A female soldier's nightmare

[LaLia]

Teaser:Her first deployment abroad, 3 months in Afghanistan! What started as an adventure and her biggest dream would soon turn into a nightmare
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The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.

The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. It depicts nonconsensual sexual acts between adults. It is in no way meant to be understood as an endorsement of nonconsensual sex in real life. Any similarities of the characters in the story to real people are purely coincidental.
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Index:

• 1. - Crashed in the middle of nowhere

• 2. - The Taliban camp

• 3. - Good morning Afghanistan

• 4. - Trapped in the cycle of hell

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Title: A female soldier's nightmare
Author: LaLia
Chapter Tags: ---
Content Warnings: ---
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A female soldier's nightmare

Crashed in the middle of nowhere

Katharina stood at the edge of the large group of soldiers, both men and women, who had assembled in precise formation on the parade ground. The sun broke through the clouds above the barracks, and the wind carried away the sound of the fanfares that had just concluded the ceremonial swearing-in. She had done it—her enlistment in the German Armed Forces was sealed; her name was now officially on the list of new recruits. What had begun a few months earlier was a fleeting idea, a spark of rebellion in her everyday life, she had followed through with. With a quiet, satisfied smile, she stroked the crisp fabric of her uniform and felt it. Finally, she was where she belonged: not in a lecture hall, but amidst discipline, adventure, and a sense of freedom.

Katha, as most called her, a nickname she preferred to Kathi, had spent a long time after graduating from high school considering her next steps. Should she go to university? The options swirled through her mind: business administration, sports science, perhaps even art history. But no degree program had truly suited her, had ignited that spark that drove her. She wanted to experience something, to feel the world, not spend years more in a classroom, drowning in lectures that only made her more tired. Then the German Armed Forces' recruitment ads appeared in her feed—dynamic videos of paratroopers jumping from high altitudes, teams pushing boundaries together. It clicked. Her parents raised their eyebrows; her friends laughed or shook their heads in concern. "You're too young for that, Katha," her mother had said while pouring tea. "And among all those men? That's not for a girl like you." Her best friend whispered, "You in uniform? It doesn't suit your clothes and makeup." But those very words had only fueled her desire, driven the sting deeper. Katha had never been one to be pigeonholed.

She was a woman who attracted attention without forcing it. Standing at 1.72 meters tall, with a physique that was athletic yet gracefully feminine, as if nature had designed her for both movement and elegance. Her light blonde hair, which she usually wore loose over her shoulders or tied in a practical braid, shimmered like sunbeams on fresh snow and framed a face dominated by clear, blue eyes: eyes that blinked curiously, sometimes gazing dreamily into the distance, sometimes fixing her gaze with a mischievous twinkle. Her skin was fair and clear, with a touch of freckles above her nose that made her appear even more youthful. In the photos she had taken in recent months—sometimes on a rocky beach in a bright pink bikini top that accentuated her slim waist and the gentle curve of her hips, as she balanced barefoot on the stones, her blue shorts hanging loosely on her long, toned legs; Whether at the barracks, where she leaned thoughtfully against her cheek, her olive-green camo jacket over a simple top, softly framing her blonde strands; or in the small pet shop, where she posed laughing next to an oversized plush moose, wearing a tight, burgundy tank top that accentuated her slender arms and the natural curve of her breasts, paired with white capris that emphasized her calves and sneakers on her feet – she always exuded the same aura: a blend of freshness and self-confidence. She was feminine, yes – she loved wearing dresses that emphasized her figure, tight tops that hugged her curves, or polo shirts that she perfected with a touch of lipstick and a smile, like in that selfie in front of the house where the sunlight made her golden curls sparkle. But she was never the typical "little girl." No high heels for her, no matter how much her friends insisted: "They'd go perfectly with a dress!" “Too uncomfortable,” she had always laughed, and instead opted for sneakers or flat sandals, like in that photo by the brick wall, where she stood with her tongue sticking out and sunglasses on her head, wearing a light blue tank top and striped shorts, her legs casually crossed, ready for the next sprint.

And so, at just 19 years old, with a backpack full of determination, she set off for Cologne for the paratrooper aptitude test. She was sporty, oh yes – regular jogging through the forest, where her long legs devoured the ground; visits to the gym, where she lifted weights until her muscles burned and did core exercises that toned her flat stomach; rollerblading on uneven paths that left her breathless and euphoric; Bicycle rides of dozens of kilometers with the wind whipping through her blonde hair. She used to play handball on the school team, where she was feared as a striker, and had always had a passion for trying out any sport: climbing, surfing, even boxing at a summer camp. She wanted to assert herself as one of the youngest applicants, only one of seven women among almost a hundred men. The looks that looked at her – partly curious, partly skeptical – bounced off her like raindrops on a windshield. She had been ready. And now she had done it, she was one of the paratroopers.

The next three years flew by for Katha in a whirlwind of sweat, discipline and small victories, which she celebrated with her trademark, infectious laugh. She had already asserted herself in basic training - not with loud noise, but with the quiet tenacity that her blue eyes reflected so clearly. Her superiors praised her early on for her tireless ambition and her ability to learn new things at lightning speed: whether it was about weapon systems or the intricacies of group leadership, Katha soaked up the knowledge like a sponge and spat it out precisely in exercises. She was always hard-working, always on time for the 5 a.m. wake-up call, reliable as clockwork, in a world where punctuality was more than a virtue - it was survival. After basic training came the deeper specialization of the paratroopers: jumps from high altitudes, where the wind tugged at her pale blonde braids and her stomach churned with excitement until she landed safely with a thud; Endless combat drills, night marches through muddy forests, shooting training under stress, constant training for emergencies that made her muscles harder and her mind sharper. The men from her unit who had initially laughed at her – “The little one with the curls wants to join in?” – had long since convinced her. Not only could Katha keep up with them in many things, be it running or lifting backpacks that were heavier than herself; Above all, she was not inferior to them verbally, parrying jokes with sharp wit that silenced them or made them laugh. She simply ignored the male soldiers' conversations, which often revolved around women and sex, without blushing or averting her eyes in embarrassment - she had more important things on her mind, and her charisma, this mixture of cheerfulness and aloofness, made it clear that she was not a victim of their jokes.

She spent most of her time in the barracks, where life pulsated with the rhythm of alarms and roll calls. Your own apartment? Not yet – money was tight, and the camaraderie of the barracks felt like home for the time being. When she went home, she initially lived with her parents, in the small village with the half-timbered houses, where the smell of fresh bread came from the kitchen. However, this did not often happen; The holidays were rare, saved for the essentials: once to the Easter fire, where she danced with friends around the blazing logs, the flames reflecting in her eyes; on birthdays, where she came with gifts and stories from the barracks; or at Christmas, when the snow covered the fields and the fairy lights flickered in the living room.

Christmas and New Year's Eve last year changed everything. She had come home, swapped her uniform for a soft polo shirt that accentuated her slim silhouette, and joined an old school friend's New Year's Eve party. There, amid the mulled wine and laughter, she had met Tim - three years older than her, with a friendly smile and the hands of a craftsman who built furniture in the neighborhood. He lived just two villages away, in the town where she had cycled to get ice cream as a child. He belonged to her friend's clique, and the first exchange of glances had sparked things: a flirtation over the rim of a beer glass, a fleeting kiss under the mistletoe as the clock struck midnight. The new year started with that spark for Katha - endless phone calls the nights after practice, messages that made her smile as she scrolled during break. Suddenly she tried to be home more often, using every free hour to swap her uniform for dresses and sexy tops: a tight top that hugged her curves or a light blue tank top with shorts that emphasized her long legs. Even though they took it easy, with walks by the river and conversations until the early hours of the morning, after a few weeks Katha and Tim were officially together - hand in hand, head over heels in love, and she felt as if life had finally given her the missing piece of the puzzle.

And just now, when this love took root, came what she had always been waiting for: the chance to go abroad. Three months in Afghanistan, where the Bundeswehr helped monitor important transport routes - patrols through dusty valleys, escorting convoys, the adrenaline rush of the unknown. Her big chance, proof that she belonged, that all the jumps and exercises hadn't been in vain. But three months away from home? From Tim, from the warmth of her parents, from the life she was just discovering? The doubts gnawed at her in quiet moments when she lay alone in her bunk. However, Tim encouraged her to make her dream come true. “But take care of yourself and come back safely,” he had said, his voice firm but his eyes full of worry as he hugged her. Inwardly he was racking his brains - he would have preferred to keep her here, safe, away from mines and uncertainty. But in the new relationship he had already noticed that Katharina loved nothing more than pursuing her plans and making her dreams come true. If he had pressured her to stay, he knew she would have regretted it later and blamed him. So he had no choice but to say goodbye to her with her family and friends a few days later - a last kiss on the platform, tears in her mother's eyes, a pat on the shoulder from her father. “It’s only been three months,” she kept telling herself as the train rolled east, her bag with the uniform and a few photos of Tim in it.

The farewell was still ringing in her ears as Katha stood in the barracks in Laage, the hometown of her paratrooper unit. It was a cool morning in the spring of 2018, the air smelled of fresh dew and the metallic smell of equipment. The last things were packed - with precise routine she folded her uniforms into the heavy backpack, stuffed socks and sleeping bag into it, checked the helmet and the vest, which had already been marked by countless exercises. Her light blonde hair was tied into a tight braid that disappeared under the cap, and her blue eyes scanned the list: water bottle, multi-tool, the small photo of Tim, which she shoved into the inside pocket. No room for sentimentality, but her heart was pounding a little faster. The unit gathered at the roll call area - 40 men and women, most with suntanned faces and the confident gait of soldiers. The company commander gave a short speech: "You know what it's about. Resolute support, supporting the Afghans, patrols and training. Stay vigilant." Katha stood in line, her athletic figure straight and erect in her camouflage clothing and nodded silently. Soon they taxied to the airport and boarded the big transport aircraft - a C-160, cramped and noisy, with seats that felt like torture benches. The flight was long, endless: over eight hours, broken only by stomach-churning turbulence and the murmur of cards and jokes in the cabin. She dozed off, dreaming of Tim's embrace, and woke up as the plane landed in Mazar-i-Sharif, dust swirling through the open loading dock.

Arriving in Afghanistan hit them like a wave of heat and strangeness - the sun was blazing mercilessly, the air was dry and sandy, and the smell of kerosene mixed with spices and exhaust fumes. Mazar-i-Sharif, the large city in the north of the country, in the heart of Regional Command North, was the entry point for their unit: a hub of the Resolute Support Mission, where the Bundeswehr had been training Afghan security forces and securing transport routes for years. From the airport, a makeshift base camp with high fences and guard towers, we continued with a convoy of trucks - sturdy MAN trucks that rumbled over bumpy tracks, flanked by armored Dingo vehicles. Katha sat in one of the open trucks, her helmet strapped on, her gun ready on her lap as the wind whipped sand into her pores. The landscape passed by: endless brown plains, punctuated by villages with mud houses and minarets, where curious children waved or suspicious glances followed. It was a two-hour drive to their camp, Camp Marmal, the massive Bundeswehr base on the outskirts of the city - a bulwark of concrete barriers, barbed wire and sensors where hundreds of German soldiers were already stationed. The convoy passed checkpoints where Afghan guards saluted and finally rolled through the gate, where the dust settled like a curtain revealing a new world.

The arrival was not a hero's entrance, but routine: unloading, briefing, assignment to quarters. Katha immediately felt the stares - not just from her unit, but from her colleagues on site, mostly men from other companies, who looked at her like she was a novelty. "Another blonde? She can't stand this," one murmured, loud enough for her to hear. She had to prove herself again, like she did in the aptitude test: not with words, but with actions. For the first few days everything was quiet, almost too quiet for her liking - no shots, no alarms, just the hum of the generator and the distant call of crows. Everyday life in Camp Marmal was a well-established system, a mini-Germany in the middle of the desert: She lived in an air-conditioned living container, cramped and functional, with bunk beds that squeaked and a tiny closet for her things. Wake up at 5 a.m., then morning roll call on the dusty square where the flag fluttered in the wind. Breakfast in the communal tent: bland cereal, coffee from thermos flasks and conversations about home. Then patrol training with Afghan recruits - Katha helped with target practice, correcting grips with her precise, cheerful manner, and the men nodded approvingly when she hit a target with a shot better than theirs. Morning fitness: running on the dusty slope, where her long legs kicked up the sand, or strength training in the improvised hall, under a net made of camouflage tarpaulin.

Then afternoon meetings in the command center, a container with maps on the walls and the hum of air conditioning, where she took notes and asked questions that showed her quick thinking. Evening leisure time: showering in the shared bathrooms, where the water pressure was unreliable, then eating—often canned meat with rice—and writing letters to Tim about the heat that tanned her skin and the stars that shone so brightly at night that she forgot where she was. The nights were quiet, only the crackling of the generators and the distant prayers of the muezzins. Katha felt alert but alive - she had proven she belonged, and skepticism gave way to respect when she lightened the mood with a joke at a vigil. It wasn't a war she experienced, but rather the waiting for it, the training, the bonding with the Afghans who treated her to tea and told stories about their country. And yet, in quiet moments, she longed for Tim's voice on the satellite phone.

So the first few weeks passed almost in a flash, a whirlwind of routine and discovery that left Katha breathless - and she was already two thirds of the way through when the calendar mercilessly turned the pages. Afghanistan, this land of contrasts, had opened up to her in all its rawness and beauty, and she absorbed it all like a never-tiring student. Above the dusty plains and rugged mountains of the Hindu Kush, she learned to appreciate the vastness, the breathtaking barrenness of the desert, where the sand undulated in golden dunes and the sun burned mercilessly until the skin became tense and the throat became dry. On patrols with the Afghan recruits, whom she now treated as colleagues, she immersed herself in the culture: the smell of spices in the markets, where turbaned, bearded-faced traders hawked carpets and stacked pomegranates in crates; the melodies of bagpipes at weddings that echoed distantly through the night; the hospitality that remained despite everything when an Afghan soldier shared tea and talked about the mountains of his childhood, sheep grazing on barren slopes and tribes carving stories in stone. She learned Pashto words – “Salaam” for greeting, “Tashakor” for thank you – and heard legends of nomads traveling through the passes with caravans for centuries.

But beneath this surface lurked the harshness: the poverty that loomed over everything like a shadow. In the villages the escorts passed through, she saw huts made of mud and straw, where families lived in one room, children played barefoot in the dust, and women in burqas drew water from muddy wells. Harvests were poor, the fields stricken by drought, and many lived on what the aid organizations brought - sacks of rice unloaded from German convoys. Katha sensed the resignation in the eyes of the old people who came to the side of the road to ask for bread and the quiet desperation of the mothers who pressed their little ones against the uniformed men in the hope of medicine or sweets. And then the fear of the Taliban – a whisper that never completely died down. The Afghan colleagues spoke hesitantly about how the militias lurked in the mountains, extorted villages or kidnapped recruits to indoctrinate them. "They come in the night," a young sergeant had once murmured as they sat around a fire, "and take what they want. People fear them more than poverty because the Taliban promise but only bring death." Katha saw it in the abandoned houses on the edges of the routes, the burnt fields where mines lurked, and in the looks of the shepherds who flinched at every sound of engines. It wasn't paranoia, but a lived reality that taught her to be vigilant without becoming bitter - and it made her commitment more urgent, because in those moments she felt why she was here: not just for Germany, but for these people who balanced between hope and fear.

One morning, just as the sun was kissing the horizon and turning the sky pink, Katha set out on one of her routine patrol flights - something she had done several times in the past few weeks to monitor trade routes and scan potential threats. She sat in the fuselage of the NH90 helicopter with three male colleagues: Chris, who came from her unit, a beefy Bavarian with a wry grin and a talent for defusing any situation with a joke; Oliver, a quiet Hessian who had been here for a long time and spoke the Afghan dialects fluently; and Ben, the pilot, an experienced North German with a tanned face and the instincts of a falcon who had been flying the bird for years. The plane took off from Camp Marmal, the rotors whipping up the sand, and soon they were hovering over the endless plain: brown fields where caravans of pack mules and pickup trucks crawled along the tracks, laden with grain and textiles, heading from Mazar-i-Sharif to Kabul or the remote valleys. Katha stared through the porthole, the map on her lap, marking points: a convoy that was on time, a suspicious campfire on the edge of a ravine that she reported on the radio. “Clean route today,” Oliver mumbled as Chris passed around a flask of water. They flew over villages with minarets that loomed like sentinels and small camps of Afghan border troops where guards waved, and children pointed to the sky with their mouths open. On the way back, as the sun rose higher and the heat shimmered the air, Ben suggested flying a little loop over the mountain range - "Just to check out the shadows, boys and girls." The helicopter tilted gently, gliding over the rugged hilltops of the Hindu Kush, including tiny villages in the valleys, mud huts clinging to the slopes like nests, and makeshift camps with tents and jeeps.

Then suddenly, without warning, it happened: a technical problem, a missing tone in the cockpit as the onboard instruments failed - lights flickered, screens went black, and an alarm sounded. “Shit, loss of hydraulics!” Ben cursed, his hands firmly on the control stick as he manually corrected. The situation in the helicopter tipped into panic: Katha felt her heart racing, her hands clammy as the wind caught the fuselage and pushed her deeper into the mountains, where the rocks stood out like teeth. Chris' face turned ashen, he clutched his seat, Oliver muttered curses and checked his equipment while Katha instinctively checked the straps and reached for the radio. The engines coughed, sputtered, and then—a blood-curdling moment—they failed, the rotor slowed, and the machine sank like a stone falling into the depths. Wind whipped through the open doors, the helicopter spun, and the fear was palpable: a lump in the throat, the sweat pouring into the eyes, the knowledge that there was no help down here, just rocks and silence. Ben fought like a man possessed, searching frantically for a place to make an emergency landing - a plateau, a meadow - but the terrain was unforgiving. It brushed against a sharp cliff where the abyss yawned: a jolt as two rotor blades tore off, sparks flew, metal screeched, and the machine spun wildly. “Mayday, Mayday, Camp Marmal, we're screwed!” Ben shouted into the radio, but only static came back - the headquarters was silent, swallowed by the mountains. The helicopter crashed into a small clump of trees, branches splintered, the fuselage dug into the ground, and everything ended in a swirl of dust and silence.

However, Ben had avoided the fall from a great height and, with a miracle of skill, turned the free fall into a controlled landing - hard, but not fatal. All four crawled out, breathless and shaking, suffering only a shock that weakened their knees and sent waves of adrenaline through their bodies. Only Chris had sprained his wrist while bracing himself and grimaced in pain as he gripped it. Katha leaned against a rock, her blonde strands disheveled, her uniform torn, and breathed a sigh of relief as the first tears of relief came - "We're alive, damn it." Oliver checked them all for injuries, only finding bruises and scratches, and Ben tried to make radio contact again, but the mountains swallowed every signal, a natural cage of stone and echo.

The silence after the crash was deafening, a vacuum that filled Katha's ears as the dust slowly sank to the ground and the world around her came into sharp focus: the tattered branches of the trees looming like skeletons, the mangled fuselage of the helicopter hanging askew in the hollow, and the faces of her comrades - Chris holding his wrist and cursing, Oliver already securing the area, Ben, the was fiddling with the radio, his brow furrowed. She sat with her back against a rock, her knees drawn up, staring at her hands: shaking, smeared with dirt, but intact. Lively. The shock pulsed through her body in waves, a mix of adrenaline and cold that had nothing to do with the Afghan sun. “We did it,” she whispered to herself, but the words sounded hollow, as if they came from far away, from another life.

Her head was swirling - a storm of fragments that left her breathless. That's it? That close? The thought hit her like a blow, raw and unvarnished. She thought about the flight, the routine she had loved so much: the vibration of the rotors beneath her feet, the view of the endless valleys, the freedom of soaring above the chaos. And now? Trapped in this chaos, in a valley that looked like a grave, surrounded by rocks that crushed her. I wanted it, she admitted to herself, and a bitter laugh rose in her throat, which she quickly swallowed. The adventure, the jumps, the patrols - everything to prove that I'm more than the little blonde. Three years of hard work, the pride, the superiors who praised her, the men who respected her, the nights in the camp where she wrote letters to Tim and dreamed of a future bigger than a village in Lower Saxony. And for what? For that moment when death had been so close that she had felt its breath - the wind pulling her down, the screech of metal, the failure of the machines.

Tim. His name flashed through her like lightning, and tears stung her eyes, which she wiped away. What if I don't come back? She saw his face in her mind: the grin when he kissed her on New Year's Eve, the way he held her hand as if she were fragile even though he knew she wasn't. At the weekends at home, where she took off her uniform and slipped into clothes that accentuated her curves - not for the eyes of others, but for him, for the feeling of having finally arrived. He let me go, she thought, a pang of gratitude mixed with fear. “Take care of yourself,” he said, because he knows me – the Katha who makes plans and chases dreams, who doesn’t stand still. But now? Would he understand if she didn't come back safely? Would her parents, who had always thought she was too young, ever stop blaming each other? Too young, too female, too crazy. The skepticism of her friends, the jokes about the “girls among the guys”—all of it echoed, a chorus of doubt that she had ignored for so long. Am I really strong enough? Or was it all just a dream, a fixed-point idea that led me here to fail?

But during the storm something else stirred, a spark that could not be extinguished: her happiness, that unshakable vitality that had always pulled her out of the trenches. No, she thought resolutely, wiping the sweat from her brow, her blue eyes hardening as she stood, legs still wobbly but willing. I survived it. This is the proof. The poverty of the villages, the fear of the Taliban, the stories of the Afghans - all of this had shaped her and taught her that life was fragile but also resilient. She wasn't here to die, but to learn, to protect, to grow. Tim waits. The unit needs me. And me? I need this to know who I am. A deep breath and the fog in her head cleared. The panic gave way to planning: radio, orientation, march back. She was Katha – ambitious, dreamy, but above all: invincible. And in that moment, amidst the rubble, she felt more alive than ever.

“We have to get out of here,” Ben said in a rough voice, his knees still weak from the fall, as he stood up and shouldered the backpack. “The crash could definitely have been heard for miles, and I don’t want to be here anymore when the first Taliban troops show up.” His words hung heavily in the air, a wake-up call from the daze that had enveloped them all. Katha nodded silently, her pulse a drumbeat in her ears, and helped collect the last of the useful items: ammo from the wreckage, water bottles, the first aid kits, a few bars of emergency food, and the radios that beeped hopefully but spewed nothing but static. They knew from the maps that they had to head northwest - back towards Camp Marmal, through the maze of rocks and valleys that the Hindu Kush presented them. Oliver, the group's practitioner, suggested splitting up. “If they come after us, perhaps at least two can escape,” he said quietly, his eyes focused on the surroundings, as if he could already sense the shadows approaching. The others agreed, a dire necessity that no one questioned - survival was now a roll of the dice. So, Oliver and Chris set off in pairs, disappeared into the valley with a final nod, while Katha and Ben formed the second duo. Ben gave her a quick, worried look, his gray eyes dark with unspoken fears. He knew what could happen if the Taliban caught them - no fun, no adherence to rules or Geneva Conventions. Male soldiers were usually executed in a highly publicized manner, their heads displayed on videos, or released for ransom, depending on the mood of the group leaders. Some Taliban thought practically, preferring money for their fights, others didn't care, they just sowed terror. But for female soldiers? That was a different hell. Ben had heard the stories, in the briefings, in the nights around the campfire: women raped for days, by entire villages, as revenge or humiliation, until they broke, only to oscillate between death or release - often death, quick and merciless. He wanted to tell Katha to save her last bullet in case there was no escape, but the words caught in his throat. He didn't want to break her spirit, he didn't want to erase the freshness in her blue eyes with panic. So they set off without a word, their rifles shouldered, their steps hurried but muffled on the rubble.

The escape through the impassable landscape was torture, the sun blazing brutally now in the early afternoon, a ball of fire that soaked their uniforms and roasted their skin under their helmets. All around them were rock and rock - sharp-edged blocks that they had to climb, cracks that yawned like traps, and slopes that promised slips with every step. With every step they had to be careful not to break anything: one wrong hold and an ankle would be twisted, an arm broken - difficulties they could not afford. So they made slow progress, slow progress that made frustration rise in Katha's chest. They had covered less than three kilometers after two hours, and Ben knew that it was at least 25 kilometers to the camp, an eternity in this terrain. It was now deep afternoon, the shadows from the rocks growing longer, meaning they wouldn't arrive until night, when the cold hit and visibility faded. But Ben hoped to find a village or reach the streets beforehand, where a patrol might be able to pick them up, where the radio would work again. Here in the mountains the reception was poor - he tried again and again, pressing the device to his ear, but only crackling and silence answered. The route went on forever, at some point it was six, seven or eight kilometers, sweat burned in her eyes, thirst was a constant companion, and Katha's legs, trained from jogging and climbing, protested with every climb.

And then they saw them resting on a hill for five minutes, their lungs burning, their water bottles almost empty. At first it was just dust, a distant swirl on the horizon that made the hairs on the back of Katha's neck stand on end. Through the binoculars they saw it: a group of armed Taliban, about 20 men on horses, the animals with flowing manes and stamping hooves, dogs running alongside, thin and aggressive, their noses turned into the wind. “We have to keep going,” Ben said shortly, and even though the water was running low, the sun continued to burn mercilessly, and the way was still long, both of them knew it: they wouldn’t be able to maintain the lead they still had forever. The pursuers with their horses had the advantage, knowing the terrain like the back of their hand while stumbling like strangers.

They rushed on frantically, trying to go faster, more accepting of the risk of falling - Katha jumped over a gap that took her breath away, Ben helped her over a slope where stones rolled with a rumble. But they noticed that the cloud of dust was moving closer to them, an unstoppable phantom, and soon they could hear the horses' hooves, a dull drumming echoing through the rock, and the shrill barking of the dogs that sounded like a promise of hunting.

"Take cover, we won't make it anyway," Ben said as they reached a small valley that offered them some shelter - flat rocks and a few bushes that looked like a natural ditch. There was now only one chance: they had to face the pursuers and rely on their better weapons, the G36 assault rifles that they had recovered from the wreckage. Machine guns ready, spare magazines out, they waited, holding their breath, the world reduced to the point of the next sound.

The confrontation came like a thunderbolt: the Taliban reached the valley, the horses neighing, the riders with AK-47s and turbans flapping in the wind. Ben opened fire first, a controlled burst that tore the air, and Katha joined in - she had practiced it a thousand times, at targets and shadows, but now it was serious, the recoil a hammer in her shoulder, the smell of powder filling her lungs. Some of the Taliban fell from their horses, bullets tore them from their saddles, and some of the animals themselves fell, neighing and twitching as the bullets pierced their sides. But more than half of their pursuers managed to take cover - behind rocks, behind the carcasses of their animals - and returned fire, a chaotic hammering of automatic volleys that turned the valley into an inferno. Fewer targeted hits were made, the bullets ricocheted off the walls, the smell of burnt metal and blood filled the air, and the rifles glowed hot in their hands, blistering menacingly on their skin. Soon the ammunition was used up, the magazines rattled empty, and only the pistols remained - the Walther P99, cold and familiar in Katha's fist. From the other side there were sounds of Arabic, shouts in Pashto and Dari, orders that sounded like curses, and Katha became more panicked, her hands trembled, the shots less accurate, hitting only rocks that spewed splinters. And then blood splattered on her face, warm and sticky, a rush that made her blink.

She looked over and saw that Ben had been hit - a ricochet had caught him unprotected, blood was running in pulsating streams from a wound in his neck, dark red and unstoppable, soaking his shirt and the floor underneath. "Ben!" she screamed, throwing the gun aside and pulling out the first aid kit, hands shaking as she pulled out the pressure bandage and pressed it to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, but soon the bandages were soaked, soaked, and the blood continued to flow, a relentless river that took his life.

She had never seen a person die before, not so close, not with her hands in his blood, but she knew it immediately - Ben could no longer be saved, his eyes glazing over, the pulse weakening under her fingers. Panic exploded in her chest, a hole that swallowed her up: No, no, not you, not now, she thought as tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with sweat and blood on her skin. Her body trembled, a shock that paralyzed her, but the soldier's instinct drove her on - she shook at him, her fingers clawing at his jacket, "Ben, stay with me! You can't... we can do this together!" she screamed, her voice breaking, a raw, animalistic sound lost in the battle. The world shrank to that moment: his rasping breath dying, the cold creeping into his limbs as its own heat blazed with the sun and despair. Guilt mingled with sadness - I should have fired faster, covered up, done something - a swirl of self-blame choking her, and beneath it the naked fear of being alone, of what came next. Her happy core, which had always laughed, broke in two; she felt small, fragile, the strong Katha with the blonde hair and the ambitious sparkle just a shell, filled with emptiness and the metallic taste of loss. She pressed her forehead to him, whispering "Thank you... for everything," one last tremble before his body went limp.
Then voices tore her from her thoughts - harsh shouts, footsteps on the rubble - and when she looked up, she was surrounded by the Taliban, who had their weapons trained on her, the barrels of their AKs rigid as fingers of death. Five, six men, bearded and covered in dust, their eyes hard beneath their turbans. Katha swallowed dryly, her throat tight, she had put her pistol on a rock to save Ben and now it lay out of reach, useless. She raised her hands slowly, trembling in her fingers, as a sign of surrender - a final act of hope that survival was still possible, even if the hell that Ben had been silent about was now casting its shadow.

[Blue]

@LaLia :
A completely different approach than with the Lara Croft story. This is something I love: a good introduction, describing in great detail how the months passed. And then the first real mission. Which immediately leads to chaos.
The stories mentioned about what the Taliban do to their prisoners suggest what will happen if Kathy actually falls into the hands of the Taliban. And then I'm curious to see how you will continue the story. Only then will I give the story my final rating. The opening alone is already worth 2 points, though.

[Frank68]

That's a great, exciting start. A sensitive and intense description of Katha and her circumstances. The sexy character is vividly portrayed.

Then there are these hints. My imagination is running wild. Will she fall into the hands of these perverted fighters? What will they do to her?

I'll stay tuned. Let's not wait too long.

[LaLia]

@LaLia :
A completely different approach than with the Lara Croft story. This is something I love: a good introduction, describing in great detail how the months passed. And then the first real mission. Which immediately leads to chaos.
The stories mentioned about what the Taliban do to their prisoners suggest what will happen if Kathy actually falls into the hands of the Taliban. And then I'm curious to see how you will continue the story. Only then will I give the story my final rating. The opening alone is already worth 2 points, though.

My writing style is versatile.

The story certainly uses some clichés and, in the upcoming installment, forgoes a complex plot, instead featuring many intense scenes. Don't expect a complex plot, too many twists, or a story with numerous chapters. This is, in a sense, a faster-paced story.

That's a great, exciting start. A sensitive and intense description of Katha and her circumstances. The sexy character is vividly portrayed.

Then there are these hints. My imagination is running wild. Will she fall into the hands of these perverted fighters? What will they do to her?

I'll stay tuned. Let's not wait too long.

Thank you I think I'd disappoint everyone if you managed to escape, wouldn't I?

So let's go, here's the next part:

[LaLia]

The Taliban camp

The Taliban closed in around them, a wall of dusty robes and hard faces peering out from beneath turbans like shadows from a bygone era. Eight remained, the survivors of the firefight, their AK-47s casually but menacingly aimed, barrels still warm from the shots that had taken Ben's life. The leader—a man with a thick, graying beard that reached his chest and eyes like polished obsidian, devoid of compassion—stepped forward first, his boots crunching on the bloodstained rubble. He was taller than the others, wore a camouflage cloak over his robe, and a radio dangled from his belt beside a knife with a blade that gleamed in the afternoon light. “Infidel,” he growled in broken English, the word a poisoned arrow as he sized her up—not as a soldier, but as prey, as something to be broken. Katha stood there, her arms still raised, her blond hair disheveled and bloodstained, her uniform ripped and soaked with sweat, the exposed skin beneath pale and vulnerable. Her heart pounded against her ribs, a drumroll of panic that numbed her; she felt the sun on her skin like a brand, and the smell of Ben’s blood hung heavy in the air.

One of the younger men, a lean fighter with a fresh gash on his cheek, which her bullet must have caused, stepped forward and yanked her arms down, brutally twisting her onto her back. His fingers dug into her wrists like vises, rough and calloused from years in the mountains, and he bound them with a coarse hemp rope that cut into her skin the moment she flinched. “Not a move,” he hissed, his breath hot and tinged with tobacco, while another ransacked her pockets—the radio was ripped out and trampled, her water bottle confiscated, the photo of Tim she kept in her breast pocket tumbling out and landing in the dust. She reached for it, the last anchor to her life, but a kick with his boot pinned it down, and the leader gave a short laugh, a barking sound like a predator’s yelp. “Your husband? He’s waiting in vain.” The words pierced her, a stab deeper than any bullet; Tim’s face flickered before her mind’s eye, his kiss beneath the mistletoe, and a wave of despair threatened to drown her. He'll never know, she thought, her throat tight with tears she couldn't allow herself to cry. Or he'll hear, and it will break him.

They pulled off her vest, searched her for weapons—the pistol she'd dropped was picked up and tucked into the leader's belt, a trophy—and one of the men, a contemptuous grin revealing his yellow teeth, tugged at her braid, pulling her head back to stare at her. "Blonde witch from the West," he muttered in Pashto, and the others laughed, a chorus of mockery and greed that made Katha's stomach churn. She knew what was coming—the stories Ben hadn't wanted to speak flooded back: the humiliations, the nights of torment, the choice between death and something worse. Her body, of which she had always been so proud, suddenly felt like a burden, exposed and vulnerable under the gazes that scanned her like knives. But at that moment, amidst the fear that paralyzed her limbs, her ambitious core stirred, that spark that had made her a paratrooper: Survive. Wait for the opportunity. You are not the victim they want to see. She gritted her teeth, stared into the leader's eyes without blinking, a silent act of rebellion that made him stop.

The leader nodded curtly, giving a command in his language—"Take her, alive. The mullah decides"—and they pushed her forward, her hands bound, a rope around her neck like a lead, pulling a horse that she was forced to drag behind her. The group set off, leaving their dead comrades behind, the fallen men's horses scattered among the survivors, the dogs sniffing at the edge. Katha stumbled, her boots slipping on the loose stones, each step sending pain through her bruises. The sun sank, casting long shadows, and the mountains swallowed her, while the men's shouts urged her on: curses she didn't understand but felt. A mantra ran through her mind: Three months, that was the plan. Now? Survive the day. Hell had begun, but deep inside, hope still flickered—for rescue, for escape, for Tim's voice she would one day hear again.

The journey to camp was an endless procession of humiliation, a march through the scorching twilight of the Hindu Kush, where the sun beat down on Katha's shoulders like a red-hot anvil and sweat poured down her skin, mingling with Ben's dried blood that clung to her cheeks like a stain she couldn't wash away. The rope around her neck was tied tightly to the leader's saddle, forcing her to trot behind. Every step was a struggle: the athletic legs she'd honed through jogging and cycling now burned with exhaustion. The landscape blurred into a nightmare of jagged rocks jutting from the ground like broken teeth and narrow valleys where thorn bushes scraped and the wind whipped up clouds of dust that filled her lungs and made her cough. The men rode ahead, their horses snorting, their dogs barking at their sides, casting disdainful glances back: “Faster, Infideline!” one roared, lashing her leg with a stick, the blow burning like fire on her skin. Others laughed, smoking cheap tobacco whose scent mingled with the musky fragrance of their unwashed bodies, and discussed her in Pashto—words like “Shaitan” (devil) and “Amreeki zanan” (American woman), which she half understood, half guessed. Dusk fell, the sky turned blood red, and the moon rose like a cold eye watching her. Hours might have passed—three, four? —as the lights of the camp appeared: a hidden camp in a sheltered hollow, surrounded by natural rock walls, camouflaged with nets and branches, perhaps 5 kilometers from where she had crashed, but an eternity in Katha's world.

The camp was a primitive stronghold. Tents made of tattered canvas and tarpaulins crowded around a central fire, its flames licking high and casting dancing shadows, illuminated by lanterns on makeshift stands made from ammunition boxes. Weapons were everywhere: stacks of AK-47s, RPGs propped against rocks, grenade launchers concealed under tarpaulins, and motorcycles with worn tires, ready for quick raids. Some 40 or 50 fighters populated the area—bearded figures in casual shalwar kameez, turbans, and vests loaded with magazines, some with bandages for wounds from previous engagements, others with prayer rugs they rolled up after the Maghrib prayer. No women in sight, no trace of life beyond the warriors: this was a place of men, steeped in the raw energy of jihad, where the smell of roasting goat meat filled the air, underscored by the murmuring of Quranic verses and the clanking of chains on the wrists of prisoners huddled in a makeshift barbed-wire cage—Afghan collaborators awaiting their punishment. The atmosphere was frenetic, almost festive: shouts echoed through the night as the riders arrived, a circle formed around the newcomer, and the men pressed closer, their eyes greedy, hungry, as if they hadn't seen a woman in weeks or months, only the starkness of the mountains and the shadow of death. Laughter mingled with curses, fists were clenched, and the patrol leader—the gray-bearded one—was greeted with pats on the back, as if he had brought home a treasure.


The atmosphere was electric, almost festive: shouts echoed through the night as the riders arrived, a circle formed around the newcomer, and the men pressed closer, their eyes greedy, hungry, as if they hadn't seen a woman in weeks or months, only the starkness of the mountains and the shadow of death. Laughter mingled with curses, fists were clenched, and the patrol leader—the gray-bearded one—was greeted with pats on the back, as if he had brought home a treasure.

They dragged Katha to the center of the camp, right up to the fire where the camp leader was waiting: a gaunt man in his late forties, with a black cloth turban and a wire-like beard, his eyes narrow and calculating beneath bushy brows. He sat on a pile of cushions, surrounded by his lieutenants, a Kalashnikov across his knees, eyeing her up like cattle at a market. “Bring her here,” he commanded quietly, and the hands that seized her were rough and demanding, shoving her to her knees in the dust, the shackles around her wrists so tight they made her blood pound. Still bound—arms behind her back, rope around her neck—she was paraded before the leader, and the humiliation began with slow, methodical cruelty. First, the gray-haired one: He drew a knife from his belt, the blade curved and sharp, and with a rip cut the sleeve of her uniform jacket, tearing the fabric from shoulder to elbow, revealing the pale, bruised skin beneath. The men yelled softly, a murmur rippled through the circle, and Katha felt their stares like touches—greedy, lustful, the fighters' eyes glued to her as if she were the first flesh in months in this desert of denial. One, a young man with scars on his face, licked his lips; another moved closer, his trousers visibly straining. Next cut: The jacket was ripped open completely, falling to the ground in shreds, revealing her tight, sweat-soaked undershirt clinging to her athletic figure—five feet of pure, toned elegance, the narrow waist honed by core exercises at the gym, the gentle curve of her breasts, still hidden but hinted at. The leader nodded, and another man—muscular, with a missing tooth—reached out, slicing the shirt with rough strokes, the knife scraping her skin without cutting, but close enough to send shivers down his spine. It fell away, the bra followed with a slash, and there she was: topless, the air cool against her skin, her breasts—firm and medium-sized, with pale pink areolas hardening in the heat of the fire—exposed for all to see. The men groaned, a chorus of desire, their eyes devouring her, tracing her chest, the flat, defined abs that bore witness to her jogging sessions.

Panic surged through Katha like a flood, a choking in her throat that made it hard to breathe—No, not like this, not in front of everyone—her cheeks burned with shame as the gazes slid lower, while the gray-haired man continued: The trousers. With a jerk, he cut the belt, pulled the fabric down, ripped the seams at the thighs, and she squirmed instinctively, her bound arms useless, until a blow to the back held her still. The uniform shorts fell, revealing her long, taut legs, now trembling in the dust—and beneath them, only her simple, functional cotton briefs, clinging tightly to her hips. The leader himself stood up, grasped the last piece of fabric with the blade, and slowly, agonizingly, sliced through it, the knife razor-sharp at her most intimate point, until it gave way and fell. Naked. Completely exposed. Her body—athletic and feminine, with the narrow waist that flowed into gentle hips, the long legs she wore so confidently in tank tops and capris—lay there now: the firm, athletic buttocks, not voluptuously round like some models', but taut and defined, shaped by squats and bike rides, sexy in its hard elegance, the muscles palpable beneath the smooth skin when she tensed. And intimate: completely shaved, smooth and vulnerable, no piercings or tattoos to adorn her, only the natural nakedness of a 22-year-old who had always kept herself feminine but practical—no unnecessary jewelry, only pure, unadorned beauty, now lying there like a sacrificial altar. The sun of the past few weeks had lightly tanned her skin, scattered freckles, and her light blonde pubic hair – no, there was nothing there, just the soft, light skin shimmering in the firelight.

The men's greedy stares humiliated her more deeply than any restraint: they circled her more closely now, breathing heavily, some touching each other discreetly through their trousers, others spitting out tobacco juice and whispering prayers that sounded like curses. It was as if they had been huddled in these mountains for weeks, months, far from women, from touch, with only the wind and the war for company—their eyes burned with desire, a pack of wolves around a wounded gazelle, and Katha felt powerless, exposed to her very soul. This isn't me, she thought, shame a burning fire in her breast that made her nipples hard, not from arousal, but from cold and fear. The panic surged higher, a screech in her head: They'll break me, like in those stories from the press I'd overheard—the Marine woman, an American, captured after an ambush, weeks in hell, raped again and again, allegedly by hundreds, by fighters who passed her around like a toy until she could barely breathe, freed, but destroyed. She'd read the reports during breaks at camp, the photos of the broken women, the voices of the survivors whispering of nights that never ended, of bodies that were no longer theirs. Would that be my fate? Day after day, night after night, from one to the next? Fear crept into her gut, a choking sensation that almost made her vomit with sheer horror, her blue eyes wide open, searching for a way out that didn't exist. But amidst the panic, the shame that made her feel small—naked, kneeling, surrounded—she felt a spark of her old fire: Hang in there, Katha. The atmosphere in the camp continued to simmer, hostile and agitated, the fire crackled, shouts grew louder, and the leader smiled coldly.

The camp leader leaned back on his pile of pillows, the fire casting flickering shadows on his gaunt face as he studied Katha—naked, kneeling, her body shivering with cold and shame, her pale blonde hair, which usually fell like sunbeams, now disheveled and sticky with sweat and dust. The men around the circle held their breath, their eyes like hungry wolves waiting for a sign. He took a sip from a dented tin cup—tea mixed with something stronger—and nodded slowly, as if he had passed judgment. “The spoils belong to those who seized them,” he announced in a deep, growling voice that boomed over the crackling of the fire. “Tradition of Jihad: The first night is for the hunters. Take them, brothers. Break the spirit of the infidels.” A murmur rippled through the crowd, a mix of shouts and prayers, and the eight men of the patrol—the ones who had brought them up from the valley—stepped forward, their faces contorted with greed, their hands already outstretched. It was not a command of mercy, but of reward, an ancient right in this war of shadows, where women were treated like trophies, to be shared among those who bore the risk.

Katha cried out in despair, a raw, animalistic sound bursting from her throat like shattering glass—“No! Let me go! Please!” —as the hands seized her, rough and calloused, hauling her up, her bare feet dragging across the hard camp floor, her bound arms useless behind her back. Her athletic figure, which she had always worn with pride—the long, toned legs, the narrow waist, the gentle curve of her breasts—was now merely a toy in their hands, which dragged her into one of the primitive huts, a dark hole made of tarpaulins and sticks at the edge of the camp, where the firelight filtered through dimly. The hut reeked of sweat, tobacco, and unwashed leather; the floor was littered with blankets and ammunition boxes; and in the corner lay an old mattress, stained and saggy, like a relic of forgotten nights. The hatch slammed shut, and she was alone with them—the eight men who had hunted her, their uniforms dusty, their turbans askew, their eyes burning with months of abstinence in these mountains. No guard outside, no witness; only the distant roar of the camp, echoing like a reverberation of their torment.

It began with her mouth, brutal and methodical, as if they wanted to break her first before taking the rest. They forced her to her knees, her bound hands forcing her back to arch, and the first stepped forward: the gray-haired one, the patrol leader, a burly man in his late 30s, with scars across his chest that bore witness to old battles, and a body hardened by hard marches. His cock was thick and uncircumcised, dark and veiny, already hard with anticipation as he pulled it out—a monstrous thing that smelled of musk and sweat—and he grabbed her braid, jerking her head back until her blue eyes were wide with panic. “Open up, whore,” he growled, and as she pressed her lips together, he struck, a flat blow that snapped her head to the side. Shame burned inside her like acid—this isn't me, not like this, not in front of strangers—her body, which she had always controlled, with clothes that accentuated her curves without ever being vulgar, now exposed and abused. In no time at all, she would have had more cocks in her mouth than she had ever had men—Tim, only Tim, tender and loving; this was a parade of humiliation. The gray-haired man rammed himself into her mouth, deep into her throat, until she gagged, saliva spilling from the corners of her mouth, running down her chin onto her breasts, which had been firm and rosy, now trembling with disgust. He thrust, grunting, his hips slapping against her face, and she gasped, a gurgling sound that echoed far through the cabin, loud enough for the others outside to laugh.


They took turns, a carousel of horror: The second was the youngest, slim and wiry, maybe 20, with a fresh cut on his cheek from her bump, his penis longer but thin, unshaven and curved, the smell fresher than the leader's, mixed with fear and excitement. He held her head with both hands, fucked her mouth like a doll, and Katha felt the pain in every cell—the stretching of her lips, the burning in her throat, the shame crushing her like a weight as she thought: I am Katha, the cheerful, the dreamy one—not this. Saliva ran quickly, dripping onto her narrow waist, onto the flat stomach she had sculpted at the gym, and she wept, tears mingling with the saliva, as the third came: A stout Pashtun with a bushy beard and a short, thick penis dripping with anticipation, hairy like an animal. He laughed as she gagged, and the fourth—an older man, sinewy and tattooed with Koranic verses—had a long, straight shaft that thrust down her throat until stars exploded before her eyes. The fifth was muscular, his cock curved and thick-headed; the sixth short but aggressive; the seventh a giant with a monstrous, flaccid thing that swelled in her mouth; and the eighth, the last before the cycle, a scrawny fellow with a long, thin cock that pricked her like a needle. They took turns, withdrawing only to return, hands in her hair, on her cheeks, on her breasts, and Katha's gasps became a concert of agony—loud, strangled, echoing through the night. It wasn't long before the first one came: the gray-bearded one, a hot gush in her throat, salty and bitter, which she had to swallow to avoid choking, semen running from her mouth, over her chin, onto her breasts. The second one spurted onto her face, sticky and warm, hitting her cheek, her nose, her light blond hair disheveled and matted. The third and fourth followed, one in her mouth, the other on her forehead, and she whimpered, crying, her eyes closed, the world a veil of fluid and pain—more than ever before, in minutes that stretched like hours.

Then they pushed her onto the old mattress, which reeked of mildew and stale sweat, and pulled her legs apart, the long, toned thighs that she had so casually stretched on the beach, now spread and vulnerable. The restraints remained, arms behind her back, legs tied to the posts with ropes, and the first one—again the gray-bearded one—kneeled between them, his cock still hard, and rammed into her, dry and raw. The pain was a lightning bolt that made her cry out—her labia, smooth and untouched since Tim, stretched agonizingly as he thrust, without preparation, her body unprepared, the walls tight and damp only with sweat. She was dry, the friction burned like fire, each thrust a tearing that made her gasp, "Please... no..." but he only grunted, fucking harder, until the second one came, the youngest, his thin cock sliding in more easily but still painfully, and then the first semen flowed—hot, inside her, a gush that filled her and ran out, dripping onto the mattress. After the first few streams, it only got more degrading: slippery now, the semen as a lubricant,

Soon it was no longer a solitary struggle: they held her in the middle, an object of desire, and fucked her simultaneously—mouth and pussy, the gray-bearded one in her throat, gagging and drooling, while the youngest thrust into her, gripping her hips, encircling her narrow waist. Hands in her pale blonde hair, pulling it back and forth, others grasping her breasts—firm and medium-sized, the nipples hard with cold and pain—pinching, twisting, until bruises bloomed. Katha was nothing more than a piece, taken in turn by eight men, her body a toy: the sixth in her mouth, his hairy cock choking her cries, the seventh in her pussy, stretching her further, semen from previous loads oozing out, wetting her thighs. Then came the moment that broke her: The giant, the eighth, forced her onto her stomach, spread her taut buttocks, and rammed brutally into her ass, without mercy. The pain was a white-hot scream that burst from her, echoing loudly through the cabin, "Aaaah! God, no!" as he penetrated, dry and tearing, setting her insides ablaze. The others roared, gasped, "Take it, Infidelin!", and took turns, sometimes anally, then vaginally, always one or alternating cocks forcing their way into her mouth.

The semen was everywhere: Inside her, deep in her pussy and ass, it flowed out with every thrust, running down her thighs, her stomach, as she was pushed further while lying on her back—sometimes vaginally, the thin one ramming into her, his semen mingling with that of the others, oozing from her shaved lips; Then anal, the burly one impaling her until she whimpered, the sliding smacking and humiliating; always her mouth filled, two cocks alternating, saliva and semen mixed, on her face, crusted in her eyelashes, on her belly where it pooled, running over her freckles. She suffered, oh God, she suffered—every thrust a knife to her soul, the shame a cloak that suffocated her, the pain in every muscle, her toned legs twitching, useless, her ass burning, her breasts sore from being handled, her mouth chafed and salty. Tears flowed incessantly, mixed with semen, her gasping a concert of despair, while the men panted, roared—"Allah is great!", "Take more, blonde!" They reveled in it, their bodies drenched in sweat, their cocks glistening with their juices and semen, laughing as she came, one after the other, load after load, until the mattress was soaked. The torture lasted deep into the night, hours of hell, the moon high in the sky, the camp outside growing quieter, only her muffled screams and the slapping of flesh echoing – a cycle of pain and humiliation that broke her, piece by piece, until all she could do was whimper, her body limp, her mind on the brink of collapse.

Only when dawn was almost breaking did they let her go, leaving her weeping. Katha didn't even have the strength to struggle against her restraints as she lay there, used and raped, in a pool of sweat and semen.

[Blue]

@Lalia:
So, now I need to take a deep breath. What you've published in the last few hours surpasses even what I posted in my best times on RavishU and here publicly. It's just a shame that my stories from the RavishU days are slumbering somewhere on one of my hard drives and I can't find them. Or maybe they are.
The continuation corresponds quite precisely to my idea of ​​what Katha would expect from the locals. First numerous oral rapes and then she has to endure the actual rapes, vaginal and also anal.
But those were only the participants in the attack who were allowed to assault her. What will happen when the entire village is given permission to attack her?
In accordance with the Queen song I'm currently listening to very loudly, I can only write: "The show must go on!"

Fukk 3 points!

[Vile8r]

An epic tale coming from you @LaLia From the excellent buildup and backstory of the first chapter to the exciting and gripping action of this chapter! I couldn't stop reading after I had started. Really excited for more to come!

[HistBuff]

Just after posting a chapter in one of my works, I can't help but notice some differences between a story by a female writer vs. by a male writer. The descriptions of the rapists' cocks are clearly very important for the female gaze. Everything was seen and felt from the female soldier's point of view. We don't learn much about the eight Taliban other than their general appearance, but she gets to intimately learn the minute details and the smell and feel of Taliban dicks. Not to mention their cum on her.

As a result, the rapists remain generally shrouded in a mystery that makes them even scarier, while Katha is shown naked in the text right down to her most intimate thoughts. This is also a great example of an author writing about what she/he knows = A German writer writing about German military. Katha's rank isn't stated, but after three years of active service, and since she's clearly not an Unteroffizier ( = Sergeant), I'd say she's either a Hauptgefreiter or a Stabsgefreiter (specialist = the second-highest rank of an enlisted who's not an NCO). Time abroad greatly improves her prospects to get promoted to Korporal. Of course, now she's just a cum dump for the Taliban! Who knows? She may well become a Haupthure for the Taliban

Lovely writing as always from the loveliest avatar on this board

[joey]

One heck of a story!!! There was an old story on many of the defunct boards about a female (pilot I seem to remember) by an author named Conwic (?). It was quite long and as well as it was written it pales when compared to what you've put together here. Really outstanding!

[LaLia]

@Lalia:
So, now I need to take a deep breath. What you've published in the last few hours surpasses even what I posted in my best times on RavishU and here publicly. It's just a shame that my stories from the RavishU days are slumbering somewhere on one of my hard drives and I can't find them. Or maybe they are.
The continuation corresponds quite precisely to my idea of ​​what Katha would expect from the locals. First numerous oral rapes and then she has to endure the actual rapes, vaginal and also anal.
But those were only the participants in the attack who were allowed to assault her. What will happen when the entire village is given permission to attack her?
In accordance with the Queen song I'm currently listening to very loudly, I can only write: "The show must go on!"

Fukk 3 points!

Has your breathing calmed down again?

Thanks for the detailed feedback. I think the rest of the story wasn't such a big surprise. I find it interesting how stories are received differently than expected. For me, it's a story without much of a plot, with many rape scenes, no potential for more than four, five, or six parts, and yet it's well-received.

And I think, besides "The show must go on," the Taliban will also be saying "We will rock you" in the next chapter

An epic tale coming from you @LaLia From the excellent buildup and backstory of the first chapter to the exciting and gripping action of this chapter! I couldn't stop reading after I had started. Really excited for more to come!

Thanks...I'm glad you liked the story, but I don't think I can get much more out of it. I could add an escape, she gets recaptured, etc.; but I still have 2-3 parts left. As a comic book fan, you might be familiar with Robers comics? They inspired me to this idea.

Just after posting a chapter in one of my works, I can't help but notice some differences between a story by a female writer vs. by a male writer. The descriptions of the rapists' cocks are clearly very important for the female gaze. Everything was seen and felt from the female soldier's point of view. We don't learn much about the eight Taliban other than their general appearance, but she gets to intimately learn the minute details and the smell and feel of Taliban dicks. Not to mention their cum on her.

As a result, the rapists remain generally shrouded in a mystery that makes them even scarier, while Katha is shown naked in the text right down to her most intimate thoughts. This is also a great example of an author writing about what she/he knows = A German writer writing about German military. Katha's rank isn't stated, but after three years of active service, and since she's clearly not an Unteroffizier ( = Sergeant), I'd say she's either a Hauptgefreiter or a Stabsgefreiter (specialist = the second-highest rank of an enlisted who's not an NCO). Time abroad greatly improves her prospects to get promoted to Korporal. Of course, now she's just a cum dump for the Taliban! Who knows? She may well become a Haupthure for the Taliban

Lovely writing as always from the loveliest avatar on this board

Very nice feedback...and yes, you're right, I think there's something to that anonymous aspect. I also enjoy fantasies involving masked men, for example. I think there's a similar appeal there, that penises are more important than looks. I found the comparison between male and female authors interesting; I hadn't consciously noticed that before.

I deliberately left out the rank...I had gathered the information beforehand using chatgpt; so, what age would be appropriate, which locations, which unit, and the area of ​​operation should also be accurate. Regarding the rank, I also came up with Hauptgefreiter (Senior Corporal) or Oberstabsgefreiter (Senior Staff Corporal), but since I wasn't sure how confusing or irrelevant that might be for a non-German reader, I left it out.

Thanks for the avatar-compliment

One heck of a story!!! There was an old story on many of the defunct boards about a female (pilot I seem to remember) by an author named Conwic (?). It was quite long and as well as it was written it pales when compared to what you've put together here. Really outstanding!

You're all outdoing each other with positive compliments and superlatives Thank you. The story you mentioned doesn't ring a bell. But I think a female soldier or something similar who gets captured is a very popular scenario in general. It's also often one of the first suggestions you get in chat-based role-playing games.