The present of the Moudjahid young soldier girl
Act II of an erotic tale taking place in Afghanistan
Afghan girl soldier
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moudjahid

After long minutes of waiting, we heard again the crackling of fire arms and the falling of a body, we knew it was the body of our English companion.

We were going to be eliminated one after the other, without any apparent reason; our belongings being in their hands, what interest they had to kill us if not, to avoid the difficult task to give us back to the legal authorities?

Then, some time later, they came to take away my girlfriend. I protested to the soldiers, making any sign to avoid this situation or to let me go instead of her. I realized that they could have kept her and abuse her, and this prospect was as painful to me as to let her die before me; since we all had to die.

femme afghane

They took her. I waited anguishly, the crackling of the firearms that did not come. I feared as much not to hear them. Many hours had passed. Atrocious hours during which, I was expecting to ear the cynical discharge of the firearms, that would have released her from her torturers. Nothing! Everything was quiet.

I stayed there prostrated. Distraught, my eyes starring at the ground, I waited for my death, resigned; I recalled in my mind, all the episodes of my life that came back in cascades, from my memory. A life that I was going to leave, I was now certain of that.

Then, the young guardian moved slightly in my direction, without raising up. He slipped towards me on his knees, his buttocks leaping slightly on his legs, trailing on the hard ground. His hesitant jumps slowly brought him closer to me, and I finally hoped, I could establish a contact, a reciprocal sympathy that would permit us to communicate. Outside, everything was calm. My girlfriend had been away since a long time already.

I believed I had waked up some compassion in him. He was going to come and reassure me, or comfort me before my death or simply do the work himself. I could not perceive his real intentions on his face. We looked at each other, right into the eyes now.

fille afghane

His eyes where shining. What glare was it? I could not seize the meaning of it. Was it the glare in the eyes of the fantasized warrior, the torturer avenger, the vindictive assassin, or of the anxious rapist? I wished I could seize the meaning of his action. Then, he approached slowly, like an animal towards its prey, I already felt his breath over my face, released by fright, I was afraid. The fear of the abused, of the raped man, but at the same time, I realize I was going to speak with someone, make the gestures, the intonations of voice, the mimicry, the negotiations that could lead us to an appeasement.

He stopped right in front of me. Our knees touched. His rifle, encrusted with brilliant stones, was suspended to his left shoulder, he carries it firmly on his left hip, the canon pointing to me, his index pressed on the trigger; I distinctly saw the holes laid out symmetrically, all around the combustion chamber, and that would spit fire at the moment of the explosion. He was going to liquidate me coldly, at only one meter from me; my blood will go splashing his face. This image haunts my mind, I closed my eyes, resigned, and I waited for the detonation.



I felt a light blow on my cheek. An object just gently passed close to my cheek. I opened my eyes, I saw his hand caressing my cheek. He was exploring my face with his hand, as if it was a foreign object, of which he did not know the origin. This gesture was not hostile, I was convince of that.

He rose again, and found himself on his knees, slightly leaning towards me, I could have touched him if my hands had been free, his hand remained pressing my face.

combattante afghane

His weapon was always suspended at his left shoulder and slightly tossing on his hip. He had released his finger from the trigger and maintained his balance with his left hand, pressed to the ground. His right hand started moving in a more voluntary way over my face, exploring other facets that seamed strange to him, or incomprehensible to his eyes.

He was touching me as someone touches an odd object, to understand its shape, at least, this is how I perceived it. His hand was rough, but at the same time, I felt it was delicate, delicate like the hand of a child, the hand of a young girl. His fingers handled my hair by drawing them delicately. Then they passed close to my ear, to my nose, then I heard a slight snigger that came out of his mouth. Then he moved back slightly, leaning slowly on his buttocks, then he smiles, his eyes always starring at my eyes. I had the feeling I had created a friendship, or was it a bad impression? His glance was of a certain tenderness, and I could almost imagine he had the features of a girl.

He approached with prudence and starts to untie the links that immobilized my hands. He spokes, short sentences, inintelligibles, intersected with slight laughter's. I had my hands freed. He looked at me, his mouth opened; I could see his small white teeth and his eyes that sparkled.

He approached his hand and took my right hand and he deposited it on his cheek, then he pressed it there strongly. I had a movement of retreat, but he retains it there with a certain energy, so that I understood I had no other choice. He was beardless but his skin was cracked, carved by the intense sun, the skin of an Indian, like the bark of trees, it had the consistency of nature, the colour and the odor also.

He pushed my hand calmly and leads it on the bumps of his face, of his nose, of his ears, of his black and greasy hair, under his turban that untied slowly; then he directed my hand downwards, strongly pressing on the cotton fabrics covering his chest. He stopped at the level of his bust. There, I felt like an outgrowth, a small nipple that molded his shirt, and my fingers, that traveled like so, clung, passing by, a small button, the papilla of his bosom that stiffened under my fingers.

fille afghane

I remained stiffed with astonishment. I was not prepared for that, I slightly handled this small nipple and the papilla that decorated it, as to better convince myself of the accuracy of my sudden discovery, he was a girl. I was going to withdraw my hand but she directed it firmly through the loose opening of her shirt, and with the palm of my hand, she cherished this young chest with circular movements, more and more accelerated and violent.

Imperceptible groaning came out of her mouth. She went from one nipple to the other, accelerating thus, the awakening of her sexual emotions; her nipples became increasingly rigid under my fingers, and she was twisting frantically around her trunk.

Then, her hands carry my hand through the opening of her baggy breeches, and slipped there with self-confidence. In the mean time, she explored with her greedy eyes, the hidden parts of my body, at the level of my sex which already showed signs of excitement under my trousers; my sexual desires woke up, she seems to know it but did not make any movement in that direction.

fille afghane

I felt a wet patch on the palm of my hand; I had reached the opening of her uterus already half-opened. I could feel, at the tip of my fingers, the viscous substance of her lips that was spreading out around the perimeter of this opening. She was twisting with pleasure under my fingers, accelerating that way, the process of auto-masturbation. My fingers penetrated this inviting pit under the voluntary action of her hand. I did not, however, need this help anymore. My fingers plunged to the deepness of the abyss, scanning, scratching when passing by, assaulting the strange bumps that furnished this den of young girl, from the uterus to the vulva, spouting out muddy liquids that came out squirting on my fingers, over my skin, over my hands, over her hands, out of the cavern, titillating my senses in subtle electric discharges, propagating itself under my breeches, I was going to burst like a pyrotechnic bomb.

At the withdrawal of my fingers, she calms down, satisfied; she seems to smell the odour that came out of the abyss, still half opened, and that melted to the sweat that filtered from my pore, her nostrils wriggled.

fille moudjahid

Some men entered the room. She just had the time to move behind and to adjust her clothing's, as fast as she could. They were going to take me out. There was an animated discussion between her and the man. It was about me. Then they went out. I feel like, It was my turn to die.

afghanistan

I could hear the hubbub of animated voices outside, then they came back. They took me out. She was there, she showed no trace of sadness nor of satisfaction on her face. She was impassive. Impeded with her military hardware, she looks no more like a young girl.

Outside, the sun was rising behind the mountains that circle around the small rocky valley, hiding, as well as it may be, the run-down houses made of bricks and earth. A group of women, decorated with jewels, bracelets, scintillating amulets accompanied by multicoloured and agitated children, came out of a house. I then saw my girlfriend. The children where holding her hands, everyone wanted to touch her.

They brought us to the truck with our eyes blindfold, we traveled our way back to our vehicle that was in hiding, on the side of the main road to Kabul.

paysage afgan

There where people at the Khyber Pass restaurant in Kabul, and cakes, and cheese, and fruits, all things we missed so much, things that made us revive again, to a certain kind of life.

There was an Italian beer brewer, a courtesan and a shifty bureaucrat, a talkative merchant, and the son of the king Zahir Shah, student in Switzerland, he came for his vacation, in his own country. There was also an adventure among the ardent Pachtos, an impossible adventure to the taste of our new hosts, our adventure, presage of turmoil's to come in the future.

filles afghanes


Marco Polo or the imaginary journey (Contes et légendes asiatiques, translated august 2000) © 1996 Jean-Pierre Lapointe
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