Ascension in the East: Chapters 11-12

Chapters 9-10

Chapter 11 – The Phtuoch Phtaem

The following day at noon Steven and Jasmine, in full imperial regalia, entered into the palace temple. Present were four other figures: the Honourable Chandarith, the Prime Minister, the Head Priest and one of the generals whom had been present at the other ceremonies. First they had to all bow down before the immense golden image of the Buddha and offer incense, and only then the royal couple were bade to sit on two of five thrones arranged with one other simpler chair in the centre of the room. After this five pretty shrine maidens entered, each bearing a bowl of steaming liquid for their charges. They bowed low before the powerful guests and then proffered the bowls to them. Only the Honoured Chandarith did not have one. The royals looked questioningly at the Honourable Chandarith who said, “This is thveu aoy and it is necessary for you to drink it to partake in the ceremony. The Prime Minister, General and High Priest will also drink of it but I shall not, for me it is unnecessary. But it is entirely necessary for you because it helps you to focus your thoughts on the important things that we are going to say. Currently your minds get distracted much too easily, particularly our young royals. Ragaraja and Somanath who reside almost completely within your bodies now take your minds towards sexual activities constantly, but for this ceremony we need to dim and subdue those urges. Drink!”

Jasmine and Steven looked at one another and smiled. The chance to stop fixating on sex! Was that not what they had longed for? As the general, priest and politician sat on their thrones and drank, they did likewise.

Within seconds they were starting to regret it.

By the time that a minute had past they definitely regretted it and longed to strike the Honoured Chandarith for his honeyed words.

But they could not, for whilst the brew did do as he had promised it would and subdued all sexual thoughts whatsoever, it also had the effect of paralysing them completely. They could sit there, flicker their eyelids and see and hear perfectly, but that was all. It was a terrifying experience, like a vivid sleep paralysis.

After a couple of minutes had passed, the Honoured Chandarith spoke. “Welcome all of you to the Phtuoch Phtaem of Emperor Nguanamthom and Empress Sukkisawali of Sukhothai. In precisely two weeks’ time they shall be crowned as the omnipotent and omniscient monarchs of this ancient, sacred and beautiful realm and so it is that today they need to know how it really operates and what will be expected of them in the future. Gathered here today are all the people who are considered to be the powerholders in Sukhothai: the head of the government, the head of the faith, the head of the military and, finally, the rulers themselves, the semi-divine royal couple. Oh yes, and myself as emissary between all parties. You will have noted that the five members of the company have drank of the sacred thveu aoy. The General, Prime Minister and High Priest knew beforehand of the properties of the sacred thveu aoy, but our young royal couple were unaware. By now you shall have discovered that it is a paralysing agent as well as an excellent clearer of the mind. I shall not ask you to confirm or deny any of what I will say to you because you cannot. You are currently quite mute, which is fitting, since it is unnecessary for you to be able to communicate to anyone save each other from this day forward.”

‘What the fuck…?’ thought Steven to himself. The Honoured Chandarith sat down on the one simple chair and then said. “Will the people holding the real power in Sukhothai please rise?”

At first there was no movement and then, slowly but steadily, the general rose from his throne.

“General Anakkeanamnach Phdachkar did not drink thveu aoy like you,” said the Honoured Chandarith. His bowl contained tea. The others knew this but drank regardless. They knew the consequences for them and their families if they refused. Please General, explain to Emperor Nguanamthom and Empress Sukkisawali how things work around here.”

General Anakkeanamnach nodded, and then turned to the royal couple. “Eighty years ago this country was plunged into war. The Empire of Japan tried to defeat our ancient and sacred Sukhothai. They almost succeeded. Only one thing stopped them. It was not Buddha, it was not our political class and it was not the emperor. It was the army that stopped them and that was a lesson for us. To be strong, to defeat enemies inside and out, we need to have the army in charge. Today we still face many dangers: The Muslims in the south, in Sumatra, Malaya and Java; in the north the barbarian Chinese communist hordes and even Japan is on the rise again. And in the west they look down on all Asiatic like us. They mock us saying that the Asian is weak, we are small men with small dicks. But we are not weak, we are strong! Sukhothai is a match for anybody in world. Or at least, it is with the army and no one else firmly but surely in command. That is what I have to say; Chandarith, continue!”

“Certainly General Anakkeanamnach Phdachkar, and thank you. As the General has said, the military saved this empire against the Japanese. Not only that, but the Emperor disgraced it. As the invaders advanced towards Angkor, he was more interested in his debaucheries with his harem of a thousand beauties. And as for the politicians, they bickered amongst themselves, none providing either leadership or ideas and the religious, well, we have four faiths here in the empire and although Buddhism is by far the largest, it is splintered into a thousand sects and they all fight just as the politicians do. No, only a military government can rule this diverse realm.

But that too brings problems. Other powers will not deal with military dictatorships. They like to see parliamentary democracies which, in their ignorance, they respect. Whilst the people, they fear only God, not generals. They need a figurehead whom they can adore and believe in. That is why the Secret Pact of Sukhothai was agreed upon between the Four Estates. The Emperor gave up his power for a life of luxury in the palace, the politicians for fat wages and trouble-free elections and the religious for generous state subsidies and free reign to act with impunity. And so, although you shall never see it in any official document, all power rests with this man here and this ceremony today, performed prior to the coronation of every monarch, was devised as physical proof of that.”

At this General Anakkeanamnach Phdachkar nodded and smiled.

“But why,” continued the Honoured Chandarith, turning to the royal couple and smiling almost maliciously, “should this affect you so much? After all, so what if he holds the real power so long as you live pampered lives in your huge palaces? Well, that is what your long-deceased predecessor, Emperor Thaokteab thought, but we were not so sure. He might be happy to waste his day fucking slave girls but would his son, or his grandson or maybe his great-grandson be equally satisfied? It was too big a risk to take and besides, a story was needed to explain to the ignorant masses why their monarch was such a debauched waste of space. And so it was created, the legend of Ragaraja and Sowathara. We co-opted those old fertility deities to create a new status quo for our land. Thaokteab was not fucking around because he was a male slag, no, nothing of the sort. Instead, he was doing it because he was in fact the incarnation of the lustiest god of them all! He jumped at the chance to give himself a larger cock, but little did he realise the bigger plan. His physical transformation into Ragaraja not only made the legend believable to the peasants, but it also served our purpose. With a huge cock he could no longer fuck around, only his modified wife and eternal consort Sowathara could take him. And then we went further: not only could he not fuck around, but there was a great deal else that he found himself unable to do too. But by that stage it was too late for Thaokteab as, indeed, it is for you two as well as you shall soon learn. But, before you leave this ceremony to undertake your final set of modifications to make you fitting vessels for the god and goddess, the real ruler of Sukhothai has something to say to you.”

And at these words, General Anakkeanamnach Phdachkar stood up, walked in front of the two monarchs, bowed deeply before them and said, “Thank you very much for your past, present and future sacrifices for the Empire of Sukhothai.”

And with those words both he and the Honoured Chandarith strode off out of the room, leaving Jasmine and Steve alone with the equally-paralysed prime minister and chief priest. Petrified, they wondered what would be happening to them next, until Somanass and Sukhumala entered the chamber, each carrying a large syringe. They came up to their master and mistress, knelt before them and then said in unison, “This ith the latht time that we thshall be able to thspeak with you. When you are mothified, so too thshall we be, so that our lipths will be able to take your member, Mathesty. Thank you, we love you anth we are alwayths honoured to therve you.”

And with those words they rose graciously, approached the Emperor and Empress, and calmly, carefully plunged the syringes into the royal couple’s arms.

Chapter 12 – Waking Up to New Bodies

Jasmine awoke slowly this time. This time.

Before she even opened her eyes she remembered the foregone coup, the previous modifications, her hopelessly paralyzed body, and Steven! Oh how they had been so naive. She should have known, protected her young husband somehow, mentioned her suspicions to him earlier. But that was gone now, and Jasmine was scared to wake up. She struggled to open her eyes, for whatever drug was coursing through her veins left her drowsy and unable to move much. Actually, now that she thought about it, she wasn’t restrained, and she could move, so the paralytic thveu aoy must have been out of her system, but no matter how much she tried, her body never left the bed she was laying in. She must have been restrained, but Jasmine couldn’t imagine how.

At least she guessed it was a bed from the feel against her naked skin, but it definitely wasn’t hers. She felt naked, and the room was cooler than her chambers were, the mattress too hard, the sheets too basic. No, she was in a hospital. Wait! Maybe she had been rescued, all those horrible surgeries had been reversed, and she was back at home in the United Kingdom, just another girl trying to make a name for herself. Yes, yes, this must be it. Her hazy mind drifted off to this peaceful image.


She was later roused from her slumber, and when her eyes opened the lovely dream she had been living in fell apart rather quickly. The nurse she now looked up at, or she guessed it was a nurse, was clad head to toe in white silk, with no gap for the face, and Jasmine guessed she must be able to see out better than in. This must be one of the Brahmanan body artist’s wives, working as a nurse, or maybe a hopeful? Oh it all hurt her head to think of the castes and systems she had been forcibly adopted into. But just the man for these problems, standing next to the white-shrouded figure, was Honourable Chandarith. She looked up at that deceivingly docile old man and began a verbal tirade of insults at his deception. Or so she thought she did, for what she heard then was a forceful but equally unintelligible moaning come from her mouth. She panicked as she tried to phrase something, anything! What was wrong with her?! Her mouth felt fine!

Chandarith looked down at this scene, smiled, and then sat down in a chair provided by the silent nurse. He looked at her almost fondly. “Ah yes, that’s much much better. No more outbursts or questions from you, Your Majesty. You know, when I located you, I thought to myself, ‘A dancer. A nice, simple girl who won’t ask too many questions, she will love the spotlight, the luxury.’ But now I see that I underestimated you. Oh well, not a problem, this is exactly why we do this sort of thing before you are officiated before the people.”

“Yes I see, Honourable Chandarith.”

Jasmine was horrified. The voice that had just been guttural noises came out crisp as a bell. She had even mouthed the words unthinkingly.

“Now that works mighty well! This is exactly why I’m here, to explain to you what in the world is happening in this ‘backwards country’, as you put it. Now that you know your true place in this society, we can’t be having you spouting it off when in public, and even though we have been practicing, your accent is still atrocious, so we will be taking over from now on, on multiple fronts actually.” he said as he gestured to her body.

Her doe-like eyes could not communicate her fury very effectively, so she gave up her position there and followed his gaze downward, and nearly fainted from the shock. Her arms… were gone. Just GONE!. And though her breasts, which were now even larger mounds upon her chest, blocked her view, she could feel cool air on her hips, her empty hips, her unprotected pussy lips, and she knew her legs were gone too.

Horrible, sobbing wails came from her mouth as she struggled and wriggled her body, trying to convince herself it wasn’t true, but when Chandarith took a remote control from the bedside table and silenced her voice with hardly an effort, she knew they could do anything to her, why not this?

Jasmine, Sukkisawali, whatever, laid in her bed for a long while after Chandarith left, crying silently. Of course she hadn’t expected to go back to dance ever again, but the mere thought of it had kept her hope alive. Now what did she have? The features of her body most passive and inviting for hero one purpose. And as she laid there, the worst part was that she still couldn’t concentrate on anything but where her next fuck was going to come from.

Later that day, she was being fitted with strange prosthetic limbs when the nurse’s shroud ran lightly over her enlarged clit. Enlarged was a nice, pretty word for what they had done to her pleasure center, for when that gleeful old man had held up a mirror for her, she had seen its true nature. It surged forth from her cunt with no modesty, and the shape of its head, long free from her clitoral hood, looked nearly phallic. Her body squirmed as she thought about it, about how her desire reached out to nobody, everybody, and how she would never pleasure herself again.

Slowly, the itch returned with full force.

The mechanical arms and legs did not really have anywhere to affix to on her torso, for there were no stumps to be taken advantage of, but somehow when positioned near her rounded-off shoulders, they attracted like magnets and refused to budge further. This worked similarly down below, and within moments she felt her body rise of its own accord to a standing position.

She felt like she was going to be seasick.

In the elaborately-gilded full-length mirror now stood a corseted woman with enormous ass, breasts, and clit sticking out at least two inches, with golden metal limbs standing eerily still. Long, slim neck led up to her doll face, which luckily had not been modified further. Her new arms and legs were engraved with what she later learned were ancient sutras regarding karma and obedience to a higher power. Chandarith was crueler than they ever could have guessed.

She tried to beg the nurse, but it seemed he had left her mute when he departed earlier, and when her arms and legs suddenly activated and walked her naked form out the door, she couldn’t even yelp in surprise. As she walked down the hall, a new golden silk corset encircled her torso, giving her a little mammary support but not nearly enough; Jasmine’s tits swaying in rhythm with her steps, erect, ringed nipples reaching forward. The motion of walking itself was discomfiting, especially as any motion to her oversensitive cunt turned her on till she was glistening in the open air. She yearned for something to fill her deep emptiness right now, and she even hoped the stretching plugs were not far away in her future. Her new, mechanical hands met and froze in a classical prayer position, even as she walked on in silence.

When she rounded the corner to another recovery room, she saw the back of a strange looking man. He was only a naked, semi-muscular torso, standing suspended by golden limbs in the air. Jasmine locked eyes with Steven as he saw her through his own mirror, and his expression said it all; he was mute as well. When his limbs turned him around, Jasmine nearly drooled. Sticking out in front of him, unencumbered by any sheath, was the largest cock she had ever seen, had ever even imagined. It must have been 14, 15, 16 inches long, and the girth of it was larger than she could’ve possibly put in her mouth. His balls hung below their heavy golden cuff, large and ready. When Jasmine finally looked up, Steven’s eyes was darting between her breasts, which would have hung to her navel if not for the corset, and her massive, desperately engorged clitoris.

And yet they stood still.

And yet they stayed quiet.

All they could do was look at each other’s physical manifestations of desire, silently, for an uncomfortably long time. Until their limbs reactivated and automatically led them to a prep room to get a last look-over by the nurses who then dressed them, and then they were walked back through the maze-like temple to their chambers. Once inside, they noticed two new throne-like chairs on the terrace, replacing the loungers from before, and their limbs guided them to these, to look over the local jungle and Empire beyond. Surprisingly, once they sat down, the limbs released and clattered to the floor, leaving them visibly helpless, vulnerable, and nearly naked in their seats. If they hadn’t been left leaning against the cushioned backrests their abbreviated bodies would have toppled right over.

“I wish I wasn’t sitting right on my— OH”

“Wait. We can talk?!”

The two quickly aired their desperation to each other, the mutual gossip of their deception by the men in charge, the horrors of awakening, their worries for the uncertain future. They spoke in quick, hushed tones, as if at any moment they would lose their last mode of interaction again with the click of a button. And soon, even though a foot of warm, humid, empty air lay between their helpless bodies, their conversation turned to sex.

“I need you in me, Stevey, I’m serious, it’s not like before. That desire I told you about, how I could only concentrate once you’d fucked me, I only managed that much sanity by masturbating and jumping on you whenever I could. Oh god, how are we going to survive this if I can’t rip your clothes off three times a day?! Why do they want to torture us so much?”

Steven quieted himself, for he knew of no answer, and he just looked down at his now permanently-erect cock, which lay flat on the cushion his thighs would have once occupied. He tightened some muscles in his lower abdomen, and his ramrod member lifted an inch up, then fell back down. This teased his frenulum achingly, but after a few minutes, he knew he would never get release from this. Who knows if he would ever be left outside the sheath like this again? he thought. Desperate, he looked over at Jasmine, who had been trying to grind her hips and dripping pussy into the cushion below her with no success. “I don’t have answers. I won’t ever, I’m afraid. Like this, I don’t know what kind of husband I can be. Oh, what are we going to do with our lives, Jazz? We’re just their puppets now, and I can’t stop thinking about fucking you, our maids, anything! Oh I really wish we could just go back to our first night together, talking till the early hours, and watching you dance for me. For yourself. I just want to go back there, Jazz.”

When he looked over, she was crying, tears dripping onto her distended chest as it rose and fell in wracking sobs. Through these tears came a soft, “I love you.” floating through the air as if it were precious: it was a first. Steven would have given anything to have arms still to hug his wife with, but all he could do was sit there.

“I love you too. We’ll get through this… somehow.”

 

Chapters 13-14

An Artist’s Masterpiece: Book 5

Book 5

April 2051

Book 4

Chapter 1

It was yet another birthday party. Yet another gathering of friends and family. Yet another celebration of a year added to her life. Yet another event for her husband to show her off to the world.

And yet this birthday party, Emily was happy.

Ecstatically so.

For her life had changed in ways that she could never have imagined. Ways in which she never dared hope for. Ways more akin to a fairy tale than real-life.

It had all started, of course, with Humphrey’s death. The operation that he’d undergone to increase his hormonal levels, coupled with his existing high blood pressure and his increasingly debauched lifestyle had resulted in a heart attack whilst on his bed with his wife and sister-in-law. Had he not transformed those two women into helpless doll wives then they might have been able to save him, to alert the medical authorities… anyone. But no, they were completely passive and helpless as he wanted them to be and so they simply stared mindlessly into space as he breathed his final few agonising breaths on earth.

That look of horror and despair was fixed in Emily’s mind forever. It pleased her immensely, just as did the knowledge of where Humphrey Battersby must now be if the Bible is to be believed, and how he must be suffering.

Payback.

They were all discovered the following morning by the automaid. By this time the two sisters had fallen asleep against each other. The automaid notified the police and very soon the house was crowded with medics and lawmen. There was nothing that either could do save for notify the next-of-kin who was, of course, Emily. Humphrey had no living family closer than a second cousin in Bolton. Since Emily was helpless (literally) to do anything, they called Branwell who was most distressed. He relied on Humphrey for money and all he could ask himself was how he would cope from now on. Unless, of course, he could assume guardianship of Emily and Anne. After all, who would be a more natural choice? He was their brother after all, and their closest living relative following the death of their parents the year before.

“Not so fast,” said Humphrey’s solicitor, Mr. Rochester, who had also been called. “The only person who can make that decision is Mrs. Battersby herself.”

“But she is… you know, look at her!” protested Branwell.

“What she looks like,” replied Rochester, who seemed to have taken a dislike to this pushy relative by marriage, “is of no concern of mine. What the law is interested in is what she thinks like and, according to all the modification paperwork that the late Mr. Battersby lodged in my care, at no point was her mental ability ever impaired. Of course, the trauma of such an extreme lifestyle may have taken its toll on her mind but that is for a doctor to ascertain.”

“But…”

“Mr. Lowood, please do not bother me any further!”

That doctor came the following day and, Emily was glad to see, it was not the dreaded Dr. Eaton. He did not come alone, but instead was accompanied by a smartly-dressed gentleman of around thirty who was introduced as a Mr. Robert Rivers of the Damsels in Distress organisation. Both Emily and Anne were sat on the chesterfield across from the two gentlemen and then the medical man begun. “Ladies, my name is Dr. Bradley and I have been called here by Mr. Rochester, the late Mr. Battersby’s solicitor as I am a psychological specialist. It is my job to assess if you have the mental capacity to make decisions about your futures. Now ladies, I believe that you both still have the ability to nod slightly. Nod if you can understand me.”

Both dolls nodded.

“Excellent,” said the doctor, noting something on his form. “Now then, Emily Battersby, can you nod for me.”

The left doll nodded.

“And Anne Lowood.”

The right doll nodded.

“Excellent. It appears you do have mental capacity. Now, the only obvious candidate for your guardianship is your brother, Branwell Lowood. Is that an option you should like me to pursue?”

Neither doll nodded. Anne even shifted her bosom side to side in a desperate attempt to decline.

“Am I to take that to mean that you do not want to be put into the care of your brother?”

Both dolls nodded.

“Hmm, interesting. Well, that can be honoured but it leaves us with a different problem, that being who shall take care of you? Your husband has left you a considerable amount of money Emily, although you have nothing Anne. Do you wish to remain together?”

Both dolls nodded.

“And therefore, would you be prepared to take financial responsibility for Anne, Emily?”

The left doll nodded.

“Right. But you both still need a guardian to administer the estate and keep you safe. But who? Perhaps this is the place to bring my companion, Mr. Rivers into the conversation.”

“Thank you kindly, Doctor,” said the other man. “Ladies, I am a representative of a charitable organisation which is called Damsels in Distress. We are a group of concerned Christians who abhor the practice of turning healthy and happy young women into helpless dolls for the satisfaction of their husband or guardians. We lobby parliament to get the practice banned and we help any doll who has been left without a guardian due to a death, which is why we are here today as both of you fall firmly into that category. We look after these dolls by helping them to regain their former lives by paying for reparative operations. For example, to replace their amputated limbs using new procedures pioneered in the Soviet Union, or restore other functions if possible, such as free eye movement and voice recovery. Be warned, we cannot reverse everything. Faces like yours can never be restored to the original but the mindless doll look can be transplanted in a similar operation to the original so some semblance of humanity can be restored. We are here to help and are prepared to find spouses for both of you from our organisation who will nurture and support you. However, as you wish to stay together, it would be possible to only marry one of you – as bigamy is, of course a crime – but the other could stay as a companion. So, ladies, does this idea sound of interest to you or would you prefer to remain as dolls – some women do. Do you wish to be helped by our charity?”

Both dolls nodded.

“So, Emily, are you therefore prepared to marry me on the condition that I restore you as much as is medically possible to your original condition?”

The left doll nodded.


Emily’s second marriage took place the following day. It was a low-key affair in the church where Robert worshipped, attended only by the vicar, Robert’s sisters, Anne and some representatives of the charity. That night he did not consummate the marriage as, “I want only to enjoy my wife when she can fully consent and participate”. The kindness and thoughtfulness touched Emily to the core, although it did nothing to relieve the frustration that she was now feeling after years of extremely regular sexual activity.

The next day, she and Anne returned to Great Ormond Street and the long, slow, and painful process of reconstruction began. New arms, specially grown in labs across the Channel, were transplanted onto her shoulders which were unfused from their unnatural position. That was a lengthy operation taking many hours but it took months for her to learn how to use them properly. In stages her mammoth breasts were reduced to a more manageable size (although still somewhat bigger than before any operations had ever taken place) whilst similar work was done on her enormous bottom. Her toilet arrangements however were non-reversible, if she disliked incontinence, although with the chance to talk and hold again, Emily didn’t mind.

The biggest and most delicate operation however, was the face transplant and mouth reconstruction. As her husband had explained from the outset, recovering the original Emily and Anne was out of the question and so the girls had to decide how they wanted to look from now on. To be honest, Emily had never particularly liked her plain visage and so wouldn’t have wanted to return to it (although anything was preferable to the vacant doll look that Humphrey gave her) since the old Emily, innocent and unscarred by life, was lost forever too. She looked around for inspiration, something beautiful yet also good and kind. One day Robert showed her a photograph of his late mother when she was but nineteen. Mrs. Rivers Senior had been one of the founders of Damsels in Distress and a fervent campaigner for women’s issues, and straightaway Emily knew. “That is the face I want,” she wrote unsteadily (since her voice was not working at this point) and, touched to the core, Robert assented.

Full jaw movement and throat recovery was beyond their skill, so both girls had to choose from a selection of prosthetic voices. An implant in the speech centre of their brain allowed them to communicate to a specially-made speaker wirelessly, but this was not as easy as it sounded and, like their arms, required months of practice. Their hideous plastic lips were remolded more naturally but their mouths were far from recovery, for the work to reshape them had been extensive. Emily eventually chose her speaker to be added to her still-necessary fleur de bouche, remaking the object from a symbol of silence to one of regained independence and recovery.

When they were implanting the voice processor, the doctors found the mad Dr. Eaton’s trademarked implant, which had been the source of her reflexive oral, vaginal, and anal contractions, as well as her lack of eye motion. What they also found was that it was positioned in an incredibly dangerous place to remove and even if she survived, she may lose sensory functions in those areas during the operation, so for her protection and well-being they desisted. Luckily they rigged the contact switch in her temple to always allow her full sight, never again locked into staring at the wall for months at a time.

Throughout all of this, Anne remained extremely close with her sister, a closeness borne of them sharing the hardest of times and the most degrading of beds. Both sisters had been scarred by their experience but in different ways and Anne’s reaction was to cling to her elder sister. The one thing that Anne had liked about their doll transformation was that they had been made to look nearly identical, only the colours of their neck roses telling them apart, like twins (in actuality there was a year between them). And so, when Emily chose her new face, so too did Anne and a week later when they recovered from the operation and sedatives, both sported the same happy, pure expressions with the same chestnut curls cascading down their backs. At last, at long last they were human again!

And so, on this birthday party to celebrate Emily’s 24th year, she was happy, full of the joy of life and thankful to the wonderful husband who stood by her side.

Chapter 2

It is April 2052. Another year has passed and Emily is celebrating another birthday, her 25th, the years clicking by like miles on a speedometer. Her 24th birthday was one of unbridled joy but her 25th, alas, sees great sorrow enter her – and Anne’s – lives once again.

For only three weeks before, in an horrific motor accident as he returned from a Damsels in Distress conference in London, her second husband was cruelly taken from her. “At least it was quick,” she said to Anne in consolation.

The contrast between Robert’s funeral and Humphrey’s could not have been greater. Humphrey’s consisted of a handful of mourners, most of whom would miss his money more than him. At Robert’s the entire church was full and crowds stood outside. He was loved by the local worshipping community and by feminists and humanitarians across the country and beyond. Emily found herself greeted by huge Black Africans, dusky Indians and diminutive Chinese as well as scores of girls who had formerly been dolls and had been given a new chance at life through the work of Damsels in Distress. In her grief she was comforted by both her own sister and Robert’s two siblings, Diana and Mary. They were heartbroken at the loss of such a loving and Christian brother. Emily compared him to their own brother in her mind and her blood boiled.

The nearly two years that she had spent married to Robert Rivers had been like a glorious, perfect dream. Well, as close to perfect as this life gets. She had had her independence, her voice and her limbs restored to her; she looked nearly a normal woman once again, not some inhuman freak, and she was both listened to and valued. Once she could speak and write once more, Robert supported her in applying for university and she had begun the degree that she had so long dreamt of studying. Anne too was allowed to continue her studies and with the funds that Emily provided her out of Humphrey’s estate, she began her Masters. Cambridge were glad to have her back: during her degree she had been recognised as one of the foremost minds in Physics of the generation and, unbeknownst to the two sisters, when she had been transformed into a doll by Battersby, the furore that followed had even been mentioned in parliament.

Robert had proved a loving and gentle spouse. They had enjoyed beautiful evening walks together around the estate and he would sit with her in the orangery and read poetry or Scripture to her. He welcomed Anne too, immediately insisting that she be retained as Emily’s companion, and treating her as his own sister. He was a breath of fresh air after the debauchery of Humphrey and Emily could have wished for nothing more…

…well, almost nothing.

The only problem was bedtime. Anne was now banished from the marital bed since this was a God-fearing household and that Emily did not complain about, but even when they were alone together, Robert and his beautiful young wife did not regularly engage in sexual activities.

In fact, he only ever did when she pressed the matter and even then it was perfunctory and with reluctance.

And for a woman so used to regular congress and with a body redesigned for sex, this was extremely trying. Even though she cursed Humphrey’s memory from the depths of her soul  late at night (and then repented to God afterwards for such a sin), as Robert lay asleep beside her, she found herself longing for the animal, twisted sex that she had enjoyed with her first spouse. She ardently wished for Robert to flip her over onto her front and spear her still-healthy arse, or use her impressive cleavage as an extra hole, spurting his copious seed all over her face. She knew that these thoughts were sinful, temptations of the devil and yet still they came. In her desperation for release she would use her new hands to work herself to a climax manually in silence as her husband slept (for he would never approve of such things), but it was not the same as when she was taken by a man. Sadly, Emily realised that the effects of her time as a doll would not be erased so easily and that some things would always remain. An increased appetite for sex was one of them. Furthermore, this did not seem to apply to her alone either, for after a few months, Anne – who was getting no sexual release whatsoever when all was said and done – would sidle up to her in the drawing room, or enter her bedroom as she lay down for an afternoon nap and her hands would caress her sister’s womanly parts and their immovable but naturalized lips would meet for a delicious kiss, made all the better by the fact that their tongues had been lengthened once more.

Chapter 3

A month after her husband had died and his funeral had taken place, even whilst she was still in mourning clothes, Emily decided to do something about the problem of her and Anne’s sex drives and deal with another matter that had been burning in her brain ever since she had seen Anne drugged by her husband and brother and carried off for modification. Discretely she obtained the name of a foremost private investigator and then, one Wednesday, she took the train down to London and paid a visit to his office. In that office she handed over a sum of money along with the instructions to find out as much as possible about the whereabouts and daily routine of one Branwell Lowood.

A month later she returned to the capital and the detective went through his file. Branwell was currently living in London, in a rather insalubrious district of the East End. He had failed his degree and, lacking the income that Humphrey Battersby had paid him for handing over his two sisters to dolldom, had moved to London to find work in bars and other legally questionable occupations. He was a heavy drinker and a serious womaniser and had been planning to acquire a doll wife for himself until his patron’s death put the possibility to rest. He liked to frequent the notorious House of the Enhanced Venus, a whorehouse of severely modified women, but these days his funds rarely stretched that far so he instead frequented pubs, trying to pick up easy women since his looks were still charming. His most popular haunt was the Dog & Duck in Soho where he was invariably to be found on a Saturday night.

Emily spent the whole of the next week in London. She rented some rooms in Bloomsbury and made some enquiries with a local apothecary. Then, on Friday, she laced down to sixteen inches, a full two inches smaller than her norm these days, dressed up in her finest gown that emphasised her behind and her cleavage and curled her fake chestnut hair.

Then she took a cab to the Dog & Duck.

It did not take long for her to spot her brother, who was laughing and joking with some regulars by the bar. She seductively swayed up to that bar and ordered a glass of the house red and then retired to a table to drink it. Within five minutes he was asking if he could join her.

“Why, sure you can!” she replied from her voice box between her made-up, pouty lips.

“Are you expecting someone, madam, or are you all alone?”

“Hell no, I’m alone alright.”

“That’s a crime; a woman like you should never be alone!”

“Ain’t you the sweetie, and it’s Blanche by the way, but thanks. No, ever since my husband died last year, I’ve always been alone. That’s why I come out, to find some company but I’m rarely successful…”

“That I can’t believe!”

“No, it’s true! You see the thing is, my late husband – God bless his soul, he were a merry man! – he was an ardent admirer of the modified female and so he was transforming me. He wanted to make me one of them doll wives and, to tell you the truth, I loved it! I’ve had me face done and me voice, and some work on me tits and arse, but we hadn’t got round to the arms and the rest and then… the Lord took him! I was devastated!”

“Madam, surely you are jesting me? Most people these days, particularly women, seem intent on attacking the practice of dollification, not promoting it. There are charities banging their gums about banning it and reversing transformations that have already taken place and here is you saying you WANT to be made a doll!”

“Sure I do, probably the only girl that does, but nothing makes me hornier than being totally helpless and treated as some sort of fucktoy by a domineering man. Probably some strain of hysteria I have. Should see a doctor but…”

“No, no, it’s natural; women are naturally submissive, although the feminists deny this. It isn’t a doctor that you need to see, darling, it is me…”

Ten minutes later they were in a cab back to her rooms.

And in the rooms it was only a matter of minutes before he was removing her gown and running his hands over her rock-hard waist. “Now darling,” she said, as he led her towards the king size bed, “before we do that, I want you to lace me into a monoglove. It’s so long since I’ve been able to wear one and me old Bert never fucked me without it! But before then, let’s have some more wine cos fucking is such thirsty work!”

“I’ll make it, Blanche dear.”

“No, you bloody well won’t! What sort of woman am I to let a man enter the kitchen as I still have these arms! You let me get the drinks whilst you take a look in that cupboard and see what other little toys you might want to use on me…”

Branwell happily plunged into the collection of butt plugs, dildos and restraints that Blanche had pointed out to him, his member rock hard. In a few minutes she returned and handed him his glass of red. He picked up a monstrous pink butt plug and said, “Shall we start with this, Blanche?” and she bent over. As he maneuvered it into her enormous bottom, he took a draught of his wine.

He never finished inserting the plug.

Chapter 4

Even before I opened my eyes I could feel a bright light on my face. Was it morning already? I didn’t really remember fucking good ol’ Blanche, must’ve drunk too much. What a sorry whore, couldn’t even realize her degrading dreams. The women of this country were pitiful. I shuffled a bit, and noticed something off. Restraints! I’m being held down. My eyes flew open to find two silhouettes standing in the light.

A female voice, artificial, Blanche? “…oh yes, Dr. Eaton, I think that’s a great idea, I give you full executive power on this matter.”

“Excellent, excellent. Now dear, I hope we aren’t on bad terms over the work I did on you, this is my trade, like any other. I won’t lie, the money was top notch, but if this relieves my heavy heart I will do it, no questions asked… uhm… with the appropriate compensation.” A silence. “AT COST! AT COST of course dear!”

“Don’t ever call me dear again. You slip up once and the Parliamentary Commission will find your second lab. And watch out, he’s awake.”

With a shuffle from the doctor toward the IV coming out of my arm, I slipped back into the dark.


When I came back to, I felt…different. I saw a bag hanging off my IV stand… “XX CHROM…” Whatever that means. I scanned the room… This was Great Ormond!! Actually it might have been the same room I took Canned Anne’s photographs in. Why am I here? I looked down to find my body still restrained, naked, and my penis in bandages?! What is going on?


When I woke up it was morning, I was still drugged up but the Doctor was there and a mirror was hung above me. My body looked…different. My cheeks looked fuller and my stubble was gone. Actually all my hair was gone from my head, eyebrows, to my pubes. My hips were a little wider? And I had definitely put on weight. There goes all the work I did for the pub girls.

“Whaaaaaa….”, my voice faded off. The Doc noticed me.

“Oh hello, Mr. Lowood,” he talked in a slow, gentle voice, nothing like when me and Humphrey had met with him a few years ago. “You’re going through some changes, and your sponsor has asked that I don’t explain anything outright to you, sorry. I added the mirror so you can keep yourself informed as we proceed to make you into a lovely little companion!”

I obviously couldn’t speak coherently so I just peered through the mirror. There, on my chest, were two slight breasts. What are they doing to me!? It was too much, and combined with the drugs I faded out.


Now I’m really worrying. The Doctor unwrapped my junk and he fucking castrated me! My shaft is still there but I’ll never make a Branwell Jr like I always dreamed. My body looks tired, like I’ve been here a while, and besides, I’ve nearly got the body of a chick! All the muscle and bone is giving away to smooth, plushy curves. I’ve given up on fighting, these people are professionals. I just wish I knew why this had to happen to me. What man did I cross to end up here?


Last time I woke up I couldn’t move my eyes! I just stared at this doll face in the mirror for hours as they marked up our bodies identically with little perma-fountain pens. What am I an art project? The face has this dumb stare right at me, with a Mouth and nose just like my sisters after Humphrey did his number on them. I miss him, when he died my life went to shite.

I did get worried when I tried to ask and I couldn’t make a peep. Seem to have a weird thing in my mouth. I started shaking about and the Doctor put me back under, just as I realized the doll was shaking too. Noooo…


THIS IS NOT FUCKING OKAY. I woke up to my body, no, not MY body. I still can’t look around but even from my peripheral sight its unmistakable, my arms and legs are just GONE. There’s no scars or bandages, how did they do that?! I tried to shuffle my limbs but I just saw my body twitch a bit. Actually, what’s wrong? I’m not tied down anymore, why can’t I move anything? I should be able to do crunches or something! Whenever I flex or try to move I see the muscle distend like it’s trying, but I just can’t!


Doctor said it has been 6 months now since the “Sponsor” brought me in. It’s taking so long because of the gender reassignment. I’ve got big tits and my butt is like two big smooth eggs that frame my cock and twat. That’s right, they gave me womanly lips, well, besides the ones on my actual lips. Doctor said I’ve been good so he explained my transition. I think he is just bored. Maybe he gets off on this, I would.

My skeleton is chemically fused, all of it. I’ll never walk, twist, move again, but I have to always exercise or I’ll get weak and my Sponsor will throw me away. Sometimes they put electrical pads on my smooth skin and my muscles work out whether I want to or not. The Doctor always insinuates that the Sponsor is some uptight lady. He complained that he wanted to remove some ribs and lace me up and she apparently said, “You wouldn’t put stays on a Pillow.”

I’ve got some more meat on me than my athletic body before, but I’m not fat by any means…well, if you ignore my breasts and ass; they get larger everyday. All I can do is lay here and stare at the ceiling, my cock sticking straight in the air. Oh yeah they did something to that, I can’t get soft, probably just enough to shove it in some trousers and hide it, but it would still be screamin’ proud if so. I wonder if I’ll ever wear trousers again.


They have me upright now. I can’t move so my balance on my arse is lousy. Right now they have me surrounded by pillows to support my body. When I sit up I’m right on my new twat, and I noticed I can feel a growing wet patch, actually I have this itch I just can’t scratch down there.

Am I a woman now? A doll? Is this what Canned Anne or Plain Jane felt like? Fuck them, I want out! What kind of pervert would do this to a man?! We own this country!


The Doctor put his cock in my mouth and I sucked him off yesterday, I didn’t mean to I swear! It’s like my mouth had a mind of its own! I constantly drool this sweet, musky saliva, kinda like what a twat smells like. Only queers go down on anybody so I wouldn’t know, but that’s my closest guess. Afterwards the Doctor stroked my pussy and cock really hard and I couldn’t bring myself to completion. I didn’t expect a spurt of semen since the operation, just a little release! Anything! I feel it all but I can’t cum!


Today is the day. Months of imprisonment, and now my prison is this body. I can’t do anything: move, talk, look around, stop blinking, eat, urinate, defecate, anything. My holes contract on their own so even a morse code SOS of vaginal clenches is impossible… dumb idea anyways… If I really concentrate I can flex some of this extra flesh I have on my arse, but it’s unreliable. I’ve been inactive for too long.

I wear not stays but a gigantic bra which holds me together but bites into my sensitive tits. I’m fitted in a fine silk dress that is sewn underneath and accentuates these gigantic breasts and ass. My empty shoulders and hips end in little tassels. They’ve glued a chestnut wig on my head, and the messy curls surround my female doll face. They tucked and taped my cock to my stomach before dressing, I think its larger now. My waist isn’t like my sisters’, but my assets are surely bigger. When they sit me up my ass spreads out a bit and stabilizes me so I rarely fall, but it’s all still so scary. Right now I’m sitting on the vibes they put in me on high. This is so cruel, I was made for this, why can’t I cum?!

Blanche comes to pick me up, and in her arms I find myself close to her, bodies pressed up against each other so I don’t fall before I go in the wheelchair… Is that a red rose in her neck?

Chapter 5

Sept 2053

“So who is she, Emmie?”

“Her name is Pillows. Damsels in Distress rescued her and they’ve asked us to look after her as she doesn’t want to remarry.”

Both sisters looked down at the doll girl sitting passively on the sofa.

“Hello, um, Pillows. I’m Anne.”

“She can’t respond. You know how it is.”

“I remember how it was for us, but we could still nod.”

“Pillows cannot even do that I am afraid. Her modifications were much more severe than ours.”

“When are we going to get them reversed?”

“I’m afraid we’re not, Annie. She’s already been to the hospital. The operations that she’s had done were much more intrusive than ours. Try to transplant her face and regrow her limbs and she could be put in mortal danger. Her heart is also weaker now, it’s used to the reduced body mass; she wouldn’t survive.”

“What about her breasts? They’re even bigger than mine used to be. Surely we could help her there?”

“No, not even there. They’re a new type of implant apparently, that works its way deep into the muscle tissues. Try to remove them and she dies.”

“That’s awful! What kind of wretch would do something like that to a girl?!”

“You of all people should know the answer to that.”

“What, you mean people like our brother Branwell?”

“Yes, exactly. Or to be entirely precise, drop the word ‘like.”

“What?! You mean that Branwell is…”

“Was, my darling, was. He used Humphrey’s money to transform this poor orphan girl into his own pillow doll. But now he is gone; he died in an accident last month. That is why Damsels in Distress asked us to take care of her. And that means you, Anne. I need you to care for and comfort Pillows here as if she were your favourite doll Jemima that you had as a child.”

“I cannot believe that you remember Jemima!”

“How could I forget? You were so good to that doll. She deserves a caretaker like you.”

Emily and Anne embraced as they looked at the tiny doll girl. Anne began, “Oh dear, this poor girl..and how utterly unoriginal of Branwell to name her that! Surely styled after those unfortunate Hodgkinson women we visited together.”

“Well you remember how he was. He hung onto Humphrey’s tailcoat more than aspiring to anything unique. You know… Jemima isn’t a bad name, all in all.”

“Oh what a good idea, Emmie!” Anne knelt down to look in the girl’s blank eyes. “This is a house of recovery and hope, and you’re going to be my little, sweet Jemima! I will keep you safe.”

“Anyway, let’s get the automaid to take a photo of us three, the new Lowood siblings! Welcome to the family, Jemima!”


I never asked for this. I set those girls up with a future, not like what that two-face bitch Emily did to me in return. She was a Lady of Leisure, with not a care in the world. It was a win-win! But now I’m nothing more than a doll for two paltry second-class widows. They both have a dislike for automaids, so Anne takes care of my few needs when she is not away at the college nearby. From my guess we live in Oxford, but I haven’t left the premises of our comfortably-sized home for months.

My life is not altogether awful, for Emily’s secret sadism is balanced by Anne’s pure innocence and her ignorance of my true identity. In truth, I would not tell her if I could, for she looks at me now unlike she ever did before, her victimized Jemima. I was always a disappointment to her before, and after I realized trying to communicate was impossible, I reveled in the clean slate of our companionship. Anne would hold me and tell me stories of her time with Humphrey all the way to her studies now. Most of them were over-dramatic and a waste of breath, but I am sorely starved for company. Late at night, when I’m not sleeping in my crib, she holds me tight in her bed as a body pillow, crying a bit or comforting her mute Jemima doll. She was mortified to see my erect penis underneath the dress I wore on the first day, and Emily told her all these lies about how I secretly had it added to this imaginary orphan girl because of my “other tastes”. I wanted to hurt her so much that day, and ever since, Anne has treated the last evidence of my manhood as an ornament of shame. Only a week ago did she apologize to me repeatedly, lay me down on a bed, strip her underwear, and wrap her silicone wetness around me until she came. She cried after, about how she couldn’t help herself since what those sick men did to her. I didn’t know what to say, luckily I couldn’t. I wish I had reached climax too, maybe she could try harder.

This is, sadly, not the only time I am used this way. One reason I like Anne’s presence so much is what it prevents. When she is off completing her Phd or whatever, I am at Emily’s mercy. She still holds me accountable, even after all she has done to me, and if I were to guess, once she is home and away from reclaiming her independent life, her primary goal past taking care of Anne is making my existence as horrid as possible. Cayenne pepper goes in my mush. She leaves me sitting on that horrid toilet as I am impaled, filled, and drained over and over. I am left in corners of the household, forgotten. The only physical contact I receive from her happens when she is about to take me to her room. Each time, I receive a diatribe about how this situation was brought on by myself. If I hadn’t sold her to Mr. Battersby for his “artistic vision”, she wouldn’t have the ravenous cravings she does now, and would not need a surrogate in place of him. Each time she lists off decisions I have made that were harmful to others, she strikes me with a crop on my taut orbs above and below. Not enough to make a mark, but enough to have my black rose wheezing under the pain. My face blankly asks for more as I feel it all.

Earlier today she brought me to her room, pinched my nipples with sharp alligator clips, and used my erupting phallus as her personal dildo. This is the horror and highlight of my life, for every time she rapes me I hope, I really hope, I can have a little reward now that I’m being so good for them, but it never comes. Emily always climbs off, spent and satisfied, while I stare at the ceiling yearning for release. I never did this to them! I always held myself back from this dirtiest of sin! And sometimes she toys with me, treats my womanly body well for a day to put me on edge, then just sits on my face for hours as she reads her books. Later she will tell me my tongue was unshortened for this exact reason, and she calls me her “Masterpiece.” As always, I am cleaned up and made presentable by the time Anne returns from her seminars.

And now, as I lean against the back of a firm chair in the small Oxford drawing room, faintly hearing the girls chat in the parlor, I stare at the wall. I’m placed just right so my eyes focus on the frames; degrees, accolades, mementos, and to the side are three photographs: photos I look at every day. The first shows three siblings, close in age, as children; the second shows the eldest brother holding two vaguely-familiar, helpless, blonde dolls by their tiny waists; and the third shows two joyous twins holding up a grotesque pillow doll who looks straight at the camera. Silently. Forever.

FIN

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…