Chapter 1

In 2003, because of his gambling addiction which has put his family in financial jeopardy Charles Moore, a Denver Colorado civil engineer accepted a high-paying, high-risk job with Applegate Engineering repairing infrastructure in Afghanistan during the early days of the United States’ involvement in that war. His contract was on a yearly basis and Applegate put his salary in a New York bank during that year, which he couldn’t access until he returned. Applegate covered his expenses during his Afghanistan stay but back home his wife, Claire, while working in a real estate office had to take in a roomer to help cover her housing expenses. Charles and Claire’s marriage was pretty well washed up before he left, and they had come to a mutual agreement that upon his return they would divorce. In Afghanistan, there were virtually no Anglo women to satisfy his needs. Charles tried sex with an Afghan prostitute but was the kind of man to whom such sex did not appeal. He craved a woman who would share his bed, someone soft and feminine ... someone with whom he could snuggle and get comfortable enough to do the kinds of things he had been enjoying with Sarafina Cortez, owner of the real estate company where his wife worked.

Within six weeks on the job, he met a woman who worked as an interpreter for Applegate Engineering. After seeing so many women entirely covered by burqas (the long garment that shrouded the entire body with only a mesh opening at the eyes) he was surprised by the elegant woman who wore a black business suit and the customary hijab (head scarf) while working in the office. He learned that the woman was the widow of a prominent businessman in Kabul who was rumored to have been murdered by the Taliban for views that were considered friendly to the West. He understood that the woman had attended the Sorbonne in Paris and was highly educated and quite sophisticated.

She had the figure of a ballet dancer, willowy from her ankles to her shoulders. Her neck was long and graceful, and her breasts, from what Charles could see, were petite. She had long black hair which she wore in a French braid. Her skin was dark olive, her lips dark (almost purple) and her eyes sparkled like black diamonds. One day he had the opportunity to sit with Aziza Khan in the company cafeteria. They had a pleasant conversation. When he asked her to have lunch with him again, she thanked him saying, “It is not appropriate for Afghani women to be alone with a non-Muslim man.” As she spoke her sparkling eyes told him how much she would like to be with him. At least he would like to have thought so.

He asked a couple of his colleagues what they knew of Aziza, but they told him not to waste his time, that a number of men had approached her with the same results. One said, “The women here are all afraid that the Taliban is coming back. They’re afraid to be seen with a Christian or any non-Muslim for that matter.”

Each time Charles and Aziza passed, whether in the cafeteria or in one of the corridors, the woman’s eyes seemed to be saying the same thing they did when they first met. Like Sarafina’s eyes, Aziza’s striking eyes sent exotic messages. Positive that this woman wanted to be with him he puzzled, how can I make it happen without putting her in danger?

One morning on his way to work he saw a woman wearing a black burqa going in the front door of the Applegate complex. Even though the woman was completely shrouded she walked in the fluid way he had come to know as Aziza’s walk. Quickening his step to catch up with her he said, “Looks like it’s going to be a nice day today.”

The woman’s muffled voice came through the mesh in the garment. “Yes, it will be, Inshallah (the Muslim expression for God willing).” The muting effect of the fabric made it impossible to recognize her voice, but he was certain that the sparkling eyes beyond the mesh were Aziza’s. The expression in those eyes reminded him of the seductive invitations Sarafina Cortez had given him before he finally approached her that day at the Brown Plaza Hotel in Denver.

Normal means of developing a relationship with Aziza Khan were not working. But, as with Sarafina, he had to take a bold step. Upon reaching his desk he wrote on a piece of notepaper that bore his name, Charles Moore, Civil Engineer, “Do your eyes lie, Aziza, when they look at me in the way they do? I invite you to knock on my door tonight at 8:00 pm, suite 929, at the Goloban Hotel.” Folding the note, he put it into an envelope and wrote the name AZIZA KHAN. Later that day when Aziza was out of her cubicle, he dropped it on her desk.

Applegate Engineering employees occupied the top floor of the Goloban Hotel in downtown Kabul. When he arrived, there was just one suite left with one bedroom. It was the kind of suite Americans find at Comfort Suites in the U.S. Charles Moore was one of three Applegate employees who had a suite of his own.

The domestic staff at the Goloban was made up mostly of widows, all of whom wore black burqas to work. A few, while working in the hotel removed their burqas. These women always wore black dresses and black headscarves, though most worked in their burqas. There were two reasons: First: An underlying fear that given the past turmoil in the region, if the Taliban came back into power, those women not wearing burqas could be beaten and even killed. Second: Having become accustomed to the anonymity provided by the all-encompassing burqa most Afghan women preferred walking through the streets as totally anonymous beings. Many wore stylish clothes beneath their burqas but waited until they were either at work or home to show off their stylish wear. Others just wore undergarments. Some wore nothing.

It was 8:12 when Charles heard the gentle knock on his door. Smiling at his clear judgment and good fortune he went to the door, opened it, and saw what looked like an apparition: a woman in a black burqa, a chambermaid bringing fresh white towels. But unlike any other burqa-clad chamber maid Charles had seen at the Goloban the woman’s eyes beyond the mesh sparkled as she held out the towels to him. He took them, pressed the towels to his chest with his left hand, and extended his right. As she took his hand the muffled words came through the mesh, “My eyes never lie, Mr. Charles Moore, Civil Engineer.”

In Muslim Afghanistan, if a woman has an affair her husband has the right to kill her. If an unmarried woman has sex and is discovered, her father has the same right. Were the father deceased the woman’s oldest brother could do the same. If a woman’s husband dies and the husband has living brothers, the oldest is obligated to marry the brother’s widow, creating a plural marriage. During the time of the Taliban, prostitution was punishable by death. If any unmarried woman were to be discovered by the Taliban to be having illicit sex, she would most likely be judged “immoral” and executed, usually being stoned to death in the street. Even though the U.S. helped defeat the Taliban the religious laws remained the same. Most women lived in fear of the penalties of illicit sex. Some though, suffered the pangs of sexual need and fulfilled these needs while hoping that the less restrictive powers in existence would look kindlier upon them than the current regime in power.

Prior to the U.S. involvement in Afghanistan Aziza’s deceased husband, Akram Khan, because of his pro-western sympathies the Taliban had executed him. In the post-Taliban period, however, there was no penalty for a widow having sex with another man, assuming she had no living male relatives. But the rule existed only for Muslim men, not infidels. Aziza, having no living relatives could have sex with another Muslim but not with a Christian (an infidel) without repugnant consequences.

Thrilled that he had read the woman’s eyes accurately, Charles led Aziza through the door and closed it. Once she was in the room though he didn’t quite know how to deal with the burqa-clad woman.

“Would you like to sit down?” he asked, offering her a chair.

“Thank you, Mr. Charles Moore, Civil Engineer,” she answered, using his proper name and title.

The only people who called him Charles were his mother and Sarafina Cortez, and said, “Most people call me Charles.”

“In our culture, Mr. Moore, it is disrespectful to call a person other than by his given name. I’ll refer to you as Charles,” she said definitively.

“May I offer you a drink?” he asked.

“Muslims don’t drink alcohol,” came her muffled reply, “At least those who are true to the faith.”

“Tea perhaps?”

Aziza answered, “It is good to drink tea while getting to know someone. But I can’t drink tea while I’m wearing my burqa. Nor can I remove it until I know you much better. It wouldn’t be proper.” Disappointed by her answer Charles sat down on the sofa. The woman sat at the opposite end.

Clearing his throat he asked, “Would you mind telling me something about yourself, Aziza?”

“I am a widow,” she said. “Akram, my husband, was murdered by the Taliban.” She offered no further information.

Waiting a long while for her to continue he finally cleared his throat again and asked, “What was his offense?”

“He was friendly to Americans.”

Incredulous he asked, “He was killed just because he liked Americans?”

“For the Taliban that is enough. Taliban need to explain.”

Charles feared that if the evening were to continue like the conversation it might end in disappointment. He knew he had to turn it around. “Look Aziza,” he said, “If we can’t talk with one another why did you come?”

“My eyes were not lying,” she said.

Great, he thought, the woman talks in riddles. “Aziza,” he continued, “If I see in your eyes that you want to be with me, I mean with me, shouldn’t we share ourselves more intimately?” She nodded. He knew it was he who needed to share first. Clearing his throat again he began. “I’m a married man. I married my wife because she was pregnant. I thought the child was mine but later found out she wasn’t. In fact, I later found out that my wife had been impregnated by her father.”

“In my country, incest is not uncommon,” she said.

Maybe I’m getting somewhere he thought. “I haven’t loved, nor have I made love to my wife since I found out. Her daughter is now seventeen years old. I’ve been having an affair with another woman. I may even be in love with her.”

“And you still live with your wife?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“In Afghanistan, a husband could kill his wife for having sex with another man. He could also demand that her father take her back for having given him damaged goods. If her father took her back, he could kill his daughter,” she said to Charles. “You could have been killed by your wife-to-be’s father for violating his daughter, even though he had already violated her.” She laughed. “It’s a strange world, isn’t it?”

With that, she told of how she met her husband, and how he and she were chosen for one another at birth. “Did you love him?” Charles asked.

“Very much,” she answered. “He was exceedingly kind. He treated me like a princess. He took me to Paris and London when he did business there. Most Afghan men leave their wives behind, but Akram always included me. He insisted that I learn French and English. Akram said it might save my life someday.”

Charles asked, “Are you in danger now?” It was eerie, like talking with someone who was invisible, and he wished he could see more than her eyes.

“I am only in danger from the Taliban if they come back into power,” Aziza said. “I hope to leave Afghanistan before that happens, Inshallah. Since I am a widow without family I am not spoken for. That is why I can be here alone with you. If my father were living, or I had a brother; they would be within their rights to kill me. Still, there are still religious extremists who could take it upon themselves to kill me just for being immoral.” Taking a deep breath and letting it out she said, “That it doesn’t happen, Inshallah.”

Trying to see beyond the mesh Charles said, “But we haven’t done anything.”

The muffled words came through the mesh, “I am alone with a Christian” came the words muffled by the mesh, “An Infidel. That itself is a crime.”

Trying to make sense of the woman’s body language Charles studied her shrouded frame. All he could see were her imprisoned eyes peering behind the mesh as the words came forth. “You were very bold to give me your note Charles Moore, Civil Engineer.” Clasping her hands as if in prayer. “I too have been hoping for someone with whom I could fill my needs. You have seen in my eyes that I desire to be with you. I have seen in yours that you want to be with me and are exceedingly kind.”

Though pleased that the cards were on the table he had no idea how to proceed with this strange specter. Aziza solved the dilemma by saying.” May I ask a favor of you before we proceed, Charles Moore, Civil Engineer?” He nodded. “I have no running water where I live. May I shower in your bathroom?”

Standing he responded, “Of course,” offering his hand which she took, and led her to the bathroom door. In the doorway, she bowed at the waist and touched her head with, her heart and her lips with her hand before going in and closing the door.

She had been in the bathroom for a long time. Had he been in his house in Denver he would have been concerned that the hot water would run out. When he heard the water stop, he imagined the willowy woman drying her naked body and wondered if she had used his razor to shave her legs and under her arms. Or do Afghan women do that? The scream of his hairdryer made him think of Aziza’s luxurious hair he had seen in the Applegate office.

As the door opened, he expected to see the mysterious woman covered in her black burqa. Wondering how he would go about uncovering her if indeed he had the opportunity he thought, Will she want me to do that? Or did she only come for the shower? Stunned when he saw her naked body moving toward him in a sensuous bearing his heart dropped into his stomach.

She was tall and lean, about 5’7”. Her luxuriant black hair flared out like a pharaoh’s headdress, framing her smooth, angular face. Between her sparkling black eyes was a prominent, but not large, rounded Arabic nose which led to full, pouty, purple lips. The whites of her eyes set in her shadowy face contrasted with her black hair and irises, making her look like a work of Egyptian art. Her neck, like that of a graceful swan, led to shoulders, not broad, but matching the width of her gracefully curving hips. Around her neck was her only adornment, a necklace of large amber beads. Her olive-toned body was slightly darker than Sarafina’s.

Like Sarafina, Aziza’s nipples and lips were dark, almost purple. Her breasts were small—probably B cups, perfectly formed ski-jumps that curved to large nipples. Below her nipples, her breasts curved in artfully rounded arcs to her torso. Her areolas, slightly lighter than her nipples, were a half-inch border that elongated into a three-quarter-inch oval at the top and bottom. Her well-formed abs, diminutive six packs, sinuously corrugated her tight torso. In the middle of her flowing hips was an abundant, untrimmed nest of black curly hair. The long legs of a ballet dancer with well-developed thighs were broken by attractive knees which warped into muscled calves and tapered to thoroughbred-like ankles and delicate feet. Flashing a brilliant smile with her perfectly white teeth the exquisite nude said, “The burqa is a perfect way to walk the city to shroud my nakedness.” With a demure lowering of her eyes she continued, “In my country, Mr. Charles Moore, it is the duty of a woman to please her man.”

Standing barefooted in his tan cargo shorts and blue polo shirt, Charles’s penis confirmed its new designation as he puzzled at how quickly Aziza considered him her “man.” In a flowing balletic movement, the graceful Afghan woman dropped to her knees. Looking up into her “man’s” eyes, she placed the flat of her right palm against his groin and asked, “Shall I serve you, Charles Moore?”

The moment she had walked toward him from the bathroom his eyes had darted from her purple-nippled breasts to her rich black pubic patch. Her “Scheherazade” eyes flirted as she felt his hardness and said, “I feel your readiness, Charles,” and in a flowing movement, her fingers deftly undid his belt and fluidly worked his zipper down as she coyly looked up and asked, “Are you ready to be pleased, my master?”

Barely able to keep his knees from shaking, Charles looked down at Aziza’s beautiful kneeling figure and nodded his smiling approval. Sliding his Bermudas over his hips she dropped them to the floor and then tugged at his boxers. The waistband caught his stiff erection causing it to slap upward against his belly. Stepping out of the crumpled garments around his ankles he kicked them aside.

Riveting Charles’s eyes Aziza pointed a finger and coyly hooked and made his penis waggle, beckoning him to flex his knees lower so her mouth could reach his sex. When he complied, she stretched higher, and took hold of the hem of his polo shirt, pulling it up and over his back and arms. As he stood upright, she sat back on her heels, admiring his rigid erection and cooing, “Your uzoo (penis) is magnificent, my prince.” Grasping it with her right hand, cupping his loosely hanging balls and hefting them. As her fingers closed on his bag, she tested the fullness of its contents. “You’re goliyan (testicles) are like plump olives,” she whispered. “They feel almost bursting with your fertile seed, my Charles.”

Having never been worshipped in such a way Charles felt self-conscious. The beautiful Afghan woman’s inflating words were making him feel like such a man. As electric currents flowed through his body he watched the exotic, olive-toned naked woman’s right hand fondle his veiny penis. And her cooing adoration turned him on so totally that in denying his urge to come he felt like the cheeks of his buttocks would cramp.

Opening her hand Aziza pressed Charles’ hardness against her cheek. “Uzoo, uzoo,” she purred, “uzoo, uzoo, uzoo.” As the palm of her hand came to the purplish bull-nose of his head she milked a dribble of crystal clear precum that left a glistening smear on her dusky cheek. “Ooh,” she purred, “Your manly essence thrills Aziza so.”

As if compelled to talk the same as she he said, “Aziza is exciting Charles as well.”

As she closed her hand on his cock, pulling the skin tightly back, the side of her fist buried itself in the abundance of Charles’s bush. She could have been milking a goat: tightening her pinky finger then closing all of her fingers in series which caused a crystal string to ooze forth. Catching it in the hollow of her left hand she looked up with hungry eyes and with flaring nostrils she parted her sensuous lips and asked, “Does Aziza please, my Charles?”