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.