Ihbat

Ihbat

Chapter 1

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.

Al-Ihbat,

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.

 

Chapter 2

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.

And confused.

“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.”

 

Chapter 3

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.

 

Chapter 4

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.

 

Chapter 5

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.”

“What requirements?”

“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.

 

Chapter 6

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.”

“Oh Christ!”

“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.”

 

Chapter 7

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.

 

Chapter 8

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.”

 

Chapter 9

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.

 

Chapter 10

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.

“But…”

“But…”

We laughed.

“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.”

“Mine too.”

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?”

“Realised what?”

“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.”

FINIS

Copyright © 2004, Dave Potter

 

 

 

Leyla’s Plight

Leyla’s Plight

N.B. This story is not really mine, but more one that I adapted some years ago. The original was called ‘What I Had Always Wanted’ by Mark. Basically, I rewrote it from a standard US setting to a Saudi one with veils, with the initial idea of posting it on Tales of the Veils before deciding it perhaps wasn’t best suited there. Not my best work, it nonetheless deserves to be made public for those who like TG stories.

Dave

Chapter 1         

Ever since I can remember I have been fascinated by women’s clothing. Well, at least, the clothes that you can see which here in Saudi Arabia is not very much, only the outer layer, all-encompassing black abayahs, black headscarves and black face-veils. Probably it’s because I am a man and straight that when I see those mysterious veiled figures walking up and down the streets that I feel excited by them and want more, and since I can only see the veils, then it is the veils that capture my imagination. Yes, it’s because I’m straight that I did what I did that day, not because I’m gay. In my mind gays are evil, against the Law of Allah and should be stoned. I have never been gay, which in some ways makes it all harder.

That day I was alone in the house. My father had gone out and my mother and three sisters, (two older, one younger), had gone to the shopping mall. When I was sure that I would be alone for a long time, I went into the room of Saffira, my eldest and most elegant sister, and started getting out her clothes. Of course I didn’t want anyone to catch me; my sisters would never stop making fun of me and dad would have a fit, but I knew that they’d be away for hours and if they found any clothes out of place I could blame it all on Naima, my youngest sister, who I blamed for everything and she would get the beating.

So, I went into her walk-in wardrobe and picked out a beautiful embroidered abayah which I fitted over my head. Then came a pair of finely-tailored opera gloves in black satin and high-heeled shoes for my feet. Then a headscarf and finally a veil, fitted over my face and tied at the back. My family aren’t strict but sometimes occasion demands extra modesty and this was my sister’s most serious veil with three layers that could be flipped down inidividually. The first was thick but left the eyes free, the second thinner but covered the eyes in a fine gauze and the third thick and almost blinding. Walking around with just the first down was strange; my breath warmed my face up quickly. Then I flipped down the second. It was weird, everything seen in a haze. Then, excited, I flipped down the third. I could only make out the dimmest of outlines and felt enclosed, covered and controlled. I also felt alone in my cocoon and sat down on a chair to daydream about how it must be to wear such clothing every time you leave the house as some religious girls do. Unfortunately, I was so lost in my reveries that I only heard the key turning in the lock when it was too late.

I later learnt that they had come back early because mum had forgotten her credit card.


Chapter 2

When mum opened the door all she saw was a strange woman sat on her sofa. She said hello and I froze. I have never been so terrified in my life. Then she figured out who it really was and went crazy. My sisters had joined her by this time and their reaction was a mixture of anger and laughter. I was just humiliated. Mum said I was disgusting and continued pleading to Allah as to why He had sent her a son who was gay and wanted to be a girl. I tried to tell her that I wasn’t gay and I had just always wondered what it felt like to be veiled. She wouldn’t listen though and told me that I was really in trouble and that my dad would kill me. Immediately I realised dad would be back home soon and I begged my mother to allow me to change back into my male clothes but she refused saying that he should see me in all my shame. I had to sit in the kitchen in dread for three hours and wait for my father, all the while begging her to let me change.

Finally my father arrived. He flipped out too. He gave me ten strikes with the cane and made me promise never ever to wear girls’ clothes again. My mother wasn’t satisfied though. She said that she didn’t believe my promise and she suspected that I would merely go back to  what she called my ‘habit’ but would just be more careful. She had a different punishment in mind. Since I loved dressing up like a girl so much, she would see to it that I got a chance to dress up often. In fact, she said, I would dress up so often that I would become sick of it and would never want to touch women’s clothing again. My father was reluctant, but eventually agreed that a drastic solution was required.

Mortified, I listened as my sentence was passed. I was to dress up like a girl all the time for three months. I nearly fainted. My sisters all thought it was hilarious. Naima said that it was Allah’s judgement after all the times I had had her punished for deeds that weren’t hers. Dad said that to save shame and embarrassment, he would tell everybody that Abdul had left to stay with an uncle and that our cousin from Asir Province was staying with us in return. From now on the family would refer to me as Leyla instead of Abdul.

Saffira laughed at this. She said that since I was supposed to be from Asir Province which is very conservative and since I had voluntarily chosen her most severe outfit, then it was obviously my wish to be dressed as an extremely pious musilmah for the next three months. All my sisters and my mother agreed with this and said that the life of pious Leyla would start the next day.

The next day I woke up. Saffira showed me how to shave all the hair off my body including that around my genitals which was most humiliating. Then she and Saeeda, my middle sister, placed a steel sheathe over my penis. Pushing my testicles back into my body she pulled the two chains through my legs, pulling my penis securely between my legs. She then pulled the chains through my arse crack and around my waist, closing them with a small lock. I would now have to sit in order to urinate. There would be no more telling bulge in front of my panties. Instead it looked like all I had was a girl’s empty cavity. Worse of all, I would not be able to have an erection. In fact, having an erection would be painful. They locked this chastity belt and gave the key to mum. When I protested they said that wearing a chastity belt fitted in with my religious image as I would be around non-mahram men here in Riyadh. Mum also said it would help me to become more feminine as I would have to sit down to pee. They then dressed me in panties, a bra, pantyhose, an undershirt, an abayah, headscarf and veil. When I protested that veils were only for outdoors they said that women in Asir Province wear them indoors as well. Even dressed in all that though, they weren’t happy. They said that my eyebrows looked too male so Naima sat me down and plucked them into two rounded arches. She then showed me how to do my makeup and fix my hair.

I was horrified when my mother told me that we were going to the mall. Desperately I begged her not to humiliate me publicly. I only liked dressing up privately. I didn’t hurt anyone, why was I being punished? My father explained that I was doing something unnatural and that this would show me my place. He watched sternly as my mother and sisters helplessly dragged me to the car. My mother explained that since I would be completely covered, I would not be embarrassed. People would just think I was a regular teenage girl. Which is what I had wanted anyhow, she told me.

We went of to the mall. First we went to buy clothes for me. My mother bought a whole new wardrobe for me. I could have died as we walked into all these women’s clothing stores and mom and Saffira told the pretty sales girls ALL about me, my punishment and why I was being punished. They all laughed at me and were very enthusiastic about dressing me up.

Then we went to a hair salon and got extensions put in my hair so that I now had a wavy ebony mane that reached to my middle back. Great, how would I explain that to the guys at school when I was allowed to become Abdul again? Then we got my ears pierced. The process didn’t last long but it did sting. Soon I had three studs in each ear. That was another thing I would have to explain at school.

Finally we went to eat. It was really difficult trying to eat as a girl, pushing my food under a veil so as not to reveal any skin. Many women seemed to easily see through my disguise and I drew many stares. I also drew many stares of a different nature from the men. I hated those.

When we got home my mother and sisters spent hours making me practice walking and talking as a girl. As I angrily complained they asked me if when I went out in public, which would be often, I would like everyone to know my real gender. That made me shut up as I quickly became more adept at acting feminine. When they were done I went down to where dad was. He made me strut around for him. He sneeringly remarked that I was really hot and would make a good lay. It was obvious that he no longer respected me anymore. I also found that dad had locked away all my boy’s clothes. I would only get those for school. My closets were now filled with dresses, skirts and lingerie while I had several pairs of heels. In desperation I cried out, “Allah, please let these three months pass quickly!” At this my sisters sniggered and mum said that it might be more than three months. I didn’t understand what she meant and asked her to explain.

She answered me. “You’re manhood is now on trial. When you prove to me that you are really a man then I’ll believe that you have overcome your perverted habit. If you do not prove your manhood then something else will be done. We’re doing this for your own good. We will not allow you to be a perverted faggot and freak for the rest of your life. You are either a man or a woman. Now we’ll find out which one you are.” She did not say anything more. So began my new life.


Chapter 3

My life changed completely. There was no more school and instead I had to stay at home and help with the chores. My sisters would often have me run errands or take me out in public. It was absolutely humiliating. Especially when old neighbours and acquaintances recognised me. At home all the housework was given to me. I virtually became a maid. My social life died, as I no longer would hang out with my friends. Worse though was the death of my sex life. That was really frustrating. As I said before, I’m not gay and I love girls. I’ve met with quite a few and I have the usual sex drive of a healthy teenage male. Strangely wearing those clothes excited me even more and treated as a woman, I got to see lots of my sister’s hot friends unveiled, but wearing that chastity belt I couldn’t even masturbate. It drove me nuts.

My mother and sisters taught how to raise my voice by one octave and to speak with a girlish lisp. Whenever I was at home I had to talk like a girl. However, they all agreed that my speech as a female was not entirely convincing and so to save embarrassment and to fit in with my new religious image, I would have to wear a gag whenever I left the house. Saffira and Saeeda took me to the mall again and selected a really large inflatable one that hurt my mouth when it was in and inflated but certainly blocked out any sound.

Now I no longer went out. Except when my sisters took me to their friends’ houses where I was humiliated by girls my own age or to shopping malls. Always I was gagged and veiled and after a couple of weeks they started putting handcuffs and shackles on me saying that religious girls sometimes wore them to give them shorter steps and to protect their modesty. I was like a toy that my sisters wheeled out to play with for their own pleasure. After all the years I bullied them and blamed them for things I suppose they were getting their revenge. I didn’t realise until then how much all the women in the house actually hated the spoilt only son. But by then it was too late to change it.

Another thing I found is that women’s clothing is very uncomfortable. It was one thing to wear them now and again around the house, it’s another story to dress up for a long time. High heels made my feet ache. The pantyhose itched and they were too hot. The bra really irritated my chest and I could never get used to the falsies that I had to wear so that it looked like I had breasts. Worst though were the veils. I had to get used to walking outside half-blinded, all the time black material sticking to my nose as I overheated inside my female attire.

Changes around the house continued. Slowly my room was redecorated. My old blue bedspread and drapes were removed. So were my posters of athletes and half-naked models. In their place came pink sheets and drapes. I got new pink wallpaper. Posters of ballerinas and cats were put up on my wall. So was a poster of a famous male singer, a gift from Saeeda. Thanks a lot sis! Female vocalists and male pop groups that all the girls gushed over replaced my alternative and hard rock CD’s. I was getting everything a normal teenage girl could ever want. Except that I was not a normal teenage girl. Photographs of “Abdul” were removed and replaced by photographs of “Leyla.”

After a few months everyone got used to having me around dressed like a girl. Indeed, if you had not known me from before you would think that I was a perfectly natural female. My dad, who had snubbed me for a month, soon seemed to warm to his new daughter. He always called me Leyla and treated me as if I had always been a girl. Mum in the meantime was a harsh taskmaster who made sure I stayed in character.

Then my birthday came. All I got as a present was more girl’s clothes, jewellery and lingerie, which was annoying. I figured that at least when this punishment was over I’d have lots of presents to give my future girlfriends.

As another month passed I began to hear rumours through Saeeda that mum and dad were beginning to think that it was time to see if I deserved a reprieve. This made me happy.

On the last day of the month I was called into the living room for a family meeting. As usual, I was dressed like a girl. On the table were a bottle of glue and a box of tampons

“Leyla,” began my mother, “this is a family meeting to decide your future concerning this punishment. We must decide for your own good whether you will now go back to being a man or whether we will move on to the punishment’s second stage. You will have no say in this. I don’t believe that you are in a position to judge clearly. After all, you’ll probably be concerned with all sorts of trivial nonsensical things like what your friends will think. That can be taken care of. For your own good we must decided whether you are really male or female deep down inside. Trust me, you don’t want the real you stuck in a closet until it emerges under tragic circumstances. If changes must be made, they should be made while you are still young, before you get married and have a family. We as impartial observers will judge.” Normally I would have bellowed I should decide for myself but I was by now used to demurely doing what I was told. And besides, Saffira had made sure that I was firmly gagged at the time.

My father spoke first. “I think we should end this punishment. I don’t think Abdul will ever want to touch women’s clothing again. He has constantly shown that he does not enjoy wearing women’s clothes and finds them uncomfortable. He’s definitely a man.”

Mum did not agree. “Look how well those clothes fit. How he talks and walks like a girl. These feminine tendencies of his are very deep. Look how he now sits quietly while we decide his fate. If he were really a man he would be yelling his head off. Outside no one can distinguish him from a woman. He’s very attractive and draws the attention of all the men. Abdul is obviously meant to be a young attractive young lady whether he wants to admit it or not. Whatever he may say because of society’s influence. This is obvious to any impartial person who can observe him now. Why, during the past few months he has even stopped complaining about dressing like that. He may as well have been dressing like this all his life, which he actually has been doing in secret before I caught him. Acting like a girl is second nature to him. He needs more time as a girl so that we can see better.”

My father argued back. “He is so good at acting like a girl because he has been dressing like one for eight months and for quite some time in secret. He hasn’t been complaining because he has gotten used to it and now sees that whining won’t get him anywhere.”

“You’ve just proven my point. You admit that he has been dressing up like a girl for a long time. And you’ve noted how he has gotten used to acting like a girl. Tell me, would any real man get used to dressing like a girl ever? You just say he’s a boy because admitting he’s a girl makes you insecure about your masculinity.”

Deadlock. My parents turned to my sisters. They were obviously just there to give advice and contribute their opinions. Normally nothing they would say would decide anything; this was my parent’s decision. But now that they were at an impasse they asked Saffira, Saeeda and Naima what they thought. I was overjoyed. They would surely tell mum that I should go back to being a boy. Instead they got me back for all the years when I made their lives hell.

Saffira, being the eldest, spoke first: “I agree with mum. Not only that, but Abdul has told me in confidence that he will continue dressing like a girl in private and that he is happy that this punishment gave him so much experience.” Then Saeeda and Naima added, “Not only that, he told us that he likes the attention he gets from men and will remember to experiment with them in the future.” That decided it. Dad looked disappointed. He got up and left the room. Mum ordered me to strip. I told her emphatically that they were lying but she didn’t believe me.

Once all my clothes were off Saffira took some glue and stuck my falsies to my chest. Mum said that she had the solution that would negate the glue and that she would only apply it when she thought I could be a man again. My falsies would only be taken off for a short period of time so I could wash my chest or when I no longer needed them.

As a final step my mother picked up the box of tampons. She announced that from this time on this week of the month would be my period. During the week of my so-called period I was expected to put a tampon up my arse! I looked at her in shock. “Why Leyla,” she cut in, “being a girl isn’t all fun and games. You have to experience the hardships of being a girl too.” She then asked me to bend over while she ceremoniously shoved my first tampon up my arsehole. Talk about uncomfortable and humiliating.

After that awful evening things went from bad to worse. My mother got a prescription for female hormones and would only give me food to eat if I took one of the pink estrogen pills. My skin began to get soft. I began to get thinner everywhere except for my hips which began to swell. Worse yet, when I got my falsies taken off so I could wash my chest, I noticed that I had begun to grow breasts. My mother religiously measured my chest to check my progress.

I was still trying to convince mum that I was not meant to be a girl. I pointed out that I liked girls, not boys. My mother retorted that I would never know whether I liked boys or not because I had never had any sexual experience with boys. This gave Saffira an idea. She and Saeeda took me to a place where boys and girls meet secretly away from the eyes of the religious police. When I was Abdul I’d gone there quite a few times to meet girls. Having a sexual relationship outside of marriage is illegal here in Saudi but that doesn’t mean to say that it can’t be done. I used to love going there, seeing a beautiful pair of female eyes peeping out from behind some veils, and then taking her back to the car for a little illegal fun. This time though, I wasn’t looking forward to it at all. This time it was me who was veiled and it was the boys who wanted me now, not the girls.

Saffira found me a boyfriend and we went to his car. He was skinny and not a good-looking man at all. He was really horny though and jumped at the opportunity to go out with the attractive hot young teen he thought I was. He was a real prick. During the first three dates it was all I could do to keep him from ripping off my clothes and discovering that I was really a boy. This was crazy, my family could not making me act like a homosexual.

At fist I started making plans to run away and go to the police to complain about child abuse. But then I realised that this would mean total public humiliation for myself and my family, so I decided that it would be better to bide my time. Goodness only knew what people would think if they found out I had been forced to live like a girl for five months. Not to mention what they would think when they found out that I had originally enjoyed putting on girl’s clothing. I could afford to bide my time. Nothing that had been done to me up until now was permanent, right?

I still felt sure that my family would eventually come to its senses and this madness would stop without total embarrassment. Eventually dad would make mum stop. Or eventually my sisters would stop being angry at me and would tell my parents that they had lied when they had said I would continue acting girlishly once the punishment was over. As for my mum, I knew that she had decided that I must really be a girl at heart. My mother was quite strict about sex roles, even more than my father. I always felt that she did not know how to relate to me as her son. Now she got to relate to me as her daughter and got to dress me up however she wanted. I got to be every mother’s dream, a daughter who acted like her mother’s personal barbie doll. She would curl my hair, help me put on make-up and buy me earrings. Everyday in the morning my face was plastered with foundation, my eyebrows trimmed and thick pink lip gloss put on my lips which made them look like they were pouting for a man.

When I complained to Saffira that I could not hold off Hussain’s (my boyfriend) advances anymore, she told me to suck his cock. That way I could satisfy him without removing my clothes. I was a girl now so it was something I was supposed to love. I felt disgusted. But one night as I was alone with Hussain in his car he went berserk He lifted up my skirt and was ready to rip off my panties and panty hose. He was virtually threatening to rape me. Desperately I went down on my knees and opened his zipper. Taking his cock out, I kissed it and took it into my mouth. Using my tongue and pink glossy lips I made him hard. As his dick grew I nearly gagged. I felt like throwing up as it was. Finally he came in my mouth and I had to swallow his salty white cum. I felt like throwing up.

From then on Saffira made sure that I satisfied Hussain adequately. According to him, I was an amazing cocksucker. Saffira asked me for my method, although she told me that she hated oral sex but thought it was worth while to know anyway. She thought oral sex and cock sucking was kind of kinky. It was something kinky girls like me, her depraved cousin, did.

While Hussain was having a grand time I was getting more and more frustrated. I could not have an erection, let alone cum. Just looking at a girl caused my penis to strain against the sheathe, causing me excruciating pain. It drove me nuts that a wimp like Hussain was being granted continuous sexual gratification while someone like me couldn’t even bear to look at a woman anymore because this would cause my penis to begin swelling. I had to train myself to stop thinking about hot women and to stop staring at hot women, which was probably exactly what mum wanted. All my pathetic attempts to break the sheath’s lock failed.

In the meantime I was being forced to play the role of a girl with Hussain it was becoming too much to bear. The hormone pills were making my body more and more girlish. My mother monitored how much I was eating and forced me to eat only small amounts of food in order to ” keep my figure. ” This made me hungry all the time. On top of all this I was still expected to do the cooking and housework.

All my pleading for this process to stop fell on deaf ears. I told mum angrily that a psychologist, not her, should decide whether I was male or female. To my surprise, she agreed and told me that she had already contacted some doctors who would deal with my case. I was happy, now they would explain that I had only been going through a stage and that my habit was a small thing. They would make mum treat me like a boy. Mum and my sisters though, had other things in mind.

Mum had indeed contacted some doctors. She had called Dr. Tariq Abbas, a Pakistani plastic surgeon just out of med-school who wanted to open his own private practice and greatly appreciated ANY job he could find. He also appreciated the large amount of money my parents, who were not poor at all, threw at him. She had also called Dr. Mohammed Atta, a veteran psychologist who was extremely fascinated with my case. He was a sexologist who eagerly wanted to examine a case of a boy being turned into a girl. How this would affect him/her. He was also quite impressed with the money my parents gave him.

So it was that one day I was taken to the hospital for a check up. I was rather nervous when the doctor, Dr. Abbas, checked my identification. My I.D. listed me as male, but Dr..Abbas didn’t seem to mind. He injected me with what she told me was a vaccine. It was really anaesthetic. As I began to get drowsy and dose off, the last thing I remember seeing was a blurry picture of Dr. Abbas looking down at me with sympathy and muttering to himself, “It’s amazing in the end what I’ll do for money.”

When I woke up some time later, something felt different. My chest. I had breasts! Dr. Abbas had given me implants. They weren’t obscenely big but they were large enough to make most girls of my age envious. I was stunned. This could not be happening. I wanted to make a scene, I should have made a scene, but I was too stunned. My mother took me home. I merely sat in the car quietly, staring out the window. How could they do this to me? This was no longer some sort of joke. This was real. I suddenly realised that maybe my optimism had been misguided. Maybe dad had come to terms with my alleged girlishness. I noticed that ever since that day when my sisters had convinced mum and dad to make me continue living as a girl he had not been acting the same way towards me. He was more gentle, condescending even. My sisters were still pissed off at me. I began to feel trapped. In the meantime my mother explained that she had been told that hormones would at most make me a B-cup so she decided to go for implants to make my breasts bigger. All the while I felt the new sensation of having breasts, this was all too strange.

When we got home I ran to my room and stayed there. I only came out to fix dinner and then left without eating anything. Not that mum let me eat much anyway. This was permanent. This showed me that this was no longer some messed up punishment meant to exhaust any girlish tendencies. My parent’s believed that I wanted to be a girl deep down inside. What made things worse was that everyone acted as though nothing was wrong. As if it was perfectly normal for me to have breasts.

The next day I was alone with dad. He asked me if everything was okay and how the breasts felt. I told him that I didn’t want to have breasts. I demanded to be taken to a psychologist. My dad agreed and I was taken to Dr. Atta.

Hussain, of course, was thrilled with the change. Up until now. I had only let him touch my breasts through my shirt. If they were under my shirt, my falsies could pass for real breasts. Now of course, I didn’t need falsies to fill my bra since I had breasts. This meant I could go topless in front of Hussain and let him play with my breasts all he wanted. That was the one advantage about getting implants. It really did feel good when someone played with them. If they hadn’t been associated with so much humiliation, I may have actually enjoyed them.

I continued meeting with Dr. Atta. I told him that I did not want to become a girl. That I only had a tiny curiosity about girl’s clothing. That I was totally heterosexual and utterly loved my penis and wanted without any doubt to be a man. Dr. Atta was very polite and listened to me. Then he went to write his report. He said that I had a deep subliminal desire to be a woman. That I would be happier in the long run as a woman. That the only reason why I claimed to want to be a man was because I was afraid of what my friends might think. That despite my verbal claims that I wanted to be a man, my actions clearly indicated that I was a woman deep down inside. I fit perfectly into the feminine role. I totally looked, talked and walked like a girl. He said I was enjoying a healthy relationship with Hussain and that I excelled as the girl in a relationship, making a subtle reference to my cock sucking abilities. Finally, he wrote that I was overjoyed to have breasts and that I loved playing with them. This was followed up by mum’s testimony. She had caught me playing with my breasts on more than one occasion. I mean, what else did they expect me to do with my dick tied up as it was, a guy had to find relief somehow.

Of course Naima, who never seemed to mature and didn’t seem to understand that this was my life she was playing with, remembered to throw in enough imaginary stories about me telling her how desperately I wanted to be a girl and how I was totally crazy about Hussain. She was still pissed off about all the tales I’d told about her when I was Abdul so she was getting me back. My parents of course believed everything she said and this seemed to strengthen my mother’s resolve to feminise me and my father no longer tried to restrain her.

So it was that my family with the help of Dr. Atta and some more money thrown in on the side got my birth certificate changed. I was no longer listed as a boy named Abdul but as a girl named Leyla. All my ID was changed. I was not informed of this and I would only find out at the end of the summer.

When they did tell me though, I just looked down at my now heaving breasts and cried. My dad told me not to worry and to be brave, they had taken care of everything and soon my ordeal would be over and he felt sure that I would be much happier. I hugged my dad. Ever since I had got my breasts he was always being very nice to me. Just that he kept treating me as if I was his daughter, “daddy’s little girl.” I just would have preferred to play football with him or any of the other things fathers normally did with their sons. No matter how many times I asked him if he wanted to kick a football around with me or even wrestle like we used to, he’d politely and quietly refuse. He just wasn’t interested in doing those things with me anymore; they weren’t fitting activities for a growing girl to engage in. And when he said ‘growing’ he’d point at my chest which only emphasised my situation.


Chapter 4

I realised that if I wanted to put a stop to all this, it would not be done through the police, it would have to be done through my psychotherapist, Dr. Atta. As of yet I still hadn’t realised that Dr. Atta was actually supporting my continued feminisation. I thought he was just being misled by my mother and my sisters. He actually was ecstatic about reviewing my case and was eagerly keeping track of my physical, mental and societal changes. Later on he would write an excellent scientific report on my case that would earn him quite a bit of recognition. However, I just decided that next time I saw him I would have to demand an outright cessation of what my family was calling my reassignment.

Others were hostile and some, particularly Naima’s friends, were downright violent. When I was taken to their houses for coffee, I was kept gagged and restrained whilst they enjoyed pinching my breasts and feeling the implants. All I could do was try to ignore their taunting or curl up into a ball when they might try to hit me.

Many more people such as mum’s friends who I had known since childhood were just plain curious. These were also annoying. They asked all these embarrassing questions about why I wanted to be a girl and how it felt to have breasts and hips and so on. This obsession with my budding girlishness bugged me. I just wanted things to be as they always had been. I might look like a girl but I was still the same Abdul, right?

My mum made me drop all my studies and instead said I must concentrate on feminine pursuits. I was also enrolled in a belly-dancing class and I soon became an excellent belly-dancer. I also regularly did aerobics at a local female gym and in my room at home. My mum made sure I got plenty of exercise.

The only advantage out of all this was that before and after gym class I was able to get a good look at the girls changing in the locker room.

At home I still had to do all the housework, mum kept making sure I was acting feminine, continually criticising everything I did. Dad just treated me like a ditzy teeny bopper. My sisters still frequently made fun of me. I got no relief anywhere.

Worse of all though, Saffira found me a new boyfriend. This guy was not like Hussain at all. He was 19 years old (I had turned seventeen recently) and he was really big. Hussain had been my age and was just a horny little wimp who had been lucky enough to go out with me. This guy was a muscle bound jock who could have any girl he wanted and he wanted to go out with me. This just drove home to me that I really was turning into a girl. Not just a pretty girl, but a knockout. I had incredible breasts. Between the hormones I was taking, the aerobics, and the starvation diet mum had me on, I had an amazing body. I often got an erection just by looking at myself in the mirror while I dressed, that was really weird. I was really hot and now I had a really sexy man to go out with. Thanks a lot Saffira.

As for Hussain, he’d moved to Doha but we still kept in touch. We mailed mushy sappy love notes to each other. At my Saffira’s suggestion Saeeda took several revealing photographs of me posing in lingerie and sent them to him. Hussain was overjoyed and wrote to me that he had hung them on his wall and would stare at them for hours, pining away for me. Yeah right. Under all of this I was still a guy and I knew what he was doing. He probably used those pictures when he masturbated. Just what I had always wanted, to be the object of a guy’s sex fantasy.

Zaheer (my new boyfriend) was really impulsive, just like Hussain. Unfortunately, while I was able to fight off the smaller Hussain whenever he became too aggressive, I was powerless to hold off Zaheer. To begin with, Zaheer was satisfied to feel me off and to have me suck his cock. I really hated sucking cock, the thought of swallowing cum just repels me. I just don’t understand those girls who do. My girlfriend (before all this started) was quite a cock sucker. She loved cum. The taste and smell of it drove her nuts. Of course, not all girls were like this. I knew that Saffira hated sucking cock. But she thought it was alright if her little cousin did it. Zaheer was really hard to suck. His dick was much bigger then Hussain’s and it filled my mouth even before it even got hard. I nearly choked on it when it started growing, filling my mouth and moving into my throat pinning my tongue to the bottom of my mouth. Under those conditions I had to strain my cock sucking abilities to make him cum. But cum he did. He said that I was the best cock sucker he had ever dated.

But I could only hold him off for so long and eventually he got so lustful he just ripped off my abayah and underclothes, finding my chastity belt. I was terrified. After staring at it for five minutes he nodded and said that he understood since even if I was a whore at heart, I came from a religious family and so they must have seen through my modest façade to my depraved nature and made me take precautions Despite normal sex being an impossibility I was still one of the hottest dates he had ever had and he thought that dating me would be a real interesting experience. So we continued seeing each other.

Zaheer still wasn’t satisifed with cock sucking and soon introduced me to what he liked to call the subtle pleasures of anal sex. Yeah right! I have never felt more pain then when he shoved his massive thick cock up my arse again and again for the first time. I just started crying because of the pain and begged him to stop. All I could hear were his ecstatic shouts, at least he was enjoying himself. Finally, I was relieved by the feeling of his penis firing cum into my arse. Sometimes, when he wasn’t in too much of a rush he would remember to lubricate my arse before plunging his dick into it. Thank goodness for small mercies, eh? After getting reamed up the arse I usually couldn’t walk normally all day. If it was done without lubricant, which happened often enough, every step I took was painful and my arse ached liked crazy.

In the meantime, I was wondering where my parents were going with all this. They had told me that they were doing all this so that I would not be some sort of half female and half male freak. So they could decide whether I should be a woman or a man. I would not be some sort of freak. I could not be both. Yet here I had become some sort of female male. A sickening she-male creature. I looked like a red hot babe but I still had male genitals and I wanted to be a boy.

No, I was a boy and they couldn’t change that. Even as I stared at my reflection in the mirror I could feel the irony of those words. All my male musculature had disintegrated. One look at my breasts and my hips told me I was fighting a losing battle. I could only stare at the reflection of the hot blonde with a penis and repeat to myself “I am a boy, I am a boy.”

Of course my parents thought otherwise and Dr. Atta did not believe that at all. After all, I had now taken a second boyfriend. Naima of course threw in her usual set of lies about me crying over her shoulder that I wanted to be a girl and that the only reason that I had persisted in claiming to want to be a boy was because I was afraid of what everyone would think. Mum was totally convinced I wanted to be a girl and was doing everything to push me towards womanhood. As far as dad was concerned, I had always been his darling daughter Leyla deep down inside and that this was who I should be. Naima kept making me more and more girlish as her own perverse and draconian way of getting back at me for her childhood bullying.

When the holidays came we went away on a family trip to Doha. My sisters decided to up my regime as there was a lot more temptation in Doha and so insisted on me wearing a blinding veil everytime we left the hotel so as to preserve my purity. It was really weird being led everywhere like a lost puppy but at the same time kind of exciting. Not that I could get any relief of course. One evening when my parents went to the theatre,  Hussain came over to see me. My sisters left us alone and him and me sang cheesy pop songs in the room like a pair of love-sick kittens. Then he turned down the lights and put on soft music ready for long romantic night.

At least it was romantic for him. All I could think about was how much I missed my old girlfriend, the last one I had. A year ago we had also spent a romantic time at a hotel, in each others’ arms. Now I was the girl and Hussain was where I should be. I really missed my ex-girlfriend. I had dumped her over a childish reason. I didn’t care, as far as I knew there would be plenty of girls to come. But now I really missed her. Of course she was one of the people that my sisters had told that I wanted to be a girl. She was one of those who was hostile to me. The only time she spoke to me was when she needed to or when she wanted to make fun of me.

Anyway, me and Hussain stayed up most of night kissing and necking each other. Then, before my parents came home, Naima came in and suggested that I should break up with Hussain before I left. After all, I was now going out with Zaheer so it would only be fair to let Hussain know he could date other girls if he wanted to. As for me, I was just happy to get rid of Hussain. The less men I had to humour, the better. I also would not have to write anymore sappy debilitating letters to Hussain telling him how much I pined for him. However, I had not considered how evil Naima could be.

“So she told you then?” she asked Hussain

“Told me what?” Hussain demanded.

“That our sweet little Miss Leyla is really a boy.”

My mind screamed. Naima what are you doing? My face went deathly white as I looked back at Hussain. He thought it was a joke. Then when he looked at the terrified expression on my face he stopped laughing. “Wait a minute,” he said, “you can’t be serious.”

“See for yourself,” Naima responded. Before I noticed what she was doing, she came up to me and lifted up my skirt, swiftly yanking down my pantyhose and panties in one fell swoop to reveal the chastity belt. Then she produced the key, turned it and it swung open. My penis and balls were there for Hussain to see. I tried to push Naima away but instead my legs became tangled in my pantyhose and I stumbled in my high heels and fell on the floor. I looked up at him in terror as Naima smiled. “Farewell love birds,” she sang as she left the room.

Hussain looked at me with amazement. I slowly got up off the floor and fixed myself up. I was alone in the room with Hussain and he was between me and the door. I used to be bigger then Hussain, but he had matured and grown while I had become more girlish and small. No doubt about it, he could beat the crap out of me all he wanted. “Look,” I said, “you’re obviously upset and really pissed off at me. If you want to beat the crap out of me, I understand, but please show some mercy.”

Hussain took a step towards me. Anticipating a blow, I flinched and raised my hands up to my face. Instead he patted me on the shoulder and told me that he did not want to hurt me. He just wanted to get away from me. He said that if I wanted to be a girl, that was my business but that I had no right to fool him. He was obviously disgusted. He said he just wanted to get away from me. He headed to the door. As he was about to leave, he turned around and warned me that if anyone in town ever found out he had been dating a boy all this time, he would personally hunt me down and pummel me. I had to go down on my knees in front of Naima and beg her not tell anyone else about me. I was very grateful that he had not beaten me up.


Chapter 5

We packed up the next day and got back to Saudi. I was sinking into depression. The next day, Saffira told me she had a really big surprise for me. I groaned, that did not sound good at all. Towards the evening, Saffira told me that we were going out. Reluctantly I followed her into her car. The chauffeur drove through the city until finally we parked in front of an apartment building. Saffira led me into the building and up the elevator. She told me I was really going to love what was in store for me. I was sceptical about that. At last we reached an apartment door. Saffira knocked on the door. It was answered by a veiled figure who motioned for us to come inside. Once in she bolted the door and took off her veils and abayah to reveal a young woman who looked around Saffira’s age. She was wearing a bath robe. Smiling, she invited me and Saffira inside. Saffira told me to go sit on a nearby couch. I did so and she gave me a key; the key to my chastity belt. Saffira told me that she would pick me up later and left me alone with her strange good-looking friend.

When Saffira was gone, her friend introduced herself as Fatima. Smiling, she stood in front of me and let her bath robe fall down to the floor. She was wearing nothing but a short tight nighty that barely held her ample breasts and revealed her long shapely legs. I simply stared at her and I felt my penis harden. Fatima shook her head as all I could do was stare at her without moving. She glided on to the couch next to me and grabbed hold of my hand. “Abdul,” she said in a seductive voice, “has it really been so long that you don’t know what to do with a girl anymore? Maybe your sister is right and you really have become a girl yourself?” At first I blushed. She knew I was a boy. Then she sat up and kissed me on the lips and placed my hand on her breasts. Now I understood. She wanted me as a man. I hesitated for a moment.

Was I still capable? Did I really remember how to be a man in a relationship? I looked at cute Fatima. She smiled at me. Yes I did remember. In the next minute all the demure girlishness that I had about me vanished as I literally jumped on Fatima and gave her an aggressive passionate kiss. I threw off my feminine garments and let my long black hair down. All my feminine mannerisms that I had become so used to after a year and a half vanished. I stopped talking with a high feminine lisp and my old male voice came back. True my body looked totally feminine and slim and my breasts were still in the forefront, bobbing around. But I truly appeared like a man in a woman’s body. I really screwed Fatima and she loved it. I touched and felt every part of her great body and made her tingle. Finally I rammed my dick into her cunt and felt a rush of ecstasy come over me. Fatima let out a joyful cry as she climaxed, throwing her head back in delight.

The next day she served me breakfast in bed and we showered together. Saffira hadn’t come by yet and I wasn’t about to call her. Me and Fatima spend the day frolicking with each other and screwing around some more. I really scored with her. There was no doubt in my mind now. I was all male. I desperately wanted to be a man and to stay a man.

That evening, Saffira came to pick me up. Smiling, she told me that she hoped I had enjoyed myself but that it was time to go back home. Reluctantly, I once again donned my hateful garments, letting Fatima lock me back into my hateful belt before draping myself in layers of black. As we left, Fatima told Saffira that there was absolutely no way I was a girl. Saffira just smiled. On our way downstairs she reminded me not to get carried away. I still looked like a girl so I had better remember to keep acting like one. However, Saffira noted, I didn’t have to worry. Soon everything would be back to normal and my gender confusion would be resolved. All of this made me very happy. I would not be able to undo the humiliation of the past year and a half or the unpleasant experiences. But I felt confident that soon everything would go back to normal.


Chapter 6

The next day, my parents took me to Dr.Abbas’ new private clinic where he conducted plastic surgery. He had apparently been getting quite a name in plastic surgery and his reputation had grown immensely. I felt terrified when I saw him, after all this was the man who had given me breasts. I was however, assured by my parents that I was here so that the doctor could normalise everything. I was put under anaesthetic and joyfully anticipated waking up again with my breasts gone. When I did wake up, I was extremely dismayed to find that my breasts were still there and if anything they were bigger. Much bogger, a D-cup at least. As I sat up I felt a pain in my crotch. A sudden panic came over me. I quickly felt my crotch and there was a bandage on it. Why? I tried to call for someone but my voice was different. I looked at a mirror on the night table next to my bed. My Adam’s Apple, which had not been very prominent to begin with, was gone. My throat ached and so did my crotch. Dr.Abbas entered the room.

“What did you do to me?” I demanded. I was surprised by the sound of my own voice. It was higher and girlish.

” Well,” answered Dr.Abbas,” I covered up your Adam’s Apple, that would be a dead give away you know. I adjusted your vocal chords, giving you a higher feminine voice. Your parents didn’t think it was necessary since you spoke like a girl rather well as it was. But I convinced them that it was safer and was worth it as long as I was covering your Adam’s Apple. And of course I removed your penis and testicles and constructed a vagina in their place. “

I let out a hoarse screech in my new voice. “How could you! No! This can’t be happening! “

Dr.Abbas shook his head. “Look kid, I just did what your shrink and parents told me to do.” I couldn’t believe it. “I hope you’re happy,” he continued, “this operation isn’t reversible.” The next day he took off the bandages. There it was, my new cunt. I broke down crying. Later on I posed naked in front of a mirror. Staring back at me was my reflection. Now I totally looked like a hot teenage girl. I had long ebony hair. A shapely body. Large breasts and finally, a vagina. I spent the next week at Dr. Abbas’ clinic recuperating.

My mother and Naima came to stay with me. I screamed at them, but I just sounded pathetic with my new voice. Mum told me to stop being obnoxious. I should have known this was coming. I should stop pretending and realise that this was what I had always wanted. I was now fully a woman and could expect to stay that way for the rest of my life. I already knew that this was true. I guess I should have seen this coming. But I really did not want to be a girl. I could not imagine living the rest of my life as one.

The next few weeks were rough. At home I would periodically break out into tantrums during which I would lash out at anything or anyone around me. Finally I would collapse onto the floor and lie there sobbing. Or I would lie on the floor and thrash around. If my parents began to believe that they had made a mistake, they didn’t show it.

I never did see Fatima again. I now understood what Saffira had been up to. She had not done me a favour. My time with Fatima was more like a condemned man’s last meal before execution. This was my sisters’ ultimate revenge. I had experienced incredible sex with a woman. Now I would never have that feeling again. Now I would no longer be able to have sex with women, I would be on the receiving end from now on. The thought chilled me.

At least once I got “the chop” my life in settled down. Now that I was “all girl” my sisters quit bothering me so often. I guess they were all overawed by the fact that I had actually been castrated. After my operation mum and dad told everyone that Abdul had emigrated to America and that Leyla would now be living with them permanently. They had a massive garage sale where I had to watch as all of my old male belongings were sold. Then there was the final horrid thing that my evil sisters did. Naima had asked Dr. Abbas to preserve my genitals in a jar. Dr. Abbas had agreed. One night when my mother and father were out, my sisters showed me the jar. Then they lit a fire in our yard and forced me to throw my penis and genitals into the blaze. I had to watch as what once was my maleness burn to a crisp. After which I promptly threw up.


Chapter 7

Now that I was fully a woman – biologically that is, I still feel like a man inside – dad said that it was time for me to get married as I was at the age when most Saudi girls start to think about marriage. Mum and dad had had been looking at several men as suitable candidates for Saffira and Saeeda since they were also at the marriageable age and they said they would merely extend the search for a husband for me as well, but that it would be difficult because I couldn’t have children of my own. The thought of being in a wedding dress reduced me to tears. I had always fantasised about marrying a sweet attractive woman and living a great life with her as my partner. Now I was going to be the sweet attractive woman who would make my husband very happy. I felt like throwing up.

One day several months later they announced my engagement. Not just my engagement but mine and Saffira’s… to the same guy! He was a sixty-two year old businessman with a lot of money and a big beard. His name was Rashid and he was looking for a new wife because he had just buried his first and divorced his second because she was no longing pleasing to him. He had heard about my beauty and Saffira’s and approached my dad. He’d asked Saffira who agreed. I was never even asked. At first I couldn’t understand why Saffira would marry such an old guy but then she told me that she hoped he would die soon as he was old and smoked a lot. Then she would take over everything as first wife, including me. I asked if he minded that I couldn’t have children but dad said that he did not. He’d already had plenty of children with his first two wives and could always have more with Saffira. He was just taking me on as a kind of sex toy. I threw up when dad told me that.

On our wedding day Saffira and I were dressed in large puffy white dresses with tightly-laced waists. I could hardly breathe. Over the top were thick white veils that blinded us completely. During the whole ceremony and party I sat in darkness as everyone celebrated around me. Then we were led away to our new home on the other side of the city.

At our new house Rashid removed our veils and then explained to Saffira and me our future lives. He said that he was very strict about how his women should live and that in his opinion the only times a woman should leave the house are on her wedding day and for her funeral. So, there were to be no more shopping trips or social visits to other women. My house was also my prison. Inside the house we were to be veiled and gagged at all times save for eating, using the toilet and when he wanted us for sexual purposes. Then he flipped a coin to see who he would deflower first, (he thought that we were both virgins and precautions had been taken to maintain the illusion). It came up heads which meant Saffira. I was taken to my new room by a maid, stripped completely including the hated chastity belt, showered and then shown my new bedroom attire. There was a black ball gag that was buckled behind my head and padlocked, and a large sack that I had to climb into. It was made of very thick material and it blinded me completely. The only holes in it (after the one that I climbed in through was zipped up and locked), were for my hands. They were covered in thick leather gloves and then handcuffed behind my back to prevent ‘fiddling’. So, even after all this time I could not achieve release. I tried rubbing my new vagina against the bed but I could get nowhere near climax and in the end I fell asleep frustrated.

The following night Rashid had me in his bed. Once he had unveiled me, he grew very horny saying that I was the hottest girl he had ever been with. Like Zaheer he was very rough and liked to use all my holes. He also liked rubbing his knarled fingers over my tender breasts and his beard over my face. I still feel sick every time he gets near me. His breath stinks and he is only interested in his own pleasure. Still, when he uses my vagina I get some release but even so the thought of being with a man when I am a man myself, mentally at least.

My life now is a living hell. Rashid lived up to his promise of treating me as his personal sex object. He rarely takes Saffira to his bed, so pleased is he with my appearance and performance and there is always at least one of my holes aching from his rough advances. Not that Saffira minds of course; she prefers for him to stay away as that gives her more time with Aisha the maid, with whom she is conducting a lesbian relationship. I realise now that a lot of her actions with me are not about anything I have done to her personally, but simply because she hates men in general and I am the only one that she can wreak revenge on.

Although he doesn’t know I used to be a man, Rashid has worked out that my breasts were enlarged and she liked it so much that I have since had to undergo several more augmentations so that I now have two enormous perfectly round and fake-looking breasts on my chest. I have also had collagen implants in my lips so that I pout continually, (or at least whenever I am not gagged which is rare), and implants in my buttocks which are now so huge that I feel like I am sitting on cushions. He has also insisted that I dye my hair blonde and have permanent fingernail extensions so that even when my hands are not handcuffed behind me, I can do little with them. Finally, my tongue has been pierced so that my cock-sucking is even better for him than before and I have had large rings inserted in my nipples. These keep them constantly erect and me ready for sex. Worse though, when he is angry I am chained to the wall by them whilst he canes my enhanced arse. Each time the chain tugs on them the pain is unbearable.

In short I look like a total slut which is all that I am now. As I never leave the house, my whole life is dedicated to servicing him. After waking I am veiled and restrained, with at least one layers always covering my eyes and my hands always cuffed behind my back so that Aisha has to feed me and take me to the toilet. It is extremely humiliating. Recently I have had one more ritual added to my daily routine: a new exercise regime. The new exercise consists of a stationery bike. There is a difference, however. Instead of a horizontal saddle, this bike has a vertical one. Rashid started me at ten kilometres each day, currently I am at thirty kilometres, impaled on the bike for more than an hour. He says it has done wonders for my already large buttocks.

Whenever Rashid is not away from the house, he likes me near him. He may be watching TV or talking with friends and I must be always knelt at his side like a dog. Whenever he is alone he regularly gets his cock out and orders me to suck it. He has even introduced a special gag where the middle can be taken out so that it becomes a ring gag so that I can suck cock without him going to the trouble of unbuckling it. Of course I can’t speak gagged in such a way but he doesn’t care. He has never been interested in me in any way save for how I can be fucked.

The worst times are whenever he watches a game of football. At the start of our marriage he decided that I would receive one fuck for every goal scored. If his team wins then the sex will be conventional, if they draw it is oral and if they lose, anal. It is the World Cup next month and I am dreading it. Last time in Japan Saudi Arabia lost eight-nil to Germany.

So that is my life as Leyla, certainly not the one that I would have chosen that is for sure. When I think about what it would have been like if I’d not tried those veils on that day I cry for hours. I am used to being a girl physically now but being Rashid’s sex toy is unbearable. I just pray to Allah that he dies soon which he may as he coughs all the time from all the cigarettes that he smokes, but then I doubt that things will get better. Saffira has already told me about some of the plans they have for me when we are both widows and she is in charge. I need say no more…