Tania In Iraq
The rundown Police Station was far off the beaten track in a small town called Rawa, northwest of war torn Baghdad. The front reception area was a small dingy, whitewashed room with paint flaking off the walls and a few pieces of scruffy wooden furniture squatting in front of a dusty old wooden desk with an ancient black telephone on it. Split bamboo blinds hanging askew, covered two small dingy broken windows and allowed a little of the late afternoon sunlight to filter through and make shadows across the opposite wall and filthy stone floor. A noisy old white painted metal ceiling fan moved in slow motion pushing lazily against the heavy, humid air without much result and several black flies hovered nearby. The bullet-ridden door to the dusty street outside stood open without its mosquito screen that was in shreds, and lay in the street on one side of the doorway; probably from a recent bomb explosion in the town, Tania thought, and several more large black flies buzzed in through the open aperture. In a far corner a cockroach moved warily from a crack in the crumbling wall, looked around and then retreated back to its dark security.
Tania Bashara, a tall beautiful, hazel-eyed blonde, stood in front of the rickety old wooden desk with her hands behind her, handcuffed. The long sleeves of her khaki safari styled shirt were turned up slightly at her wrists and two buttons were missing at the front of it. Her full untethered breasts were straining against the fabric and some blood had dried on her lower lip from a cut where she was hurt when they had thrown her to the ground and clipped the steel handcuffs to her wrists in the dusty narrow street outside.
Two swarthy Iraqi policemen flanked her, their heavy wooden truncheons at the ready. She had been arrested for indecent exposure. She had been accused of her wearing a mini skirt and open blouse and showing too much flesh in a Moslem country. Their night Sergeant, who had just come on duty, was now booking her for this crime.
He was a thin, lanky man, whose uniform hung from his spare frame. He had a hooked nose, fleshy lips and small sly eyes covered with a pair of glasses with thick lenses and as he sat at the old desk he blatantly ogled her luscious breasts. He licked his fleshy lips licentiously with thoughts of what he would like to do to her and felt himself harden against the rough material of his uniform trousers.
It was a sweltering hot evening and they were all herded in the untidy front room of the dilapidated jail. Tania's armpits were circled with wetness from her sweat and staining her thin khaki cotton shirt. Her nipples stood out like ripe cherries against the damp fabric and little streams of sweat ran down the sides of her lovely face travelling down her neck and into the cleft between her firm breasts. Her shoulder length, blonde hair had come loose from its clip and was in disarray around her shoulders.
"So you say you are British, I see Miss Bashara, but your name doesn't sound so and also I see from your passport you are a freelance journalist. I think you are a spy!" he said speaking in heavily accented English. Then he hawked loudly in contempt and spat a glob of thick green phlegm on the floor to one side of the desk as he once again eyed her up and down salaciously and licked his fleshy lips. He could feel himself becoming even harder as his cock strained in his underpants, just looking at her luscious breasts outlined against the thin fabric of her shirt and thinking about what delicious delights he could touch and enjoy beneath her skimpy skirt. He knew this one would be just right for his cousin, a Colonel in the Iraqi Army and that he would receive a good sum of money for her.
The Sergeant was also aware that he would have to be careful that his guards did not want to sample her first and if they did, that they did not mark her too much with their sad