A Soldier's Seduction
O NE WEEK INTO MY posting and I'm already wondering what the hell I'm doing here. This was supposed to be the assignment that would make my career, the gig that would finally get me noticed and mark my entrance into the big leagues of journalism, but so far it's just been a catalogue of unending misery.
For a start, the photographer they sent out with me wasn't Pierre, my usual guy. Nope, this time it's some kid called Paul, who's straight out of film school and a pretentious little shit who doesn't know his ass from his elbow. He's no fun to be around, either: his idea of a wild night out is to sit up drinking cappuccinos and talking about the movies of Eisenstein all night. Not my idea of a good time.
Then there's the fact that my contact hasn't shown up yet. I mean, I know Afghanistan is a bit of a shambles right now, but it doesn't take a full week to get in touch. Even a phone call would have been nice, but no, the place is locked up tighter than a drum and I'm not making any headway with my story at all. Which sucks more than a little.
And then there's the heat. Oh dear lord, the heat. I'd heard it was hot over here, but I wasn't expecting anything like this. It's like an invisible giant's hand squeezing the life out of you from dawn until dusk: you can't help but sweat all the time and the oppressive heat makes anyone who's not used to it tired and grumpy even at the best of times. Especially me.
So I wasn't exactly in a sparkling mood when the situation went from bad to worse. Paul and I were driving down another endless dusty road in the middle of nowhere, chasing up another dead-end lead, when all of a sudden there was a brain-splitting bang and our jeep was instantly careening wildly across the road, with Paul screaming like a girl as he lost control of the speeding vehicle. Everything went black for a moment, and when I came to we were surrounded by five or six figures shrouded in white robes with automatic weapons pointed at us. Things were not looking good.
Thankfully neither of us were badly injured, but that was the least of our worries. We were led back to a complex of caves out in the hills, kidnapped by a rag-tag bunch of terrorists who were out to hold us to ransom for all they could get.
They didn't treat us too badly. One of the first things they did was split the two of us up, which I was secretly quite glad about, as Paul's frequent bouts of crying had started to get on my nerves. I really don't think they knew what to do with me: with my tight shorts, cutoff shirt and ample curves I must have been a far cry from the submissive burqa-wearing women they were used to, and I think they were both appalled and entranced by me in equal measure. Of course, being the bold, uninhibited woman I am I took full advantage of every opportunity I could get to make them feel uncomfortable, flashing as much exposed cleavage and naked thigh as I could whenever I caught them staring at me. I could tell that the sight of a real woman turned them on, and also that they hated themselves for it, especially since to them I was just another decadent American infidel.
Every morning they would bring in a large basin of water for me to bathe in, and they seemed to take it in turns to "guard" me as I put on a show of washing myself in the most sensuous, alluring way I could. Pulling down my shirt as much as possible without actually revealing anything, I would take a cloth, throw my head back and mop my exposed neck, letting trickles of water arc down over my body, with tiny rivulets streaming between my full breasts and down the generous swell of my stomach, soaking my white cotton panties until they must have been almost transparent. Although I was the one being held prisoner, they were the ones tortured, driven half-wild by the delights of my Rubinesque body and a desire they were prohibited from satisfying.
After several days, I was beginning to wonder if anyone was actually looking for us. No-one
O NE WEEK INTO MY posting and I'm already wondering what the hell I'm doing here. This was supposed to be the assignment that would make my career, the gig that would finally get me noticed and mark my entrance into the big leagues of journalism, but so far it's just been a catalogue of unending misery.
For a start, the photographer they sent out with me wasn't Pierre, my usual guy. Nope, this time it's some kid called Paul, who's straight out of film school and a pretentious little shit who doesn't know his ass from his elbow. He's no fun to be around, either: his idea of a wild night out is to sit up drinking cappuccinos and talking about the movies of Eisenstein all night. Not my idea of a good time.
Then there's the fact that my contact hasn't shown up yet. I mean, I know Afghanistan is a bit of a shambles right now, but it doesn't take a full week to get in touch. Even a phone call would have been nice, but no, the place is locked up tighter than a drum and I'm not making any headway with my story at all. Which sucks more than a little.
And then there's the heat. Oh dear lord, the heat. I'd heard it was hot over here, but I wasn't expecting anything like this. It's like an invisible giant's hand squeezing the life out of you from dawn until dusk: you can't help but sweat all the time and the oppressive heat makes anyone who's not used to it tired and grumpy even at the best of times. Especially me.
So I wasn't exactly in a sparkling mood when the situation went from bad to worse. Paul and I were driving down another endless dusty road in the middle of nowhere, chasing up another dead-end lead, when all of a sudden there was a brain-splitting bang and our jeep was instantly careening wildly across the road, with Paul screaming like a girl as he lost control of the speeding vehicle. Everything went black for a moment, and when I came to we were surrounded by five or six figures shrouded in white robes with automatic weapons pointed at us. Things were not looking good.
Thankfully neither of us were badly injured, but that was the least of our worries. We were led back to a complex of caves out in the hills, kidnapped by a rag-tag bunch of terrorists who were out to hold us to ransom for all they could get.
They didn't treat us too badly. One of the first things they did was split the two of us up, which I was secretly quite glad about, as Paul's frequent bouts of crying had started to get on my nerves. I really don't think they knew what to do with me: with my tight shorts, cutoff shirt and ample curves I must have been a far cry from the submissive burqa-wearing women they were used to, and I think they were both appalled and entranced by me in equal measure. Of course, being the bold, uninhibited woman I am I took full advantage of every opportunity I could get to make them feel uncomfortable, flashing as much exposed cleavage and naked thigh as I could whenever I caught them staring at me. I could tell that the sight of a real woman turned them on, and also that they hated themselves for it, especially since to them I was just another decadent American infidel.
Every morning they would bring in a large basin of water for me to bathe in, and they seemed to take it in turns to "guard" me as I put on a show of washing myself in the most sensuous, alluring way I could. Pulling down my shirt as much as possible without actually revealing anything, I would take a cloth, throw my head back and mop my exposed neck, letting trickles of water arc down over my body, with tiny rivulets streaming between my full breasts and down the generous swell of my stomach, soaking my white cotton panties until they must have been almost transparent. Although I was the one being held prisoner, they were the ones tortured, driven half-wild by the delights of my Rubinesque body and a desire they were prohibited from satisfying.
After several days, I was beginning to wonder if anyone was actually looking for us. No-one
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