My name is Ihbat. That has not always been my name. But it is my name now. That is my name. This is my task. My task is to set down on paper the history of my life. Or at least the history of the life of Ihbat. Nothing matters before that person came into existence. And so, with the help of Allah, I shall begin, and thus fulfill the task that it has been commanded I fulfill.
Ihbat came into existence thirteen years three months and five days ago. He, I, awoke on a bed in a beautiful room. It was a room decorated in a style that I was unfamiliar with. A style of the East, of the Orient. Fine rugs covered the floors, Arabic inscriptions made in gold leaf glittered behind their frames on the walls, and silken cushions were scattered on the huge bed on which I lay. There were no windows, but light was not absent, coming instead from a crenellated skylight. It was a beautiful place.
But I, Ihbat, (even though I didn’t know it at the time), was in no position to enjoy the beauty. Instead I was puzzled, confused, scared. I had not been in this place when I had fallen asleep. In fact, I had never been in this place before. Nor anywhere like it. Nor had I fallen asleep. What had I been doing? I’d been at school… no, not school. I’d finished school already. I was on my way home from school. Yes, that was it. Walking back from school. No, not walking, riding. Riding my bicycle back through the olive groves to my parents house. Then I felt a pain, just a little one, like an insect bite. A bite on my leg. Then I felt dreary. I stopped my bike, rubbed my eyes. The dreariness increased. Then I passed out.
Then I passed out and now I awoke. In a strange room. An Eastern room. Or at least one that appeared to be Eastern. I don’t know to this day where that room, or indeed that whole institution was. It could have been anywhere I suppose, from Timbuktu to Tokyo. But it was Arabian in character and ownership.
After some time I got up and looked around. There beside my bed was a teapot and a glass. I was thirsty, so I poured myself a drink. Besides the pop was an envelope. It had my name – my former name – on the front. I opened it. Inside was a letter. I read it.
Welcome to your new school. Medrassah Purdah. That is the name of this school. From now on you will be learning and living here. Forget your old school and forget your family. Forget your former life in all its entirety. It will be easier for you that way. You must adapt now and begin your new life. The life of al-Ihbat. When you feel ready to embark upon that new path, ring the bell.
And that was it. I was confused. What did it all mean? Who was al-Ihbat? I? I looked across at the table. There was a silver bell. I rang it. Silence. Then, after a minute or so, the wooden door to that sumptuous room was opened and somebody walked in.
It was a woman. Or at least I assumed so. I didn’t know for sure. I didn’t know because she was covered completely with veils. Black cloth shrouded here entire body. Well, all of it aside from her eyes. They, and only they were left free. I looked at them. They were definitely a woman’s eyes. A beautiful woman in fact. And I was a man who took an interest in such women. Underneath the silken sheets, something hardened.
“Al-Ihbat, I am Fatima,” she said. She spoke Greek. I was surprised. “I am to be your maid here. May I call you Ihbat for short. It would be easier.”
“You may call me what you want,” said I, “but I am no lhba whatever. My name is Nikos.”
“No, Ihbat,” corrected she. “Your name was Nikos. Now it is Ihbat.”
“Oh.” I was confused. “Where am I?”
“Medrassah Purdah,” she replied, “The School of Purdah.”
I didn’t comprehend. “But…”
A gloved hand appeared from under her veils and was raised up in front of her face as a gesture for me to be silent. “Come!” said she.
As always, when a woman beckoned, I came.
I got up from the bed, wrapping a sheet around me to hide my nakedness. “You don’t need that,” said she, and with a flick of her gloved hand, whisked it away. My standing member was plain for her to see. I know not what her reaction was though. It is hard to gauge the reactions of someone that you can’t see.
I followed her to a side room. In it was a bath, full of steaming perfumed water. “Get in,” said she.
I did as I was bid. Then she began to undress. She removed her black shrouds. Underneath was, as I’d imagined, a fair maiden. No, that is not true, she was far lovelier than I’d imagined. Her dusky tanned skin completed her dark eyes and long brown hair. And her curvaceous figure was enough to make any man…
And beneath those veils she wore but a tiny white bikini.
“I will be attending to your bathing every day,” she said, climbing in with me. Let me rub your back.” I couldn’t believe this. This was not real, it was a dream, a fantasy. She moved lower down, towards that aching rod. “Christ!” thought I. She touched it, slowly moved her smooth hands up and down the shaft and then…
Clink, click. To this day I can’t believe it.
She’d grabbed my hands and twisted them behind my back, fastening them together with a pair of golden handcuffs. Before I knew what was happening, the same had been done to my ankles. I was bound and helpless!
“Sorry, about that Ihbat,” she said, standing up and getting out of the bath. “Now, get out and let me sort you out.”
I was more confused than ever. It had been so erotic, so steamy, and now…
I stood in the middle of the floor and she approached with something. It was golden. “What is it?” I asked.
“Shhh..” she replied, grasping my cock again. So, it was all part of her game. She like tying people up. I played along and let her stroke it. I re-entered the world of pleasure. She was an expert, she knew how to make a man… oww, arrgh, click, click.
What was she doing? She grabbed hold of it, wrenched it back and then placed the golden object over the top and fastened it into place. What was it?
“Now that is out of the way,” she said, we can get started.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Getting you ready, as I will everyday.”
“But what is this?”
“That is a chastity belt. It keeps that irksome little member of yours out of harm’s way.” Now come!” She had picked up something else golden.
“No! No!” said I, backing away. But restrained by my wrists and ankles there was little that I could do. It was a collar. She fastened it around my neck and locked it shut. Then she picked up and a gag and moved to place it in my mouth. I shut that orifice firmly, but she simply squeezed my nostrils until I had to open up to breathe and then that too was put in place and secured. I was helpless, restrained and silent.
“Now, back to the bedroom and I shall explain all,” said she. I meekly followed. I had no choice. She sat me down on the bed and then sat down besides me, stroking me provocatively, causing immense discomfort lower down where my cock, unable to achieve an erection, struggled in its golden prison.
“As the letter stated,” said the Goddess, “You are now Ihbat, and what’s more a student at this school, the School of Purdah. You shall learn soon enough what Purdah is, and what your role and future are to be. In the meantime all you need to know is the following. I am your maid, and I will do anything you bid. Anything that is, except remove your cuffs, ankle chain and chastity belt. They you will be wearing 24 hours of the day, 7 days of the week. The gag you will wear whenever you step out of this room. Inside this room, if you behave, you need not wear it. The reasons behind these restraints will soon become apparent.”
“Now, this room is yours. It is where you will live and spend all your time whilst not in classes or at prayer. In it is all that you need; books to read, a toilet to relieve yourself, a bath to relax in, a bed to sleep upon, tea to drink. Meals will also be served in here at set times. I will serve them to you and I will feed you as it is obvious that with your hands behind your back you will be unable to do so yourself. I will also clean your bottom everytime that you have been to the toilet for a… Number Two. For the other toilet visits, you will of course, sit on the bowl. With your little penis restrained so, standing up to urinate is of course an impossibility.”
“Now, I will move onto what happens when outside of the room. Everytime that you step outside of the room you are required to wear this.” She reached under the bed and pulled out a garment, a mass of cloth. “I shall now wear it to demonstrate how you will look and how to put it on.” She put the cloth over her head and it unfolded all around her. It covered her completely, including her face. Over that face there was a grille of embroidered thread. There was also embroidery – flowery designs – down the front of the garment, and on the top which was shaped a little like a Muslim’s skullcap. The back billowed out as it was pleated. The garment was made of heavy-looking black material. The embroidery was in gold. The garment was beautiful, yet frightening. It covered all the body, leaving no trace of who was underneath. Even behind the grille there was no evidence of the maid’s facial features. It looked encumbering and hot. “It’s called a burqa,” she said. Her voice was considerably muffled by the material. She was hardly audible. “They wear them in Pakistan and Afghanistan.”
Fatima took off the burqa and her lovely figure was revealed once more. “Within this room you will wear these. She picked out another garment from under the bed. This was white and voluminous. They were a pair of trousers… of types. She gestured for me to stand and put them on. They were specially designed so that they fitted over my bonds. They were fastened at the waist with an extremely tight belt that left me breathless, and round the ankles below the cuffs, where they were gathered and tied with ribbons. They contained a lot of material and ballooned out around me. The outside was cotton, but inside they were silk and the smooth cloth brushed against my legs and caused my imprisoned desire to heighten. Inbetween the silk and the cotton there was obviously a lot more cloth, that caused the trousers to be huge in size. As I sat down I felt like a girl on her wedding day, wearing one of those wide white puffy dresses.
“And on top you wear this.” She produced a cotton shirt, that like the trousers was also voluminous, and also line with silk. She fitted it around my torso. It had no arm holes and was fastened by ribbons at the neck, just below the collar and the waist. Down the front, like the burqa, it was embroidered.
“Now the burqa,” she said. That awe-inspiring dress was placed over my head, the inbuilt skull cap fitting perfectly. Behind the grille I noticed that a piece of thick black cloth had been stitched, that being the reason why all traces of Fatima’s facial features had been eradicated. Also eradicated was most of my sight. With the burqa over my face, only dark outlines remained. It was hot and the material clung to my face irritatingly.
“A final precaution,” said she who held all the power, and to my surprise, she fastened the burqa to the collar by means of several hooks inside that formidable garment. “Now, we can guarantee that you won’t be removing it,” she said. And she was right! Even with the use of my arms I could not have taken the thing off. I was completely imprisoned within the cloth! She smoothed the rest of the burqa over me and adjusted it so that it looked right. The pleats billowed out behind me. “Now finally, you slippers,” she said, “so that your feet are as silent as your mouth.” A pair of embroidered velvet slippers were placed on my feet.
“Stand up!” commanded she.
And so I stood, a sweaty, restrained and enveloped figure, anonymous and silent to the outside world.
“Good,” commented my maid. “”Now wait whilst I get dressed again and then I’ll take you to your lessons.”
And so I walked out of that door, following the black veiled Fatima. Well, walked is not really the word, more like shuffled as the overpowering garments and short ankle chain, (eight centimetres is all I have ever been allowed), permitted little walking. And so I shuffled silently, save for the rustling of material, down countless corridors until I entered a room.
I couldn’t see a lot of the room of course. I couldn’t see a lot of anything. With the cloth and grille covering my eyes, the world was dark and indistinct. Even today I have not grown accustomed to that. Taking away clear, distinct sight was perhaps the worst thing that they ever did to me. Well, maybe…
But I could make out that this was a classroom, of sorts. Veiled in a manner similar to Fatima was a woman, obviously the teacher. Sat on the floor all around her, dressed in the same burqas as I had been forced to don, were the students. All were, like I, silent.
“This is the new student, Aisha,” said Fatima. “Ihbat. Don’t worry, Ihbat has no problems with English.”
“Good, welcome Ihbat,” said the teacher. “Sit down, we are about to start today’s lesson. This class is Purdah Study. Everyday we look into different aspects of how we live in Purdah and listen to real-life stories. I lecture you and you listen. Obviously, you do not ask questions or write anything, as you, like all the first year students here, are unable to do so. Now, today we will hear the tale of Noor, a young lady living in Britain, though separate from British Society.”
The teacher took out a book and started to read from it.
“‘My name is Noor, and I am 22 years old. Ever since I left school I have been living in Purdah. As all of you knows basically what that means, I won’t go into that aspect of things. Instead I will describe my daily life. I wake up each morning for prayer in my bedroom. I sleep dressed in padded mittens and a burqa which covers me completely. Every evening, before I go to bed, my father ties the end of it together, (it was made deliberately long for me). This way any non-mahram male who might chance into my room by accident is prevented from having a fit of fitna and being tempted by my curvaceous form. What’s more, tied so and wearing the mittens, I cannot get out of the burqa so that the temptation to free myself is taken away. The temptation to pleasure myself in an un-Islamic way is also eradicated. However, I can walk in the burqa, and more importantly pray.
I stay in the burqa until my mother comes in and frees me. I then relieve myself and bathe, before dressing for the day. I am required to veil fully, including several layers of eye veils, every time that I leave the room. My dress is as follows:-
Tight shoulder length gloves in black.
Thick stockings in black.
Turkish trousers and a closed shirt.
A tight headcovering that leaves only my mouth and eyes free.
When I have put these on, I eat.
Then comes the next stage.
A thick floor-length black dress. A head covering and face veil of thick black material that leaves only my eyes free.
Thick fingerless mittens.
Then over this, a floor length abayah.
Triple faceveils including eye veils.
Two pairs of thick black socks.
Finally, an afghan burqa with face mesh.
This is my day’s clothing. Father, (it is he who insists that I live in Purdah), has stipulated these as mandatory for outside of my room. Most days, I go downstairs and sit with my mother and sisters in the living room. We sit on the floor and are silent if men are in the house, as Father believes that a woman’s voice is awrah, that is it is forbidden as it tempts men. We sit in attendance of him. We are forbidden to watch the television as it only shows the work of the devil, though this I don’t mind as to be honest, I can see very little anyway underneath all my veils. I am also very hot as even though Britain is a cold country, Father keeps the heating constantly on as he misses the heat of Pakistan. We do not complain about this of course.
It is sometimes asked how I use the toilet. The truth is, we wear nappies to stop any accidents, but I have trained myself sufficiently so that I rarely have accidents.
The routine only changes when I go outdoors. Then my nappy is removed and I am forced to don a chastity belt for my own protection. A chain is also attached to my ankles, and my hands are also cuffed to the sides of my body, held beside the chastity belt. My mouth is gagged so that I am not tempted to say something and thus tempt men with my young female voice.
We go out once a week around the town centre. Father accompanies us, and takes us out to show us the British women and how evil their lifestyle is. He points out girls wearing short skirts and mini tops, talking loudly to all and sundry, bearing their cleavages and legs, and teaches on how evil that is and how we will never be allowed such freedoms.
This is my life in Purdah, where I am kept hidden and pure until I am married. Father has already chosen a husband for me, a man in Pakistan who is a scholar and sixty years old. He believes firmly in Purdah and Islam. I will be his third wife.
Thank you for listening to my story and thank Allah for all of his beautiful creations and mercy.’
And that my students,” added the teacher, “is a perfect example of a life in Purdah.”
The lesson continued for another hour or so. All the time the teacher kept pointing out examples of how women living in Purdah, (which I learnt meant seclusion from men), should avoid tempting menfolk around them. To be honest, I found it all rather strange. The thought of that young girl, whom I imagined to be beautiful and ripe for picking, living controlled and enclosed like that made me feel hot, and my imprisoned manhood struggled hopelessly within its prison. I tried on several occasions to bring my hands round to my front and slip them into the belt, but I could not do it and even if I had, the belt was so tight, that I doubt I could have got a baby’s finger inside it, let alone the hand of a fully-grown man. The idea of her wearing a nappy like a baby, also increased my frustration, as did the thought of her being shown weekly the freedoms that she could never enjoy. Consequently, because of all this, and the layers of cloth that covered me, a soon grew very hot and sticky and my body was drenched in sweat. Looking around at the fidgets of some of the other students, I guessed that they were undergoing the same thing.
To divert my mind away from such thoughts, I set to wondering as to why was I being subjected to all this, being covered up like Noor, and told the lives of Middle-Eastern women. I could not figure it out. That I, a 17 year-old Greek boy, with a libido equal of any of my countrymen, a manly chest and may I say, handsome set of male equipment, with a respectable history of seductions behind him, should be trussed up and covered like an Arabian maiden…? It was all very strange.
The lessons didn’t end with Purdah study. Next we were subjected to Islam, then two hours of Arabic, and after that some English. By the end of the day I was exhausted and drenched, and my cock painfully ached for release. ‘That,’ thought I, ‘I can get tonight in bed.’
However, when time to return to my room came, and Fatima stripped me of my clothes and bathed me, I was surprised to discover that the only bondage that she removed was my gag. The cuff and chastity belt stayed on, and after bathing she fed me some falafels, couscous and tea.
“Fatima,” I said, being relieved at being able to speak, (though she’d only given me the right, so long as I promised not to ask any questions about my predicament, nor make a fuss), “were you telling the truth when you said that I was your Master and you would do whatever I wanted?”
“Of course,” she replied with a smile.
“Right then,” I said, gazing at that gorgeous beauty, who was again stripped down to a bikini. “Will you kiss me?”
“No problem,” she replied, and pecked me on the cheek.
“No, I mean properly.”
“Are you sure that you want that?”
Have a stunning, bikini clad whore kiss me on command. Of course I was sure! “Yes,” I said.
Then that hot fox, put her lips to mine and we engaged in what was the best kissing of my life. That vixen obviously knew what she was doing, and as her tongue did things that I could not believe a tongue could do, my cock sprang to life, pressing painfully against the walls of it’s golden prison cell.
“I can do more than that,” she said, freeing herself, and starting to caress my body with her hands, her long nails causing waves of rapture. She moved lower down, caressed my ass and inside my legs. My manhood was on fire!
“Free me! Free me!” I cried.
“Sorry, Ihbat, you know I can’t do that, now, lick my pussy!”
And to my astonishment, she whipped off her bikini bottoms and thrust her wet pussy in my face. I licked it the best I could and her warms juices flowed into my face.
“That’s good! That’s good!” she cried, climaxing, and drawing herself away.
“Free me, Fatima! I can’t stand this!” I cried.
But she heeded me not, and instead, pulled out another burqa. Time to sleep my little trussed up stallion,” she said, and place the burqa over my head. I soon discovered it was like the one that Noor was forced to wear, overly long but unlike where Noor’s father tied it shut, this one was zipped. I was in a burqa sleeping bag!
“Night, Ihbat,” said Fatima.
“Don’t leave!” I cried.
“Ok, then,” said she, I’ll sleep by you.
And then that hot chick laid down beside me and snuggled up to me. Seeing her curves and feeling them and the warmth of her body next to mine sent me mad with desire.
“Release me! Release me!” I cried.
“You want more?” she asked, before adding, “So do I. But like that you can’t pleasure me. Don’t worry, I’ll do it myself!” And at that she started fingering herself and groaning in ecstasy.
My frustration was unbearable, but of course, I had to bear it. It was a very long time before I managed to sleep that night.
The weeks and months that following were spent in a very strict routine. Everyday I was woken by Fatima, released from my sleeping burqa, washed, fed, and dressed. And then I studied all day long. The lessons were boring, pointless and the same; a solid diet of Purdah Study, Arabic, English and Islam. The last one irked me the most. Islam is of course the backward faith of the Turkish animals who raped our Greek homeland for centuries. Why should I study it? It was inferior to my Orthodox Christianity, the One True Faith. Everytime the teacher rambled away on the words of the Prophet I wanted to scream out loud. But of course, gagged and restrained as I was, I could never have done so, so instead I sat and listened in disgust.
It was the latter subject that also got me thinking as to why this was happening to me. Why kidnap a young Greek boy and tutor him in the practices of the Eastern religion and how they keep their women. Such a life as I led could not have come cheaply, so why? I wondered at first if it was not a plot of the Turkish dogs to dishonour yet another heroic Greek, but on reflection I guessed that it was perhaps not. Then I wondered if it was not all planned by Fatima, who just played at being a maid, but instead was in fact the woman behind it all, and who craved for a handsome young man like myself to be constantly at her service, licking her out with my tongue. But then I rethought. If it had been her, then she would surely have had a taste of my cock by now, for that no girl can resist, yet every night she would refuse to unlock me whilst she performed.
And boy how did she perform! She was a nymph, like one of the Sirens of yore. Her lithe body wrapped around mine, and she was true to her word. Whatever I asked save for the releasing of my restraints, she did willingly. I saw her finger herself in so many ways, she attached a dildo to my chastity belt and fucked herself with that, she licked my ass, drank my piss, and then made me do the same. It was heavenly, incredible and yet… not once did I climax. Every minute of every day I was mad with desire, yet never did I achieve it. My life was a hell of frustration. In the end I realised that all the things she was doing only made it more uncomfortable for me, and I asked her to stop, but even then, just the sight of her, or the image of her in my mind as I sat sweltering in my cocoon during those long tedious hours of Islam and Arabic, it drove me wild.
And so it carried on, a life of frustrated hell. And confusion, for of course I was still entirely ignorant of why this was happening to me, who was behind it all, and what was going to happen in the future. Those weren’t the only things that annoyed me as well. Another was my physical shape. I, like most of my race, had always been a typical Adonis since puberty, and had long prided myself on my well-toned body. All these months of enforced inactivity had caused, I noted to my disgust, a certain flabbiness, particularly around my chest and buttocks, and wearing silk everyday also seemed to have the strange effect of softening my skin. This bothered me as I knew that I would need my strength when the moment to escape presented itself. With everyday that passed, I hated by silken feminine bonds even more.
Then, after I had been at Medrassah Purdah for around six months, something happened. After the day’s lessons, one Thursday I was called into the office of the Headmistress. Never before had I seen her, or been called. Fatima surprisingly ungagged me before leading me down some corridors to some large wooden doors which she proceeded to knock upon before leaving me. A minute or so later, a voice from within called “Enter!” in Arabic, (I had, by that stage, a basic command of the tongue), and so I pushed my body against the wood. It opened and I entered a large room with several bird cages in which canaries twittered and a fountain gurgled in the centre. By the fountain, on a rug, was a woman, shrouded in a red burqa with golden embroidery. “Sit, Ihbat,” commanded she. I did as I was bid.
“Ihbat,” she started. “You have been commanded here today as a congratulation. Today the first stage of your schooling here has come to an end. You are ready to enter the next level. Do you have anything to say?”
I had of course a thousand things to say. “Why? Why am I here?”
“The reason behind you being here will soon be made clear to you. Basically you were chosen because you filled the requirements of the owners of the school.”
“Physical requirements. Your body seemed the right shape.”
My body! Did they perhaps need me as some sort of sex slave? I was as perfect as a male could be after all. And that would explain why Fatima had been assigned to tease me. “Who are the owners of the school?”
“This school is owned and financed by three organisations. The first is the Islamic Association, the second the IPO and the third the SFVI.”
“What do those initials stand for?”
“You will find out over the next year. Your next level of study includes studying the history and aims of our three owner organisations.”
“How long will I stay here?”
“Until you are married.”
“But how can I get married if I don’t have the chance to meet anyone to marry.”
“We will find you a spouse.”
“What if I don’t like them?”
“That is of no concern.”
“But which woman wants a man dressed up in veils who can only talk about Islam and Purdah?”
“No woman wants such a spouse.”
“Then how will you find me a wife?”
“Ihbat, have you not guessed yet? We will be finding you no wife. We will be finding you a husband. Have you not noticed the changes in your body? Every day for the last six months. Fatima has been feeding you with food and drink laced with hormone pills. She reports that your skin is now soft and feminine, your buttocks rounded and budding breasts are starting to appear. Ihbat, we are turning you into a woman, a woman of Purdah, a woman of Islam.”
A woman! I couldn’t believe it! But I was a man! A strong man! A Greek man! I would be no woman! What she described, why it sounded like homosexuality, I hated Gays, sick creatures, puffs! “You will not change me into any woman!” I cried. “I am a Son of Alexander the Great!”
“You were a Son of Alexander the Great,” corrected the Headmistress. “You are now a Daughter of the Prophet. Now you can either accept that gracefully and submissively as a woman should, or we will impose it by force!”
“I am a Greek!” I cried. “I will never surrender to an Eastern Barbarian!”
And I didn’t. And they did what they promised. Back in the room, Fatima replaced my gag with a different one that had a small hole in the middle. This gag was never taken out and I was fed through a tube that was pushed through the hole and down my throat. The hormones were obviously increased in quantity now as well, as the speed of the changes got faster, and daily I watched in horror as small breasts appeared on my chest, breasts with nipples that Fatima used to pinch and caress, sending waves of pleasure through my being.
The breasts weren’t the only new part of my life. Every morning, after my bath, my handcuffs and ankle cuffs were fastened to rings, one hanging from the ceiling and the other embedded in the floor and I was shaved all over until the only hair left was on the top of my head. Then, on my face, make-up was applied, long false eyelashes attached to my eyes and false eyebrows stencilled in. My hair, which was now quit long, was conditioned and combed daily, and often styled. When I saw myself in the mirror I realised with dread that I was now an attractive looking young lady, the sort whom I used to chase after, and only the pain of unfulfilled desire in my loins was left to show that I was really a male.
My lessons also changed now. The English was dropped, as was Purdah Study, (we had more or less exhausted the subject anyway). The Islam and Arabic remained but they were joined by some new subjects; Study of the Medrassah Purdah Founders, Dance, Sexual Techniques and Deportment. The last three were taught in my room by Fatima as they required my burqa and veils being removed. In deportment I was taught how to walk and sit in a seductive manner, in Dance how to do the belly dance and other Eastern moves and in Sexual Technique, well… I prefer to forget about that. When I first heard that I would be studying sex I was excited. So, at long last I was to be released from that hateful golden girdle, I thought. But of course, it was not to be. Instead most classes involved Fatima wearing a huge rubber dildo which I was forced to suck upon, whilst she pointed out what was right and wrong with my technique and paddling me for my mistakes. Other times we looking into French kissing, and different sexual techniques, where for the first time I had the humiliating experience of having something shoved into my anus, that being Fatima with the large strap-on. In fact, I was forced to wear a dildo in my ass everyday from then on, (“So you get used to the feeling”), something that was always a hateful reminder of my humiliation and subjection, and did not help with the old frustration, since as my back passage was now caressed every minute of every day by a large intruder, my cock was now even more alert than previously.
The dildo was not the only new addition to my daily wardrobe either. Every morning I was forced to don a kind of glove that held both my arms together behind my back in a painful position. This was kept on throughout my lessons causing my arms to be dead at the end. When I misbehaved Fatima also kept it on throughout the night, which was even worse as it prevented me from sleeping on my back, and of course, was not comfortable anyway.
The lessons on the Study of the Medrassah Purdah Founders turned out to be interesting. The school it seems was built fifty years ago under the auspices and with the finances of three organisations. The Islamic Organisation was an international group based in Saudi Arabia that promoted Islam and Islamic values. IPO stood for International Purdah Organisation, a multi-national, multi-faith society that promoted Purdah as a way of life for all women, and whose eventual aim was to keep every woman at home and under the command of her husband or father. The SFVI was a little strange. The initials stand for the Society for the Furtherment of the Venus Ideal, and it was founded in 1842 by one Wilhelm van Wettering, a rich Dutchman who lived in the East Indies. He kept his wife and concubines forever in a state of bondage where the use of their arms was restricted. Apparently he had got the idea from his father-in-law, one Jacob van Hessel who had been to Italy to see the treasures of antiquity. This Dutchman had apparently been so awe-inspired by the beauty of the Venus de Milo that he had had a copy made, and this he presented to his son-in-law upon his marriage upon his marriage to his daughter, Gabrielle van Hessel. Van Wettering too, it appears, was transfixed by the Venus Ideal and so proceeded to turn his new wife into one, using a corset designed by van Hessel, a corset, that held the wearers arms crossed behind her back in such a manner so that they appeared to be amputated. The Venus Corset is what he named it. Others – rich and perverted men who van Wettering invited to banquets and orgies at his mansions in the Netherlands and Borneo soon became transfixed by the image of the armless and helpless female, and so it was that the Society for the Furtherment of the Venus Ideal was born; a society that promotes and indeed stipulates that the arms of the wives of its members must at all times be rendered useless and bound. Knowing that such organisations were behind the strange institution where I was held, and that I was being transformed into a woman at the will of one or all of them filled me with a dread that made me shiver.
I studied in such a manner for a further year. By the end of my time I had become a fully fledged female with tantalising curves and feminine graces. Well, a female aside from my imprisoned cock and the male fire that still burned constantly in my heart.
It was soon after my 19th birthday, when I was again summoned to the Headmistresses Office.
“The time for you to leave this school will soon be upon us,” she said. “Your studies have been completed. You are mentally ready for marriage.”
“Then have you found me someone?” I asked.
“We have not looked yet,” she continued. “I said that you are mentally ready, but Ihbat, you are not physically prepared yet.”
“But I am fully a woman now,” I said in a vehmenous tone. “Except for my manhood.”
“Fully a woman yes, but not a woman sufficient enough for our clients. Do you want some tea, Ihbat?”
“No,” I said. “Fatima has just given me some.”
“That is right, I commanded her to. In a minute or two you will start feeling drowsy. There was a strong draught in that tea. You are going on a trip, Ihbat.”
“What?! Draught? Why? Where?” But already the drug was taking over. I fell to the floor with a slump.
I awoke in a hospital bed, wearing nothing. I tried to get up, but realised that my hands and feet were tied down. I instinctively thought about my crotch, but it wasn’t painful. I looked down. I couldn’t see genitals! I couldn’t see them, not because they weren’t there, but because something else obscured my view. Two large silicone footballs that heaved with every breath. “I’ve been given a tit job!” I exclaimed to myself.
“And not just a tit job,” said Fatima who was stood behind me. “All your body hair has been removed through electrolysis, including that surrounding your little friend.”
“My… is that…?”
“Oh, he is still there, as encased as ever, in his little gaol. He’s not as big and male these days, the hormones have taken their toll, but he still works. Not that you’ll have the opportunity to find that out though.”
“Stop that Ihbat! You’re a Muslim now, remember. Yes, your new titties are quite something aren’t they. Even better than the ones the school gave me. I’m rather jealous!” And at that she started playing with my new nipples. The caress of her long nails sent ripples of pleasure through my body. New tits, more buttock fat, some nice fat collagen lips, permanent eyebrows, and non-removable long eye lashes. My dear Ihbat, you look like a little doll, a fuck toy worthy of a prince. Well, perhaps you will get a prince after all, though you’ll be no mere fuck toy, but a fully-fledged wife.
Married to a man. Being fucked by a man, like a homosexual freak. The thought was too mortifying for words.
“I think I’ll have a play with your new love toys,” continued the maid, caressing those huge, firm mounds. The old, awful frustrating returned with a vengeance as her wonderful hands grasped my new appendages.
I was released from the hospital that day and taken back to the school where my normal regime was re-established. One day however, instead of leading me to my lessons, Fatima instead took me to a large photo studio and stripped me of all my clothes barring the chastity belt. Then, to my horror, a man appeared.
Strange as this sounds, I felt awful. For so long had I been completely covered up in the presence of anyone, let alone a man, (this was the first man that I had seen since Nikos became Ihbat actually), that I felt naked, unprotected and weak.
“But, Fatima,” I protested, (my voice box had also been altered in the hospital and there was no way of telling now that I had ever been a man), “Purdah states that I must be covered in front of men.”
“I know, but this is an exception. We have to make sure that you get a good husband.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that a man must see what he is about to marry before he actually does so, and then once he has chosen, hide that jewel off from the rest of the world. So we have to make sure that when he sees you first, it is in the best possible light.”
What she meant by the ‘best possible light’ was having me dress up in all manner of outfits and photographing me. There were wedding and cocktail dresses, bikinis, jeans that were put on wet and then dried so that they were so tight I could hardly move my legs, a Victorian gown complete with excruciatingly tight corset that took an hour and two fainting fits to put on, some oriental dresses such as a kimono and ao dai, short skirts, pencil skirts, an Arabian Nights outfit, uniforms, (army, air hostess, schoolgirl), baby girl dresses and even some shots where clothes were not required. All in all, it could have been viewed as a pleasant experience for most women, but for me I just felt awful. Apart from the feeling of vulnerability caused by being without my veil, for the first time ever I was put on display as what I had actually been turned into; a hot chick for some guy to play with at his whim. Plus of course, the modelling session also brought home the realisation that I was soon going to be passed onto a man, a man who would violate me and control me. A man much like whom I used to be and still was inside. To say that the thought of being forced to suck, or take a cock up my ass terrified me, is the understatement of the year.
Following the model shoot it was back to normal, though without the lessons. Daily I was entombed within my mound of cloth, and daily did Fatima bring me to the brink of unbelievable ecstasy, but not once did I ever hurdle that insurmountable fence.
Then, a fortnight later I was summoned for the third and final time to the Headmistress’s Office. “Ihbat, I hope you have enjoyed your time with us. I am pleased to say that I have found you a satisfactory student. Here is a souvenir of your time at Medrassah Purdah.” The souvenir, which I perused when back in my room was a large book. On the cover was a photograph of me in the school uniform burqa. Inside were some quotes from the Purdah philosophy that I’d had drummed into me, and so photos of me at my lessons. Then there was a variety of pictures of Fatima in all manners of dress and position, to remind me of the girl that I never could have. And lastly there was a selection of images from my photo shoot, a selection that, it must be said, horrified me as to my eyes I really did look sexy and ready to be raped.
“And now, the news,” she continued. “We’ve found you a husband. You’ll be married in five days time.”
I was lain on a huge, sumptuous king size bed. My only clothing was a harem outfit, such as one would expect Scheherazade to be donned, with a gauze veil, silken Turkish trousers and a tiny top covering my (distressingly) un-tiny breasts. Of yes, and a thick collar of gold with ‘Ihbat, the Property of bin-Husseini and Allah alone’ inscribed in Arabic. And from that collar, a chain that attached me to the bedstead.
After my final meeting with the Headmistress I had returned to my room and had been ensconced by Fatima in a sort of leather cocoon which I knew, (from my studies), was a common way in which members of all three founding organisations used to transport their Purdah-living wives, as of course it guaranteed that no prying eyes could see them, and what’s more, (due to a face mask), that the person trapped within could see no one, thus ensuring absolute safety and the elimination of all opportunities for temptation.
Being put into such a garment was unpleasant to say the least. Apparently, it has already been described in one text, written about one of the wives of the SFVI and deemed by many to be fiction, so I need not go into too many details, except to say that it was uncomfortably hot, that within it I was unable to do anything – move a muscle, see, hear – except breathe, and that the merciless lacing at the waist, the elongated laced neck and the tight headcovering made even that activity difficult. Thankfully, it was only a few minutes before the sleeping drugs kicked in.
And when I awoke I was on this bed, dressed in my traditional sleeping burqa. I lay there for several hours until two maids came in, fully veiled including their eyes. I knew however from their low voices that Fatima was not one of them. They stripped me, took me to a bathing room, handcuffed my wrists to a ring hanging from the ceiling and fully prepared me. I was washed thoroughly, my hair also, and then that was braided. Make-up was expertly applied to my face, my nails decorated and my hands hennaed. My whole body was perfumed. My chastity belt was even removed but they showed no surprise at the presence of my cock and balls, (the former immediately springing to life, and only losing its virility when one of the maids doused it in cold water), and instead just concentrating on making certain that every part of my genitals was spotlessly clean and perfumed. Then to my horror, a hot needle was produced, and a gag shoved into my mouth, and they proceeded to pierce my ears and nipples and foreskin, (the latter two operations being excruciatingly painful), whilst I cried into my gag. That done, golden rings were place through all my piercings.
Then, my chastity belt was replaced, and my hands released from the ceiling and cuffed to the belt instead. The gag was left in and I was dressed, firstly in the harem outfit that I have already described and afterwards in three full body veils and a glorious red velvet burqa with gold embroidery. Unfortunately, the burqa had a piece of black cloth sewn behind the grille and I was now completely blind.
Following this I was led out by the maids, over a distance that I could not determine until I entered a room. There the marriage ceremony took place, to a man that I could not see. I heard a room full of people, but I just stood there, blinded, restrained and ignorant for several hours until someone led me away and back to the bedroom, where I was stripped of my burqa and body veils, freshened up, the collar, (my wedding ring I later learnt), attached and locked onto my neck and chained to the bed.
And it is there that you find me waiting, waiting for my husband to have his way with me. A man named Ahmed bin-Husseini they tell me.
Ahmed bin-Husseini came several hours later. He smiled when he saw me and started to kiss me and caress my lithe body. He disgusted me and I tried to wrench myself away, but of course it was impossible. Then he turned me over onto my front, lubricated my anus, (which to be fair did not need a lot of lubricating as after all my training with dildos it was more than big enough to accommodate his little thing), and shoved his throbbing penis into it.
It did not take him long and afterwards I was required to clean off his manhood with my tongue. It was disgusting and I almost wretched. Then he gave me a drink and within moments I found myself paralysed, (such a draught is also described in the story I mentioned earlier concerning Araksia, a SFVI wife. It is common practice to initiate Society Wives into their new life under its influence).
“Now my dear sweet Ihbat, a gift from Allah in Heaven. It is time for me to show you how you will live. As your training at Medrassah Purdah will have told you, you are now the wife, the property of a member of one of three societies, the Islamic Organisation, the International Purdah Organisation and the Society for the Furtherment of the Venus Ideal. Well my love, I may tell you that I am a member of two of them, the latter two. I am of course a Muslim as well, as are you, but by marrying someone who is till technically a man, then I violate religious laws and so cannot be part of their society. That however, is immaterial. You are now a Society Wife and that means that you will be living under the twin pillars of Purdah, which of course you already know all about, and as a Venus.
And with that he produced the garment that I had heard so much about and dreaded with all my heart – the Venus Corset. My body, now paralysed entirely, (barring the mouth, which was now whimpering and crying for mercy), was easily maneuvered by my new husband, and my arms, crossed behind me at the top of my back, and then my whole torso encased in that fearsome piece of corsetry. He laced it with a passion and my life was squeezed out of me. “Forty centimetres is the sat I set for my ladies,” he exclaimed.
This done, after he had finished panting with exertion, he took me again, excited as he was by the shape and helplessness created by the Venus Corset. By now I had recovered most of my bodily movements, (as the draught is not strong), but of course I was still entirely at his mercy, and indeed the thrashing of my legs seemed only to excite him further.
“You will be wearing this 23 hours a day, 7 days a week he explained, with only an hour’s bathing as rest. Then, your wrists will be handcuffed together and strapped to the ceiling ring as they were this morning. Your chastity belt will also stay on, I have no interest in your cock, and indeed only kept it there to remind you of your humiliation and to keep you from being able to climax. You will be required to be fully veiled everywhere outside of your room as you were in the school, and outside of the Wives’ Quarters, you will be gagged as I am a Muslim and believe the female voice to be awrah.
Everyday you will be required to sit in attendance of me for five hours whilst I entertain friends or attend to business. Otherwise your time is your own, except when I require servicing.
Other things, let me think. Oh yes, your toilet visits will be replaced by a daily enema, and you shall be sharing a room with my second wife, Lina. That is all, I am tired now and need to sleep. Goodnight.”
I slept with him that night, but the following morning, after another humiliating bout of anal sex, I was escorted to my new room, bathed, clothed and fed by my maid, who like Fatima stripped down to her underwear to see to my needs, and like Fatima was incredibly sexy, though she – Jay was her name – was Thai, not Arabian, and unlike Fatima was interested in playing no sex games, attending to me with an indifference that I found almost as excruciating.
Then, whilst I was eating, the door opened and a figure wearing a beautiful green burqa walked in. The burqa and other veils were removed and I met Lina.
Lina was of course beautiful. Bin-Hussein only selected beautiful women and he had the power and money to select only the very best. But it was not her beauty that captivated me, but her personality and smile. Once undressed down to a chastity belt and Venus Corset she sat down besides me and smiled. “Are you Ihbat?” she asked. “I’m so glad that you’ve come. I was so lonely here with only the maids and other wives for company, (and I don’t much get on with them I’m afraid). I do so hope we can become friends.”
And we did. For the first time since my kidnapping, here was someone who liked me, was friendly towards me and did not want to play unfulfillable sex games with me. She smiled and laughed and we talked daily for hours on every topic under the sun. However, I’m afraid that whenever I saw her laughing brown eyes, long dark hair and smiling mouth, I felt pangs of desire even stronger than I ever had with Fatima or anyone else. The fact was, that I was in love with her, and she with me, (she didn’t know that I was man, but confessed one night in tears that she had always preferred women.
After that we kissed and stroked each other with our legs and intermingled our still-free lower bodies in bed every night, but of course, not once could we do what lovers want to, and now even more than ever the frustration was killing me.
And so that became my life. Everyday I awoke besides my love, a love whom I could never have, was showered and prepared by the maids, (including the humiliating experience of an enema, something which I haven’t got used to to this day), and then shrouded in a mass of heavy cloth until I was stifled and almost blind and then forced with my love to walk to bin-Husseini’s chamber where we sat, his four wives on a carpet in silence whilst he conducted business, smoked his hookah or laughed and played with friends. Then, when it was time for the midday nap, he would summon one of us to pleasure him, (normally orally), whilst the rest were sent home. Whenever Lina was called I felt so jealous that another man was enjoying her that my heart burned, and when I was called I felt dread and disgust at having to service one of my own sex.
In the afternoons we would sit in the Wives’ Quarter with the other wives, (Aisha and Sham, though later on Sham disappeared as she was the eldest and bin-Husseini was bored of her, and replaced by Scheherazade, an Iranian). Like Lina, they interested me little, I found them haughty and boring, though I have to admit that it was there that I learnt the allure of the veil. Previously I’d never understood why some men find veils sexy, yet there I grasped it. Sat beside this women, talking to her and hearing her beautiful voice, knowing that she was a lady on a par with Helen of Troy, but unable to see anything of her features, my imagination went into overdrive, knowing that she was so near, yet so far, so perfect and yet so unattainable. I was always glad to return to my chamber but then seeing my Lina in there in all her loveliness, well… no stress was relieved.
So we spent our days gossiping, listening to songbirds, drinking Arabian tea, and admiring each others clothes, whilst at night, at erratic times we were summoned to pleasure our Husband and Master, in all manner of strange and unpleasant ways.
And all the time of course, clad in a Venus Corset. An uncomfortable garment that left my waist tiny and my arms dead, and I forever helpless and unable to do the simplest things like open a door or hold my beloved Lina.
My life as such continued in such a way for just under a decade until the charms of youth slowly started to fade.
Then one day I was summoned to bin-Husseini and after I had milked him with my mouth, he told me.
“I have divorced you,” he said. “Your charms are fading and you have started to bore me. I have a new She-Male wife being prepared at Medrassah Purdah. You are to be remarried.”
“Thank you Master,” I said.
He didn’t tell me who my new husband was to be, but manys the tear that was shed as Lina and I knew that we were to be separated forever. Two days later, I was prepared as I had been for my marriage to bin-Husseini and ensconced in blinding burqas married in another Islamic ceremony.
Then I was returned to my chamber and enclosed in my travelling cocoon before being sent to sleep.
I awoke clad in a burqa, my Venus Corset on, and a key – the key to my chastity belt!- hung around my neck. I sat and waited.
Two hours later, the door opened. A burqa-clad figure walked in. ‘A maid,’ thought I.
The figure stopped and wiggled. It lay on the floor and then stood up. It was removing its burqa. After a while I helped, and the figure was free.
“Lina!” exclaimed I.
“Ihbat!” exclaimed my love.
“I was told that I would find my husband waiting in here.”
“And I was told that my wife would be coming.”
“Then you must be… but you’re a…”
“No,” said I. “They transformed me. I still have a…”
“Then we are husband and wife! Bin-Husseini has a heart after all! He tired of us and so he put us together so that we may at least have some happiness.”
I couldn’t believe it. “The key… to my belt, it’s around my neck.”
I took off hers with my mouth and opened up those precious realms.
“Now your turn!” she said, using her mouth to take off that precious golden key. She moved down to my lower regions and fitted it to the keyhole. It would not however, turn.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I can’t get it to turn.”
Then a terrible but familiar laughter filled the room. It came from a loudspeaker on the wall.
“Ladies! You are free of me,” said bin-Husseini. “You are married to each other and now live in your own little palace, all paid for by I. However, I could not leave you without one little joke. Ihbat, I had your belt soldered shut whilst you were sleeping. It can never be opened. You will forever live up to your name.” He laughed once more and then the loudspeaker was turned off.
“Live up to my name?” I said. “What does he mean?”
“Ihbat, have you never realised?”
“Ihbat. It’s Arabic for frustrated. You are al-Ihbat. The Frustrated One. That was their plan all along. You will never receive any sexual satisfaction.”
Copyright © 2004, Dave Potter