Thank You For Your Service

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.

"Dance whore." He said.

There was a chorus of apologies and shouts for him to be silent from the men, but he waved a finger at them to silence them. Then pointed the doubled belt at me, and lifted his chin, glaring down his hook nose at me.

I blushed, and placed my coffee down. Moving into the center of the room, I began to dance. I was halting at first, but a few cracks of his doubled belt upon the counter, demanding I do better, calling me a clumsy cow, and I let myself go.

I danced traditional and tribal both, one song led into another, and I found myself missing the zils for my fingers, contenting myself with snapping my fingers when I should have been clapping my bells. I danced to entice, I danced to arouse, I danced to appease. I danced for Azmaray the pimp, in uniform, five minutes from the base gate.

The tape ended, and in a flush, I took my coffee and Mantu and bolted, this time the sound of whistles and hungry male laughter followed me out. I was humiliated, I was terrified, I was wet. I dropped my breakfast on my desk and headed almost at a jog for the women's bathroom. I had my left hand pinching my nipples cruelly as I remembered Azmaray punishing the whore's tits so long ago, and my fingers driving into my box remembering his thick meaty cock as he reduced that whore to a fucked-out piece of meat, while staring me in the eyes.

I couldn't go back. I couldn't face him again. I decided that wasn't cowardice. I could not concentrate on anything during the day, and thanked whatever gods attend sluts that I had nothing beyond paperwork I could do in my sleep that day.

I had to go back. To not go back is to admit he got to me. I could face Azmaray again. I just got surprised last time.

I came into the shop hating the fact my face was blushing crimson, being a redhead does you no favours when it comes to hiding your emotions. The crowd was thinner today, but the look of those who were there was like a pack of hungry street dogs from Kabul. I didn't see Azmaray. I ordered my usual Mantu and coffee, my voice calm and flat as I could make it. It was, right up until Azmaray came up from behind me and with his lips brushing my ear, even nipping it lightly, rasped out.

"Not yet. You have to earn your food here. Dance for us." He rasped that out, his voice making me shudder as my nipples stood to attention and my spine betrayed me by making me shudder visibly, head falling forward submissively as he spoke.

Azmaray placed two zils, or finger bells on the counter, and a coin bezelled dancer's top.

The old man behind the counter started the tape playing the dance music, and two of the younger men closed and locked the shop doors, turning the blinds to close it off from outside eyes.

I felt Azmaray's belt loop around my throat. He reached around and groped my breast with slow arrogance. "Take off the tent, you western whores like showing off so much, put on the top and dance for us properly whore."

I didn't say anything, I froze. I know there are a dozen things I should have been doing about leaving, taking back command of the situation, but what I did instead was sit there while two smiling Afghans stripped my uniform tunic from me, and when Azmaray snapped my bra strap, I reached back and mechanically undid it myself, letting it fall from my 48G.

I tried to fasten the dancer's bra around my breasts, but it was not so much a coverage as painful nipple clamps and dancing bangles to draw every eye to the bouncing of my breasts, and make every motion of my hips, belly and shoulders tug more firmly on my nipples.

I didn't even know how to fasten it properly, but Azmaray nestled it tight, then sucked each nipple in until it was full and the ring trapped the swollen nipple inside the ring. I fastened the zil to my fingers and began to dance.

I lost myself in the dance, the awareness of his eyes, of Azmaray's eyes was inescapable. This time he didn't whip the counter when he was displeased. He whipped my ass when I wasn't dancing wildly enough, seductively enough. Sometimes he just whipped me I think because he liked to see me desperate to please him.

The pressure of their eyes, the pressure of the nipple rings, it combined to shatter my mind, every attempt at coherent thought fled before the growing feeling of helplessness, of my own feminine submission to the hungry eyes, hungry mouths, hungry cocks of these proud Afghans, and that most hateful pimp Azmaray. I danced for him, again, as I always had. Trying to entice him, as in the fullness of my power I taunted him, now in the fullness of his power, I danced under his whip. I was so aroused, I couldn't think.

The tape ended, and Azmaray claimed my mouth. He kissed me so deeply I couldn't breathe, I lost all awareness of what was going on around me. At least I did until I realized he had moved my hands above my head and looped his belt around them.

Grabbing the belt, he walked me backwards to the counter and bent me back across it, tying his belt off to the rail on the backside. There I was, half naked, bound tits up across the table.

It is terrible to understand the language sometimes. I heard him tell the men to strip my boots and pants off while he takes bids.

I opened my mouth to object, and Azmaray drove his mouth onto mine and kissed me savagely. He sucked the whimpers from my mouth as he worked the bangled bra off my constrained breasts, before taking his mouth off mine to claim a breast with it instead. Another Afghan was feeling up my breast and the turgid nipple newly freed of its cage.

My pants, boots, underwear and socks were gone and now I was moaning and whimpering as Azmaray fingered my pussy and sucked my breast, driving me to a helpless public orgasm bound like a thanksgiving turkey for these hungry Afghan's to feast on.

I opened my eyes and saw bills flashing in hands as Azmaray took money from the Afghan men to fuck the white soldier-whore.

The first man in me was ancient enough to be my father, but his cock was long and downward bending, that gnarled and knobby worthy had the honour of taking my volunteer status as his eight inches of Afghan meat opened my pussy as a commercial concern.

I opened my mouth to object, and Azmaray took out his semi-hard cock and began to spank my face with it. I don't know why, but this further humiliation fired me up terribly. The old man came inside me, leaving me short of my own second, but a younger man replaced him with an ungentle and desperate thrusting, like a stray dog afraid he won't have more than a moment or two on the bitch and determined to nut.

I am embarrassed to say I cried out as he came inside me and left my stomach bunching, bucking, writhing just one or two strokes away from satisfaction. The next man who stepped up may have chosen to wait because of what he was packing. His cock wasn't longer than the old fellows, but it was thick as a beer can.

I threw my head back and screamed as I came when he forced that thing inside me, my legs wrapping around his back and trying to pull him in. He leaned forward and grabbed my throat and one of my breasts cruelly as he hammered me like a dark god of fuck, claiming his white sacrifice. I looked up helplessly as he fucked me through my orgasm into another one before emptying his cock into me with what seemed like an ocean of hot cum.

The cook who had been so very polite and respectful every day was not waving a twenty, he was waiving a fifty and Azmaray laughed as he snatched the bill and grabbed my ankles when the cook lifted them up in the air for him.

Azmaray pulled my legs back until my knees were beside my head, and I still didn't understand what was happening. Not until the cook took a squeeze bottle of cooking oil and forced it into my tight little virgin asshole.

I tried to struggle, but that just seemed to amuse everyone in the room. The cook coated his own cock with oil, and began to finger my asshole, while rubbing my clit and grinning his gap-toothed grin at me.

I wanted to resist, but one finger became two, and the rubbing of my clit and already aroused state worked against me. Soon I was pushing back into his finger, and the cook grinned. Azmaray leaned down beside my ear and whispered. "This is what I would have had you doing by the end of the day back in Kandahar, you cost me so much money and time, now you will have to work very hard to make it up to me."

I felt the cook pop through my rosebud's last tired resistance, and my first ass fucking commenced. I should tell you how terrible it was, but Azmaray kept telling me what a dirty whore I was, how many cocks and how many ways I was going to serve them, while the cook frigged my clit and drilled my ass. The combined assault on my will and my rectum was more than I could take. I came before he did.

When the cook finally filled my poop chute with Afghan cum, I shook with after shocks of my own orgasm almost as if my body wanted to wring every last drop from my rapist? Customer? I no longer knew.

Azmaray dragged me off the table by my hair and let me drop to my knees in front of him. He slapped my face with his rock-hard cock, and I lapped at his balls, sucking each one into my mouth with a kind of mindless hunger. I had long since lost command of my own body, and now only existed to please Azmaray.

Finally he presented his cock to my mouth, and I began to suck it. I lapped around his crown, swirling my tongue around it, lapped down his base. I worked my hands free of the now loosening belt so they were free at last.

I didn't use them to resist, when I took Azmaray in my mouth fully, I reached back and steadied myself against his hips. I did my best to work my way down his cock, but my best was not enough. One hand on my throat and the other on my French braided red hair, Azmaray began to fuck my face like it was just another cunt.

I grabbed his ass with my hands, and leaned forward, not resisting his face raping, but trying to extend my neck and avoid his cock ramming my gag reflex with every thrust. I snorted and drooled, blowing bubbles of snot out my nose as I struggled to breathe, pre cum, snot and drool coating my bite covered white breasts as they swayed with every thrust.

In a few minutes of humiliation, to the cheers of the waiting Afghans, Azmaray finally roared and began to jet out burning streams of cum. First he blasted down my throat, then filled my mouth. He then pulled back and painted my face, my breasts and even my hair.

I knelt before him, covered in cum, dripping cum from all my holes, and saw him drop his cock into my open mouth for cleaning. When I was done cleaning him, he yanked my head back and spat into my open mouth.

"Better get to work slut, you aren't good enough to earn your keep this way. Rest up, I will have more customers lined up this Saturday, when I know you will be available." Azmaray said with a cruel grin.

Everyone laughed, sipped coffee and smoked as I struggled to wipe my face off and get dressed. They were oddly chivalrous, fetching bits of lost clothing and helping me to sit to dress. As I went to stagger out the door and head to base, the cook handed me my piping hot fresh coffee and Mantu. He grinned at me and said like he did every day.

"Thank you for your service!"