sphincter muscles round her rear orifice had closed around the indentation in the nozzle, holding it tightly in place. She would not be able to eject it.

Then the girl momentarily turned on the blue tap. No! No!’ Mastana screamed inwardly as she felt a little jet of the liquid shoot up into her, cleaning her as it did so. Frantically she tried to reach back to pull out the nozzle, but her hands were firmly held by the stocks. Then she tried in vain to shake it out, opening and closing her muscles desperately. But her sphincter held it equally firmly in place.

The girl again gave the blue tap another little two quick twists, provoking further movement from Mastana who was now shaking her belly and hips to and fro, in an automatic, but vain, attempt to stop the burning liquid from going further up her

Then the girl switched taps and gave her a good dose, of the red fizzy liquid. She closed the blue tap, opened the red one and left it open.

Mastana at first calmed down as this new liquid seemed to neutralise the awful first one. Then she began to shake again as she felt its strange fizzy action inside her.

The servant got up off her stool and went and stood by the kneeling queen’s side to get a better view of her now slowly swelling belly. She nodded as Mastana writhed in vain on the mat whilst the fizzy liquid slowly and inexorably penetrated deeper and deeper.

The servant put her hand down and felt her mistress’ stomach. Yes, she would soon be ready for the green soap and then for a return to the blue burning liquid. It was, always better to do it by stages, with the belly being made to give a good little shake between each one. She sat down on the stool behind her again and turned off the red tap. Mastana let out a gasp of relief as she felt the liquid stop. But the relief was short-lived, for the servant then motioned for the  girl to turn on the green tap.

Mastana gave another little cry as she felt the soapy liquid swelling up inside her. After another minute the servant reached forward and felt her stomach again. Yes, it was getting very nicely swollen. She would let it run for another minute and then finish off with another shot of the Blue Burner, before she was left for five minutes, whilst all three liquids completed their cleaning tasks.

A minute later and Mastana writhed again as she felt the blue burning liquid shoot up inside her. Now keep still the servant wrote on a notice which she thrust in front of her mistress’ face. This was always a tricky moment. She put the bowl down on the floor between her legs – just in case. The girl was standing beside her holding a well-greased rubber plug. It had a circular indentation, like the one on at the rear of the nozzle, for the queen’s sphincter to grip. Slowly she began to withdraw the nozzle, easing it past the sphincter. Mastana gave a sight of relief. Oh how she longed to release everything. Quickly she pulled out the nozzle, grabbed the plug from the girl and pushed it in. Yes, the sphincter was holding it. She got up from the stool. It was time for a coffee.

Five minutes later the girl was feeding the queen coffee through her drinking tube whilst her mistress was still in the stocks, her belly full of the cleaning liquids. When she had finished the servant gestured to the girl to remove the plug and to hold up the bowl so that all the liquids – and Mastana’s wastes – flowed out.

Then it was time to repeat the process. But this time there was nothing left to be washed out and the emphasis was more on the liquids’ pleasing scents than on their cleansing properties. The queen was left exhausted and utterly degraded by it all but after the ritual she did not need to use the toilet all day and with her liquid diet, there were few wastes to expel anyway. The elaborate enemas had now become part of her daily life, a natural function taken away from her, but also with a secondary benefit for the king: his favourite orifice was now ready for his use.

Afghani men, many of whom are brought up without female company or indeed ever seeing an unveiled woman other than their mother or sister, are infamous for seeking sexual solace elsewhere as teenagers and so it was with Muhammad Akbar Khan. When he had gone to Russia and met with Valeriya all that had changed, but he still retained a preference for using the rear orifice and besides, it had an added advantage: his religion insisted that he treat all wives equally with regards to intercourse, only using specific wives on allotted nights. However, the pir had informed him that congress using that orifice did not count as a valid sexual act since children could never be produced that way and so, so long as he still enjoyed his allotted wife in the evening, he could enjoy additional sessions with whichever wife he fancied so long as they were of this nature.

And since King Muhammad Akbar Khan was a man with a vivacious sexual appetite, then he often availed himself of this loophole in religious law!

Part 5

Mastana: Part 3

Part 2

About an hour later the nurse and Dr. Rastagar and greeted her. She was fed some water through a tube which she gulped down thirstily but then, to her dismay, the nurse got a strap and put it over her head, fastening it securely to the bed so that all she could see was the ceiling up above her. Then several more straps were placed over her, securing her body with her arms and their now-useless hands by its side, firmly to the bed. They then turned their attentions to her feet which were lifted in the air and put through stirrups. Straps were then passed around her ankles holding them there. She was helpless and vulnerable, her most private parts exposed to the world.

Then to her surprise, she felt fingers parting her beauty lips and begin tickling her clitoris. Immediately she became aroused and started to moan into her gag. The tickling continued as the clitoris swelled and then she felt it being firmly bound around the base with a cotton thread making it extend outwards between the beauty lips.

Then it was the turn of the helpless Mastana’s nipples to be aroused and similarly bound with cotton threat. She could feel her nipples were now greatly extended. But why she asked herself, unable to move to touch them.

She heard Dr. Rastagar saying something about leaving them to get nicely swollen, and then she heard their footsteps going away.

Silenced and secured, Mastana just lay helpless on her back, wondering what on earth was happening. What was being done to her and why? What had all this to do with treating the tribes equally?

After a few minutes, she heard footsteps coming back into the room a noise like a hospital trolley being wheeled in. As it was being brought up to the couch, she heard a rattling noise like surgical instruments on a metal tray. Astaghfirullah, what was this, an operation?!

Mastanaa heard bottles being opened. There was a sudden smell of antiseptic and she heard a liquid being poured. Then she gasped as one of the figures, Dr. Rastagar most probably, wiped a cloth, soaked in a strange freezing liquid, over her beauty lips. They seemed to lose feeling. She hardly felt it when she then parted her lips again and applied the cloth to her bound and swollen beauty bud. She felt her beauty lips being clipped back leaving her swollen and bound clitoris projecting and on display.

Then there was noise as if a little lamp was being lit. She could feel the heat of the flame. Something seemed to be being heated in the flame. She felt her swollen clitoris being pulled out. Then she felt a prick as if something sharp and hot had been gently pushed through the cotton thread binding her clitoris and was now touching it. She automatically tried to raise her head to see what horror was being done to her, but of course it was futile and she could see nothing but the featureless ceiling above. Then she screamed into her gag as, unknown to her, a red-hot needle was expertly thrust right through her clitoris.

It was held there momentarily and she then she could feel it being alternatively turned left and right. Then it was withdrawn. Mastana gasped with relief. But to her horror, she then felt something else being pushed through. It seemed to be covered in some sort of creamy grease. She felt whatever it was being pulled to and fro. Next she felt a flame being brought right up to her beauty lips making her tremble with fear. She had the impression that the flame was being used to braze something together, brazed permanently. But what? And why?

She felt the cotton threads round her beauty bud being undone. She could feel some of the swelling subsiding, but now there was a strange feeling, as if her clitoris was being held permanently extended outwards – and permanently aroused. She also felt something metallic between her outstretched legs. She felt hands admiringly touching something that seemed to be attached to her. What had they done to her? She moved slightly in her embarrassment and again felt the metal object. Astaghfirullah! What was it?

Then it was the turn of her nipples. Again she felt a cloth soaked in a freezing liquid. Then she felt something sharp being pressed against one of her bound and extended nipples. Again she screamed into her gag as it was driven right through and again turned left and right, and then withdrawn.

Then once again something else was pushed through this new hole. It too was moved to and fro, and was greased. Again she felt the heat of the flame as if something was being carefully brazed together.

Now it was the turn of her other nipple.

She felt the cotton threads around each swollen nipple being removed. As with her beauty bud, she felt some of the swelling subsiding, but there was a new feeling of it being held permanently erect. But this time there a difference. There was a weight on each breast and with every little quiver of her breasts she heard the tinkling of a little bell. What was it? She longed to sit up and see what dreadful thing had been done to her but, still strapped to the top of the couch, there was nothing, absolutely nothing she could do.

The green niqaab nurse came into view, stroked her head and then unstrapped it before moving down to her body straps. Mastana sat up and looked down at herself, Her legs were still fastened to the stirrups. She saw large sized thin golden rings had been inserted into her nipples! And to each ring a small bell was attached. Astaghfirullah!

She looked down at her parted legs. From between her now hairless beauty lips hung another golden ring. It had been put through her precious beauty bud and seemed to be making her constantly aroused! She saw that it had been inserted so that it hung neatly parallel to, and between, her beauty lips and not awkwardly at right angles across them. She was now ringed in her most sensitive and private places and those rings caused great arousal. But it was arousal that she could do nothing about for when she put her rigid, plastic-clad hands to the rings, they were too blunt, too unwieldy to allow her to pleasure herself.

After being released from hospital, covered with a burqa again and driven to the family home, Mastana had to try and get used to her ‘preparations’ for becoming a queen of Afghanistan. To start with, it was hell. She longed to rip off the awful plastic helmet that most silenced and encased her. It made her feel claustrophobic and, as was the intention, anonymous. But how could with useless plastic hands, more like spoons on the end of her arms. She could grip nothing, feel nothing, all she could do was produced a soft clacking sound as she pounded at her own head in desperation. On the first night in bed, unable to sleep, staring at the world through the tiny pinholes which were all she was allowed now, she got up and started banging her head against the wall. It did nothing of course, except give her a headache and wake the entire household. There was no relief, she was a silent, anonymous droid and she shuddered as she felt her personality seemingly seep away.

People treated her differently. Since she couldn’t speak with them or indeed make any meaningful communication at all beyond a yes and no, then they took to ignoring her even when she was present in the room. Without thinking servants would talk about her as if she wasn’t there and family members began to act, not as if she were a living person with them in the room, but instead some lifeless statue whom they spoke about respectfully yet with a tinge of sadness as if she were a great hero who had died in battle.

It was perhaps that treatment that finally did it. If they were to act as if she had died, then why live? What right had the nation of Afghanistan to deprive her of everything that she was, all her hopes and dreams, even her face and voice so that its mad mullahs would no longer cause the people to kill each other? No, that was their problem; if she was gone all they would do is find another sacrificial lamb? That night she crept out of bed and went to the window. There was a drop of two storeys. She leaned out…

After her suicide attempt things changed. She hadn’t died in the fall, indeed she hadn’t even hurt herself seriously. True, the drop had been two storeys, but the blow was softened by bushes planted at the foot of the house and, cocooned in their plastic prisons, her hands and head had been perfectly cushioned.

After the suicide attempt her father had talked to her. He had chastised her for trying to desert her duty and alter her destiny. He reminded her that life is a gift from Allah and she had no right to forfeit. Then he’d bent her over, bared her bottom and given her ten whacks with his cane so that her cheeks were red raw. After that though, he cuddled her and said that whilst he had to punish her sin, he understood her frustrations and plight, and that he would do something to help. All she could do was nod silently.

After he left, her mother came. She put her arm around her daughter and then spoke softly, “We women have ways to make it bearable.” Then, she took the rings that adorned her daughter’s nipples and played with them. She turned them in her fingers and beneath her mask, Mastana groaned in ecstasy. “It is improper for a mother to do more than this,” she then said, “but I shall instruct a special friend of mine She will make life bearable for you.”

That night things were different to before. To ensure that she no longer tried to commit suicide, she was not chained to her bed, a cuff around each ankle and wrist leading to each of the four bedposts. Then, in order to stop her from banging her head, a padded cover was drawn over her helmet. It had only one hole at the nose and so left her blind and her hearing muted. So there she lay, spread out like a starfish in the pitch black. Silence reigned but then the door opened. Who was it? Footsteps came over to her and she felt her sheets being removed. Someone sat next to her. It was a female and she smelt sweet, prepared with oils and attar. She nestled her rounded buttocks next to Mastana and then started playing with her nipple rings just as her mother had. Mastana groaned and an unfamiliar voice whispered, “Aha! You’re enjoying that I see! Now, how about this.”

The mystery hands left the rings in her breasts and crept down to her exposed crotch. Mastana longed to cover herself, protect herself, but as she was all she could too was proffer herself like a wanton. She felt something being tied to the ring, a string and then pulled tight, but not so it hurt. Then it started, a soft strumming of the string, like a harpist caressing the strings of their instrument. This mystery woman was playing her and the music was heavenly. Still strumming, the woman climbed on top of her immobile charge and started kissing her and caressing her buttocks. Within minutes Mastana exploded in ecstasy. The woman slumped onto her and then moved her head next to Mastana’s ear. “You see,” she said, “it is not all bad. Forget the past and immerse yourself in your new existence. If you remember what was you shall only be miserable. Live not for studies or money but for pleasure now and you shall be happy.”

And with those words, the mystery woman left, leaving Mastana to the pitch black, panting, spread-eagled on the bed. Yes indeed, the old life had gone, she must become someone new, someone who lived for pleasure, a pleasure that she would soon be experiencing with a man, not a woman.

Part 4

Mastana: Part 2

Part 1

Cure International Hospital

Mastana was nervous as she entered through the doors of the hospital. No one could see of course for she was wearing her finest blue burqa, but to her it was as if she were naked and the whole world could feel her misery and trepidation. For three whole days after her father’s announcement she had locked herself in her room and cried. She knew that she had no choice, that he had no choice in making her for what is one life compared to so many? Yes, another Ahmadzay girl could have been chosen, her cousin Farrukh for example who was quite the traditional, religious girl and would have been far more suited, but if the Ahmadzay’s had not sent their most prominent virgin then the other tribes and the king himself would have seen it as a slight on their honour and once an Afghan’s honour is questioned, then… No, she had to marry him, that she knew but it was so unfair, so very unfair. Why her? She had always loved studying and was so close to achieving her MBA and she had dreams, plans, to travel the world, to set up in business, to marry the man of her choice… Now instead she was to become a co-wife of a king and…

…and what…?

Preparations. All queens go through particular “preparations” to ensure that they remain equal in the eyes of their lord and the nation. Preparations to ensure they remain pious and submissive and modest like a good queen should be. Examples to the Nation.

But what are these “preparations”? And why would no one tell her? Two days ago she had been taken to the hospital and her entire body scanned and measured. Then… then that was it, back home as if nothing had happened.

What exactly was in store for her?

She looked through the dense grille of the burqa at the room before her. It was a standard hospital room with a bed and a bedside table. A nurse in green scrubs stood by the side, her face hidden by her niqaab. “You may remove your burqa now, Miss Ahmadzay,” she said. Mastana was glad to remove her burqa; she hated the thing. She had never worn a burqa except for special occasions and in India not even then. Ever since she had been announced as a fiancée of the king though, there had been a surge of interest in her and it was now mandatory whenever she left the house. She took it off and shook her long black hair out. The nurse gestured for her to sit on the bed and said, “Now Miss, I’m afraid my first task is to shave off that lovely hair of yours…”

“Shave my hair! But why?”

“It is necessary for the ‘preparations’ Miss, but I agree, it seems such a shame. Still, it can be made into a nice wig and sold to help the poor. Please Miss, sit there and I shall begin.”

Tears fell from Mastana’s eyes as her beautiful waist-length locks were cut off and fell to the floor, and they continued to flow as the nurse got out a razor and shaved her head completely bald. ‘Why? Why? Why?’ she thought to herself. ‘What man wants a wife with no hair?’ She tried asking the nurse of course, but she would say nothing beyond that it was all part of the “preparations”.

“Excellent Miss,” remarked the nurse when she had finished. “Now you just sit back in bed and I shall get you a cup of tea. That’ll make you feel better.”

And when she reappeared a minute later carrying a steaming hot cup of tea and Mastana sipped it, she did feel better. It was comforting and relaxing. She lay down in the bed. “Don’t worry my dear, don’t worry,” the nurse said, stroking her head. Mastana’s eyes felt heavy and she realised that it was the tea but by then the darkness was taking over.

When Mastana woke up, something wasn’t right. Her head felt heavy and her vision somehow different. She couldn’t figure out and the thinking hurt as the drugs were still in her system. Within seconds she drifted off again.

When she came to for the second time, her head was clearer and she was more aware. Nonetheless, things did not feel the same, something was not right, something had changed. Her vision. She could see alright, it wasn’t blurred like when she put on her burqa, but it was limited. All she could view was what was straight in front of her which was the white ceiling of the room. She turned her head and the window with bright light streaming in through came into view. Yet turning her head was somehow strange. She resumed her original position and the niqaab-covered face of the nurse came into view. “You have awoken, Miss, how good!” she exclaimed.

Mastana tried to reply but she couldn’t. Then she realised why: her mouth was full of something, something solid pushing against her cheeks. She lifted her hands to feel what it was but when they came to her face all she could hear was the clunk of plastic and those hands felt nothing! She tried to wiggle her fingers but she couldn’t move them! What was happening? She held them up before her eyes and was confronted by a rigid pair of black plastic hands! What on earth did it mean? She started to struggle and the nurse came over and stroked her head. She didn’t feel a thing but felt soothed. “Don’t worry Miss,” she said softly, “you’re fine. I know it’s a big change, all the wives struggle at first with their ‘preparations’ but you’ll get used to them. Everything is fine.”

Mastana stopped moving but then asked, “What have they done to me?” But of course, no sound came out. The nurse however, seemed to understand. “I’ll get the doctor,” she said. “She can explain everything.”

Dr. Rastagar was also wearing the green niqaab scrubs but her difference in rank was clear from the confidence with which she spoke. The words that came out however, were not ones that Mastana wanted to hear.

“Right Miss Ahmadzay, you have now undergone the first and most traumatic part of the preparations for becoming a Queen of Afghanistan, a great honour indeed although so sad to think of the tragedy of the late king. Now I need to explain to you what has been done and why. The first thing that you are probably worrying about is your head. It feels enclosed, am I right? And also you cannot speak? That is because it has been sealed into a rigid plastic hood. That is why you were shaved first and after you were knocked out, measures were taken to ensure that no hair ever grows back. The hood was made in two parts, cast specifically to match your facial contours which is why you were scanned earlier. The back was fitted first and then the front sealed onto it using heat sealing. As I said it is totally rigid and it is also permanent. The only openings are some small holes at your ears to facilitate hearing – although that will probably be much reduced – and of course the two pinholes over your eyes which you are now looking through and of course holes at the mouth and nose. I think it is of interest to you to explain just what has been done with both of those orifices. In your nose, tubes have been inserted for a centimetre or so and these have an air-filtering device which will prevent you breathing in germs and thus getting ill. As for the mouth, in your mouth was filled with a gel-like substance with a tube running through it. That solidified so that it now entirely fills your mouth but the tube allows for liquid intake and breathing. I am sorry to say that consuming solids will be impossible for you from now on, but you can still eat and drink with ease.”

Hearing all this made Mastana shudder and want to weep behind the black plastic of her hood. Why had this been done to her? One minute she was a promising MBA student and the next she wakes up in hospital, her head entombed within a prison of plastic!

“The reason that this has been done dates back to King Muhammad Nadir Khan. When he came to power he needed to ensure that not one tribe – and as such, not one wife – gained prominence over the others, otherwise the whole enterprise would fail. So what he did is have his wives wear leather masks, apparently inspired by Bedouin masks that he saw whilst in Oman, which obscured their features. This was an excellent solution except that before long the wives were taking them off, so he then had them modified to become full hoods which could be locked on. But even this was still not ideal as they had to be removed regularly to cut the queens’ hair and besides, as you will know well, much of the allure of a lady comes from other sources as well as her looks. When they spoke to him, he burned with longing and began to have his favourites, with some having sweeter voices and others more gravelly, some having a good way with words and others somewhat uncouth. So they were all gagged and that way he could love them all and treat them all equally, plus there was the added advantage of them not getting jealous of one another due to looks or getting into arguments over petty matters such as we women often do.”

“When King Muhammad Nadir Khan passed away and his son took over, he continued the practice and when his son, the late martyr King Mir Ahmad Khan ascended to the throne he not only held onto the tradition but had it enshrined in law and modified it. There were many problems associated with the leather hoods, the hair growth being one and skin complaints another and so he decided to employ modern technological means to improve matters. He contacted the Islamic Centre for Technology in Cairo for ideas and they provided the present-day solution. The plastic that your hood is made from is a revolutionary new material, lightweight yet extremely strong and, this is most important, your skin can breath through it. The permanent hair removal technique they also perfected and the result is ideal. Using the old leather hoods some features, a larger nose or the shapes of lips for example, could still be made out but with these hoods all four wives appear entirely identical. The fact is, your husband will not know which of you is which and so he will of course be treating all four tribes fairly.”

‘Astaghfirullah!’ thought Mastana, ‘I no longer exist, I am just a blank, anonymous wife!’

“The head casing is not all however, Miss Ahmadzay,” continued the doctor. “Whilst you were asleep similar casings were also placed around your hands which is why you cannot move your fingers at all. This has been done for a different reason than the hood. Whilst it must be admitted that some of the queens tried to remove their hoods before, impossible I may add with these new plastic models, your husband-to-be Muhammad Akbar Khan also insisted on the covering of the hands. Apparently he had a problem with his former wives in that, with them only enjoying congress with him every fourth night, they became very sexually frustrated and so used to commit grievous sin by fondling themselves. This is something that you will not be able to do now with your hands protected so. It is good that your future husband thinks of your honour so much.”

Strangely, Mastana did not feel grateful.

“And so that is what has happened to you. Today you may rest for an hour or so more and then we shall embark upon the second stage of the preparations. These are also an innovation of Muhammad Akbar Khan, and I think you shall prefer them to the first phase.”

And with those words she left and Mastana lay there trying to come to terms with it all.

Part 3