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!