Arab gay sex: forced to be a man whore

It was a long and tiring drive to Kandahar, and on the way we passed through many check points and several burnt out tanks. The Taliban commander, Samir, drove. He hated being chauffered anywhere and though the car reeked of leeking petrol he smoked continuously, stopping only to lecture his passengers.

“Only fat bourjois Arabian bitches have chauffeurs. No Yemeni man allows himself to be driven anywhere.”

arab-gay-sex

Samir embarked on a monologue about the historical superiority of Yemen. It might now be the poorest Arab nation on earth but at one time it had been the centre of the world trade in exotic spices, silks, scents and slave boys with a military strength that had defeated both the Romans and the Egyptians.

“Nasser, What do you think about him ?” He asked, looking pointedly at me in the driving mirror.

“I am too young to know,” I said tactfully, noticing a look of desire in the Major’s eyes.

“Well, he was certainly a lot more handsome than Mubarak. God, I don’t know what Suzanne must think every time she wakes up staring into that pig like face.”

Everyone laughed, but the major’s quips bored the arse off me and I soon fell asleep, woken just once when an officer knocked on the car window at yet another check point. It must have been atleast six hours later that I was shaken awake by Samir. Everyone else had obviously already been dropped off because I was the only remaining passenger. It was night time but there was the faint light of approaching dawn in the east. And silhoutted against the dim half light, stood a large building with several outhouses.

The entrance was guarded by two Taliban soldiers. They recognised the major immediately and didn’t even ask to check our papers, but Samir paused for a few moments to exchange a few pleasantries.

Then I followed Samir down a poorly lit corridor and up a worn stone staircase smelling strongly of urine. A few more steps took us to a door with the words “Major Samir Mohamed” scrawled on it in chalk.

He turned on the light, bolted the steel door behind him and showed me a map already laid out across a large table. He asked me to study the area of Northern Alliance troop positions north of Jalalabad. Since I was standing on the “west side” of the table, and Jalalabad is in North East Afghanistan, and because the “north eastern corner” of the table had been shoved tight against the walls, this involved me bending over and stretching across Afghanistan, exposing my behind.

I felt his hand give the cheeks of my bottom a gentle pinch, squeezing the tight flesh between his sweaty fingers.

“Teazak asal” Your buttocks are like honey he said excitedly, as I scrambled to get upright and into a more defendable position.

“Afghan prostitutes have such fat flabby off-putting behinds,” he declared as he watched me coldly. “You seem a little shocked but I am afraid you are going to have to get used to a few informalities around here,” Samir continued. “I am going to have to test your bir well to see if it’s going to be wide and deep enough.”

“You will have to kill me first,” I protested.

“That’s just the point I feared I would have to make,” Samir confessed. “I have three witnesses who will swear they saw you being fucked in the arse. You will be too lucky to suffer a simple execution for such a sordid crime. You will be forced to wear a Burqa and the crowds will stone you until you beg Allah for a quick death. However a doctor will be at hand to prevent any such easy escape.”

“When you recover consciousness you will be whipped until you are almost dead. As soon as you are partially recovered you will have a hot iron repeatedly inserted up your rectum. The next day you will have your genitals electrified until they burn and then after a few further days of unbearable torture you will be taken to the stadium in Kabul where you will again be stoned by an angry mob – this time until you die. May be, I’ve got some of the punishments in the wrong order for which I pray Allah will forgive me and I may have forgotten a few other indignities but you get my point.”

“I will tell them that you tried to fuck me,” I protested.

“Why will they care ? Anyone can excuse a man from wanting to pleasure his penis who takes advantage of whatever is to hand but a man who pleasures himself by allowing another man’s cock to enter his hole – there can be no forgiveness for him. He is worse than a Shia prostitute. And no one will believe a word such a worthless sharmurt male prostitute says. I apologize for being so frank, Ahmed. Now be a good soldier and bend over the table.”

I knew I had no alternative if I wanted to live. I slowly took off my gallibaya and bent over the map table, my nose touching kabul and my exposed behind lying somewhere on the Iranian border.

I felt his limp somewhat cold cock touch my right buttock cheek. Was he nervous I wondered or was he just having difficulties imagining I was a woman ? He gently moved his member from side to side and slowly, very slowly, it inflated and he began to ease it into my hole. I relaxed my buttocks and this time I discovered that it went in with surprisingly little pain.

Just then we heard a knock on the door.

“Hara” shit, Samir swore, as he extracted his cock and quickly adjusted his gallibaya. I was equally quick in putting mine back on.

Samir unbolted the door and to my suprise there was a woman dressed in a black burqa. She smelt srongly of perfume more reminiscent of an Italian or French woman, than any Afghan women I had ever met. And why had she come on her own without a male escort ? Why had she not been arrested ? She was certainly extraordinarily indiscreet.

Samir laughed, and looking at me, issued a somewhat unorthodox order.

“Get your dick out Ahmed, let this woman have a bit of fun.”

He didn’t have to ask twice. I threw off my gallibaya and my penis sprang upwards as I closed on the woman, who was already on her knees. Her right hand greedily grabbed my penis while her left hand passed through my pubic hair and caressed my right leg.

I noticed that, somewhat bizarely, she had had a hole slit for her mouth in her burqa, and she moved my penis towards it, her hands now gripping my buttocks. Then I eased my penis into her mouth but I was totally unprepared for what I discovered.

A beard under the burqa. A beard tickling my cock. I heard another laugh from Samir. And now the man in the burqa stopped caressing me, shuffled backwards and lifted his burqa off.

The next moment was the most astonishing of my life. For looking down at the now naked man kneeling in front of me I instantly recognised him. I can’t express my surprise sufficiently without explaining to the reader that for us Taliban soldiers Allah and Osama were a sort of holy duality. To see him on his knees in such an uncompromisingly self-indulgent submissive position was for those first few moments truly shocking. Sensing my deep embarassment, Samir edged closer to me.

“Don’t worry, our great Osama isn’t gay. It’s an experiment he likes to make to see whether a new recruit likes women. He hates queers. He only likes to fuck straight boys and I guess, judging by that huge hard on you had, he’s more than happy with you. From now on, he will be fucking you every day. You will be one of his boy wifes.”

As soon as Samir finished, He who I was sure knew every word that Samir had just uttered, began examining me, running one hand over my shoulder muscles. They had grown considerably during my constant trips to the gymn in my first and only student year in Cairo. He gently touched my penis and played with it gently so that it grew and then stretching his fingers calculated it’s approximate length and complemented Samir on accomplishing his mission.

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