An effeminate 20-something, I was working at the reception of a luxury hotel when the handsome Emirati guest approached me. He was some ten years older than me and introduced himself as Mansoor. He had seen through me straight away and knew that I was a sad, closeted sissy. But he had also seen that I had feminine potential.
So his offer was this: would I like to go, in full female clothes, hairdo and makeup that he would provide, on a dinner date with him to discuss what he had in mind for me and hopefully accept? I was taken aback and not just a little scared by that bold approach, but it was exactly his boldness that made me capitulate and accept (and okay, the fact that he was gorgeous and rich!).
So mid-morning two days later, a Saturday, I was checked in under the name of Kareema in another five-star hotel in the business center. No sooner had I dropped my overnight bag than a specialized team, sent by him, arrived and started taking care of me. For the rest of the day they treated my skin, massaged my whole body with rare Oriental lotions, shaved off what little body hair I had, made me up, gave me a splendid hairdo with extensions and then produced the most gorgeous evening dress, the sexiest underwear, the most exquisite 6-inch-heel pumps and the most precious jewellery set I had ever seen, let alone worn. At 7pm I exited that room with nothing to envy to a classic Hollywood diva.
His chauffeur drove to the restaurant, which he had booked all for us! I crossed the room weak at the knees, while trying to keep a sexy walk. He held the chair out for me and set me up at the table. We chatted throughout the finest of meals and he charmed the hell out of me. Then, over a scented tea, the proposition came. Would I accept following him to his palace in the Emirates to become his sissy wife?
I couldn’t believe my ears. I would have to convert, become hijabi and submit to him in every aspect of our married life, of course. In exchange he would keep my in the highest standard of life, with the best food, the best clothes, the best jewels, the best private spas and the best vacations his millions would by. And he would possess me sexually whenever he pleased, and I would have to be at my sexiest at all times. He was aware that it might not be an easy choice on my part, as I would have to cut all ties to my previous life, irreversibly.
«Yes» replied the woman who had been hiding deep inside of me for all those years. «Yes. Yes! I don’t care. Take me with you. Make me your wife.»
He rose from his chair. I rose to follow him and that was when he kissed my neck from behind. I melted. Tucked in the most beautiful black lace thong, my sissy clitty stirred and started leaking a bit.
The drive to his private HQ was a blur. As soon as we got there, a team of women in veils and long robes took me to a wing of the building were I was undressed, washed and perfumed. Then they put a buttplug into my hole. They explained that, as a Muslim, Mansoor could not possess a virgin out of wedlock without defiling her, so I would have to be converted and married straight away. They dressed me in a loose and modest long tunic, my first abaya, and draped my head in a cloth, my first hijab. Then some cleric arrived and made me repeat “Wa ašhadu ʾanna ā ʾilāha ʾillā llāh muḥammadun rasūlu llāh” three times in front of them, my shahada. The women grabbed me again and fitted me into a gorgeous Islamic wedding dress, then led me to a large room, where an impossibly handsome and elegant Mansoor and the same cleric were waiting. We were married straight away.
Then Mansoor led me to our bridal chamber. He undressed me, kissed me tenderly and then pushed me naked on the bed, only my beautiful 6-inch white bridal stilettoes still on. He got rid of his clothes behind a screen, and when he emerged, his long and thick cock was magnificently and superbly pointing upwards. At that sight, what little residue of masculinity was still in me left my body forever. He told me to assume the correct position, ass up and face down, on the bed. I obeyed. He unplugged me, added a huge amount of lube, said something in Arabic and then filled me slowly with his cock.
It was huge, and the pain was indescribable. He kept me pinned face down in the sheets while I was grunting, screaming and thrashing. He kept pumping. Little by little, though, the pain started turning into pleasure, as his cock opened my boy pussy more and more, sliding ever more easily in and out. My clitty started leaking again. One and a half hour later he still hadn’t come, but had given me at least seven orgasms in the meantime. I was barely conscious. Then he stiffened, arched his back, roared from deep within… and doused the deep of my belly with what felt like a gallon of sperm. The power of his seed was so uncanny that I immediately felt impregnated against all logic and screamed: «MAKE ME A MOTHER! I WANT TO GIVE YOU A SON! I’M PREGNANT! ALHAMDULLILLAH!».
When I woke up twelve hours later, the women had already bathed and perfumed me again, redone my hairdo, then dressed me in a sheer white nightie. Surprisingly given the ordeal of the night before, I felt relaxed, energized and not sore at all in my poor, gaping boy pussy. The women would tell me later that it was thanks to some ancient and secret vegetal remedies with which I would be treated for the foreseeable future to make me recover more quickly and be always ready for my husband’s urges. The first thing I asked them, though, was where my husband was. They replied that he was already away on business and that from then on I would spend most of my time with them, seeing my husband only when his work was over or when he deemed fit to take me with him around the world, with my new diplomatic Emirati passport he had bribed the highest civil servants to grant me. Moreover, I would have to refer to him as “my husband and Master” and to his cock as “his mighty rod”. I also would have to look forward to a strict regimen of hormones, electrolysis, physical training and Islamic theology in order to become the perfect fag Muslimah trophy wife to Mansoor. Then in the not-so-far future, ʾin shāʾ Allāh, there would be the genital surgery and the womb transplant which would finally allow me to give him lots of strong and proud sons.
«There is nothing I could desire more» I replied. I had become Kareema, the woman I was always meant to be.
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