When the Burkha Comes Off

by Yixil

This was the first letter I'd gotten from home in a while. It was thicker than usual, too. Something about it made me hesitant to open it. But I got down my letter opener, a finely crafted gift from a Pashtun warlord, and opened it.

As the envelope tore, an explosion went off, the first to rock the streets of Kabul in several weeks. It was also one of the largest I'd heard in my two-year time as a psychologist there, hired by the US military to council their soldiers.

But the shock of the explosion was nothing compared to the shock I got upon reading the letter. It was, as I had expected, from my wife. But it was nothing like the love letters we had been exchanging. This was a letter written by her lawyer, notifying me that she was divorcing me.

And thus twelve years of marriage went down the drain. I wanted to cry and tear at my hair, but I had patients to see.

As soldiers did not take all of my time, I took on patients among the native populace pro bono. Some were men who had not seen their children in years. Some were young kids exposed to the horrors of reality far too early. But a large part of my clientele was composed of sexually repressed women.

I knew them as soon as they came in the door. They were usually clad in burkhas, forced to wear these restrictive garments no longer by the government but instead by their husbands. They were taking a great risk in coming to me, a male non-Muslim American, and could have been killed if identified by one of their husbands' kinsmen.

Nevertheless, many came. Their husbands were usually not satisfying them in bed, though their culture encouraged them to interpret this as their fault or to not think of it that way at all.

I empathized with them; being far away from my wife, I had had to make do with Lady Palm and her Five Daughters for sexual release for quite some time now. And after that letter, I no longer had my wife's amazing lovemaking to look forward to.

I had tried many ways to counsel these women. I usually at least managed to convince them to work to get less conservative husbands for their daughters, but usually there was no hope for them, since they rarely knew that what they were missing was sexual satisfaction.

But there were the few that did know that their trysts with their husbands were where the problem lay. Rarely did their husbands ever try to satisfy them, instead merely satisfying themselves. I gently introduced masturbation to them to satisfy their desires, convincing them that this was not a sin. There are few sights (or sounds) better than a woman experience orgasm for the first time, taking a look at her vagina with a mirror, stroking her clitoris for the first time, and realizing that she was allowed sexual pleasure just like men.

The woman who came in that day, I could tell immediately, was one of these. But there was even something more special about her. Actually, many things.

Somehow her burkha accentuated her femininity and the grace of her body, a few centimeters shorter than me, and her curves rather than hid them. She carried an air of sexual desire with her, and I was immediately drawn in. I could tell that she sensed my desire as well.

She lay down upon the couch, that massive sign of a psychologist's office I had shipped specially from America, and we began to talk. I asked her the usual questions:

"What seems to be the problem?", I began, hoping she would elaborate and at the same time wishing she could be wearing something more revealing.

She did something very unusual then. She took off the portion of her burkha which covered her head, revealing a beautiful face, a rarity especially in this impoverished country which did not have a culture lending itself to beauty.

"My husband does not satisfy me. He says it's my fault. But I know it's his."

"Do you know ways of satisfying yourself?"

"I do. But I long for a man."

Against all my training, something caused me to stand up and say, "I am that man."

She immediately took off her burkha, revealing large, perky breasts and a nearly hairless vagina, and lunged for my pants like a mongoose lunges for a snake.

But as I reached down to squeeze her breasts, she looked up at me in confusion with her green eyes. She was mystified by my zipper. As my snake hardened in my boxers, it longed for release. So I unzipped my pants. The rest was not difficult for her to figure out. But when both of us were standing naked, she retreated to the couch, lay down across it on her stomach, and opened her legs in my direction. She began moving up and down, making little noises as the hairs on the fine fur began to massage her clitoris. I advanced, opened her darkened labia, and entered.

As I began thrusting my throbbing member into her, she turned over, her breasts bouncing up and down with my thrusts. She wrapped her legs around my hips and began pulling me into her in time with my thrusts as her fingers stroked her clit. She was moaning louder and louder. I could feel I was about to blow my load in here. But before I did, she belted out a huge moan and began convulsing as she sprayed her cum on my belly button. With this drenching, I let loose a fire hose of semen in her, falling onto her as I did so.

But even at that, with my lower torso drenched in her cum, she was not satisfied. When I pulled out, she pulled my head back towards her cunt. I began to lick, knowing this was what she needed, and we moved so that both of us were fully on the couch. She then turned around and began sucking off my newly hard cock, her legs sticking straight into the air.

We orgasmed simultaneously, her cum drenching my face and mine spraying into her mouth. As I got up from her, gasping for breath, she said, "I'll be back for more." I got a towel and dried myself off, then began to put my clothes back on. By the time I was done, she had left, her burkha with her.