Afghan Bound by Henry Morgan

a tall Latin who watched him with fiery contempt as he disappeared beneath her legs. A rough looking man leaned out of his seat and motioned him to move away, but David was enjoying the view of her well parted sex.
    â€˜She was just brought in yesterday,’ wheezed the man. ‘They haven’t broken her yet. She still has plenty of fight.’
    â€˜I’ll take her anyway,’ said David. ‘How much is she?’
    â€˜You are too late, my friend,’ said the Pakistani. ‘I tried to book her myself. I too like them when they have some fight. It excites me. But she has been bought by Mohammed Khan. His men are coming to collect her later tonight. She is to go to his yacht.’
    â€˜I’ll pay double,’ said David. ‘Whatever it costs. This Khan chap can have another woman.’
    Upon hearing that the man skulked away and Imran grabbed his naive friend by the arm. ‘Don’t say such things. Khan is a very powerful man – a dangerous man. He deals in drugs, and people don’t say let Mohammed Khan have another woman. Not if they want to keep their head between their shoulders.’
    He led David across to a small grubby stage. ‘Sit here,’ he ordered, ‘and I will see which women are available.’
    â€˜Smoke for you, sir,’ said a waiter. ‘Smoke. The show is about to start. Good show. You smoke.’
    David required no second invitation. A few pulls on the mouthpiece brought back the wonderful feelings of weightlessness and tranquillity, and he slumped back in his seat to watch as a cage was lowered from the ceiling to the stage. It landed with a gentle bump, and was met by a dwarf. Despite his meagre size he looked athletic and fit, and there was an air of menace about him. Taking a huge key ring from his belt he unlocked the cage. Inside the girl had already begun to writhe and squirm, pulling helplessly at her bonds and desperately trying to free herself from the manacles that kept her on tiptoe, tethered to the top of the cage. The dwarf clambered up the sidebars, released her shackles and kicked her out onto the stage where she fell in a heap. As he jumped down she rose to her knees and began babbling in French, apparently begging for mercy. The midget was having none of it. He slowly released a sjambok from his belt and pointed it at her. Her gibbering stopped and her eyes widened with trepidation. With a gentle flick of the rhinoceros whip he signalled for her to turn around. In an instant she was face down on the stage, her bottom straining up, her sex clearly visible between her thighs, as were the weals from numerous lessons taught by the sjambok. In a suddenly playful mood the midget sat on her bottom and gave her several firm, if not serious, smacks. David watched the firm cheeks of her bottom quivering beautifully, much to the pleasure of the baying audience who were cheering and applauding everything the little man did. Their enthusiasm heightened when he drew the sjambok once more and began to masturbate her with the handle. She did nothing during the whole performance, but remained resolutely on all fours with her forehead lowered to the stage. In and out went the whip in unison with the shouts from the crowd. The clamour reached a feverish peak, before suddenly falling absolutely silent. Out of the backstage gloom walked a man of giant proportions. He was well over six feet tall – perhaps even seven – and his well-oiled body rippled and gleamed in the light of the burning lamps. He wore nothing but a cloth around his waist, and into the centre of the stage he pushed a large mechanical bull with three dildos fixed to its back.
    â€˜Everything okay?’ asked Imran.
    â€˜Bloody great,’ beamed David. ‘How did you get on?’
    Imran took his seat at the table and drew heavily on the hookah. ‘I don’t know yet,’ he said. ‘I was told to see the little guy on the stage. He holds all the