Nadiyah’s Story

Nadiyah’s Story

How did it come to this?

I gaze around the spartan room that is now my home and ponder on exactly how I became who and what I now am.

A single bed, a chair and a wardrobe is all the furniture I have.  A small rug covers part of the boarded floor and plain curtains hang at the small, heavily frosted window, partially obscuring the four vertical bars.  The ten feet square room is lit by a single sixty watt bulb that is controlled from outside the locked door.

As I rise from the chair, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror on the wardrobe door.  A faceless, shapeless black figure looks back at me through sad defeated eyes that are resigned to their fate.  As I move, the voluminous Saudi overhead abaya, three-layer niqab and elbow-length gloves I always wear totally disguise that fact that I am a white, English male – or rather used to be.  To all intents and purposes I am a muslimah – or more technically a niqabi. Beneath the abaya, I am wearing a plain black bra, full cut black panties, thick black tights, a close-fitting underskirt and flat black leather pumps. Hidden out of the way beneath the panties is my useless, shrunken penis, locked permanently into a CB3000 chastity device which hangs down over my empty scrotum – yes empty, since I was castrated some months ago.

Looking back, I really have no-one but myself to blame for my predicament.  Two years ago I was happily married to my wife Jenny.  We had a great relationship, though her sex drive far exceeded mine.  She knew I was a crossdresser before we married and from time to time would encourage me to dress for her.  She always took the lead when I was dressed and could be quite dominant – she often had me running around after her, fetching and carrying (which I complained about but secretly loved) but we always ended up having sex which was great for me but I sometimes sensed she was left wanting.

It all started to go downhill one day when we were watching a program about how Iran had changed since the Islamic revolution and how restrictions had been imposed on women there and they were now forced to wear the hijab and niqab.  I made a rather blasé remark along the lines of “it can’t be all that bad – they get to stay at home all day and don’t have to work, wearing what they have to wear seems a small price to pay”.

Her response was “well maybe you should try it and see if you like it”.  I never really took much notice of it but looking back, that was the turning point.

Over the next couple of weeks it seemed that Jen was having more packages than usual delivered but as my birthday was fast approaching, I assumed they would be for me.  It turns out I was correct in my assumption but it was way beyond what I had anticipated.

A week later and it was my birthday – it was a Friday this year, so I was anticipating a fun weekend.  I got home to find Jen sitting in the lounge with a variety of packages on the settee next to her.  She looked me in the eye and told me to sit down in the armchair.  Picking up the remote control, she started playing a recording of the Iran documentary we had watched before.  She stared at me as I watched and said “remember what you said about those poor Iranian women?”  I nodded, somewhat taken aback. “Well” she continued coldly “this weekend you’re going to see just how enjoyable their existence is”.  She stared at me, pointed to the packages and told me to go upstairs, dress in the clothes they contained and call her when I was ready.  I just sat back in the chair, thinking it was all a joke. “DO IT NOW!” she said in a very stern tone.

Gingerly I picked up the packages and sheepishly left the room.

My hands were trembling as I opened the parcels and laid out all the items on the bed.  There were a bra, panties, tights and an ankle-length slip – all in black – and all items I recognised and had worn before.  However, I was puzzled by what else I had unwrapped.  A floor length black cotton dress (which I later found out was called an abaya), a two-piece black headscarf and a tie on veil – hijab and niqab as I now know them as.  The dress was easy to put on but I struggled with getting the hijab in place and had to look in the mirror to ensure it was straight.  I was quite shocked by my appearance and was just about to undress when Jen shouted up “I’M WAITING!” as she started climbing the stairs.  Hurriedly, I tied the niqab in place and had just finished as the bedroom door was pushed open.  Jen stood with her hands on her hips “you took your time – I hope you are going to get quicker at this”.  I was about to answer her when she held a finger to my lips “you only speak when I allow you to speak – nod if you understand”.  I nodded.  “Good” she continued “I’ve been studying how those women are treated in Iran and now I’m going to treat you the same way.  For this weekend you are going to be Nadiyah – understand?”  I nodded again, not really knowing what to say.  She turned, beckoned me to follow and went back downstairs.  With the combination of the long abaya and restrictive underskirt, I found it difficult to negotiate the stairs which caused Jen to become quite impatient with me. “Nadiyah – hurry up!” she barked, causing me to almost stumble on the bottom step.  “In Iran, you would be punished for your tardiness – I shall have to think of something suitable for you should it happen again”.

“Isn’t that taking this role play a little too seriously?” I thought to myself.

She handed me a pair of her gloves “yours haven’t arrived yet, so you will need to borrow these”.  I put them on, ensuring that I tucked them up the sleeves of the dress.

As I went to sit down on the settee, there came a resounding “NO!” from Jen.  “You seem to be forgetting your place Nadiyah, you only sit down when you are invited to sit down – you can stand by the fireplace for now”.  I moved to the corner of the room as instructed. “Clasp your hands in front of you and bow your head Nadiyah, that is how you will stand when not required by me” Jen said as she picked up a magazine from the coffee table.

It was about 15 or 20 minutes later when without raising her eyes from what she was reading, Jen said “fetch me tea, Nadiyah”  I was so glad at being allowed to move at last I did as I was ordered.  I placed it on the table in front of her – no thank you or acknowledgement just a wave of her hand to usher me back into the corner.  This sort of behaviour continued all night until we went to bed.  As we lay there, I leaned over and put my arm across her “what do you think you are doing?” she said “I just thought that . . .” I replied before she cut me short “you thought nothing Nadiyah – I think you should sleep in the spare room tonight” and she turned her back on me.  Stunned, I got out of bed and went to sleep in the spare room.

When I awoke, I went back into our bedroom to find that Jen had already arisen.  On the bed were the muslim clothes I had worn the previous night.  I ignored them and went to my wardrobe only to find it completely empty.  I called downstairs to Jen – only to be told that i was to be Nadiyah for the weekend as we had agreed.  “As we’d agreed?” I didn’t recall agreeing to anything but thought I’d humour her to keep the peace.  I dressed in the abaya and other items again and went down.stairs.  I was ushered into the kitchen and told to make breakfast – reminded more than once of the rules that governed my behaviour.

The whole weekend was spent in a similar vein – I did nothing but housework and waited on Jen hand and foot – which was no mean feat, considering how I was dressed. I fell into bed on the Sunday night – in the spare room of course – and slept soundly. When I awoke it was already 8:15 and I was late for work – hurrying downstairs – naked as I hadn’t got my clothes back – I asked Jen why she didn’t wake me.  She was doing something on the laptop and without looking up said “you’re not going to work today, I’ve called your boss and told him you have measles and won’t be in for two weeks.  Now get dressed and get on with the housework Nadiyah, I’ve enjoyed the last two days so much, I’ve decided you can stay as a muslimah a little longer”.

As I started to protest, she turned the laptop to face me.  She was running a slideshow of all the pictures she’d taken of me over the years whilst dressed as a woman – various guises ranging from a cheap hooker to a French maid – not brilliant photo’s but good enough for me to be recognised. “Be a shame if these were emailed to everyone in your address book, wouldn’t it?” she said threateningly “now run along, I only want to see Nadiyah for the next two weeks”

I left the room totally stunned – either she was playing her part to perfection or she was deadly serious.  I dressed in the only clothing I had available and returned to the lounge. “Today Nadiyah, you will tidy the house.  Once all your chores are complete, you will return to your room and wait there. Remember, it was you that thought being treated as a muslim female would be an easy life”

As I was cleaning the kitchen, I heard a knock at the door.  Jen answered it and I heard a short exchange of words before she thanked the caller and closed the door.  She came into the kitchen and put a large package on the table saying “Take this upstairs, unpack it and put the contents in your wardrobe – then back to your chores”

I did as instructed.  Upon opening the parcel, I found another 2 full sets of Islamic clothing including 2 pairs of gloves.  I left them on the bed and went down to confront her – this was getting out of hand.  She was making a call on her mobile as I entered.  As I started to protest, she cut me dead with a glare and pointed to the laptop as a reminder of what was discussed earlier.  I knew when she had the upper hand and left her alone.

The next two weeks continued in a very similar vein – I spoke very little, worked very hard around the house and slept alone every night.  Jen, on the other hand spent longer than usual making phone calls and using the laptop.  She also left the house on quite a few occasions and was out most evenings – which was unlike her.

It was Sunday evening and my two weeks were up – and I was very thankful!  Getting back to work would be a blessed relief from being Nadiyah.

Wearing only a towel, I went into “her” bedroom to dress and get off to work.  To my surprise, she was already awake and had her laptop open on the bed. “Hi hun, how are you today? Can I have my clothes back please” I said.   “All the clothes you need are in your room, Nadiyah – now get dressed properly” came her reply. “Don’t be silly, Jen – it’s been fun but it’s done with now – you’ve proved your point – back to normality now”. Without looking up at me, she added “the last two weeks are now your normality – I’ve decided that you’re staying as you are for the foreseeable future so I’ve taken the liberty of handing in your notice with immediate effect” Turning the laptop around she showed me the reply from my Manager accepting my resignation and terminating my contract. “WHAT THE HELL!” I shouted “YOU CAN’T DO THAT!”  Calmly she responded “I can and I have, as you can see.  You will also see that I have thrown away every item of male clothing that you owned, along with your passport, driving licence and bank cards.  Things are going to change round here, Nadiya – remember, I have lots of pictures showing the other side of you”

I walked out and went back to my room trying to take it all in.  What could I do?  I had no clothing, no money and now no job – add to that the treat of being exposed to my family and friends.  Why was she doing this to me? Bad as I thought things were – they were about to get a whole lot worse.

It was about a week later when “he” first showed up at the house.  “He” being Ahmed – a tall, slim, very good looking Arab guy.  I had the briefest of introductions – “this is Nadiya, I’ve told you all about him, haven’t I?” Jen said in passing. Ahmed cast a glance my way “Yes, you did” he replied in a very mocking fashion.  “Ahmed knows just how to deal with unruly muslimahs like you Nadiyah – he’s from Iran, you see – we’ve been having an affair for months – in fact it was his idea to put the idea of those downtrodden Iranian women into your head and I knew you’d bite” Jen added “by the way he also has copies of all your pictures and email addresses, just in case I lose them . . . “

With that they left the house, arm in arm, got into his BMW, kissed passionately and drove away, leaving me to ponder on my fate.

When they returned a few hours later, I decided to confront them and wearing only black panties, walked into the lounge and stood before them demanding to know what was going on.  They both burst into fits of laughter, humiliating me even further.  Quick as a flash, Ahmed rose and within seconds had me face down on the floor.  Jen fetched a couple of scarves and bound my wrists and ankles. As Ahmed left the room, Jen stood over me “that was pretty stupid, wasn’t it?  I’ve told you that Ahmed knows how to deal with women like you”

He returned carrying a long thin cane “correction time?” he asked.  “Do what you feel is necessary, my love” Jen responded.

The first two strokes were straight across my buttocks – even through the panties they hurt like hell.  Followed by two strokes across my back that were equally as painful.  “She needs teaching a lesson” He stated “time for some real muslimah punishment” With that he began to cane the soles of my feet.  The pain was horrendous!  After only two or three strokes, tears were welling in my eyes.  After another three strokes, Jen knelt beside me “have you learnt your lesson, Nadiyah?”  “Ahmed is my lover and will soon be my husband.  He’s a real man, not a pathetic crossdresser that has never been able to satisfy me.  I wanted to be rid of you but he has convinced me to keep you here as our slave – understand?”  I nodded. “Once we release you and you have dressed yourself correctly, I have some papers for you to sign – one is my divorce petition and the others sign over this house and all your possessions to Ahmed” I shook my head and tried to protest but was cut short by two more strokes of the cane.

Jen released my hands and gave me a pen along with the relevant paperwork whilst Ahmed stood over me with the cane and a leering grin on his face.  Once done, I was released and had to limp up to my room, such was the pain in my feet.  I sat and sobbed, both from the pain and the humiliation that I was feeling.  What could I do now?  Nowhere to go and I certainly wouldn’t have any friends once any emails were sent.  I lay down and cried myself to sleep.

Next morning, I got up, dressed and went downstairs. I could hear them obviously enjoying themselves in bed upstairs.  I busied myself with my usual chores until they came down.

They both sat down as I served them tea.  I stood in the corner, head bowed awaiting instructions.

Ahmed turned to Jen “She needs niqabs with multiple layers – I don’t want to see her eyes” Jen agreed “what about the other things we spoke of, my love?” She said. “We should press ahead as soon as possible” was his reply.  What more could they do?  I thought.

Jen took out a small package “come here Nadiyah and expose your pathetic penis”  I did as requested and stood before her as she fitted me with a steel chastity device – a CB3000 as I later found out – she snapped the lock shut and carefully dripped superglue into the keyhole.  “Ahmed doesn’t want any other men around – not that you really fall into that category anyway” She said as the both laughed. I returned to my corner glad that the niqab was hiding my blushes.

It was about a week later I was obliged to move into my new bedroom – as described above.  Could anything worse happen now – I thought?  A week later it did.  I was summoned to the kitchen where I was met by Jen, Ahmed and another Arabic looking man, introduced as Dr Hassan. “Dr Hassan is here to help with your adjustment to your new life Nadiya” Jen said.  I panicked and moved towards the door – hampered by my clothing – Ahmad easily caught me, pinned my arms to my sides and marched me back.  I saw the Dr preparing a hypodermic syringe, felt it pierce my neck then nothing until I awoke back in my room.

I was in a lot of pain but seemed unable to move, then realised that my arms and legs were tied to the bedposts.

Eventually both Ahmed and Jen entered the room.  “You’ll be glad to know everything went well Nadiyah – I know you’re in pain now but that won’t last and I know you’ll be much happier now” she said  “Ahmed has given you a lovely steel slave collar – permanently locked on of course – and some tattoos that we’ll show you later”  She picked up the laptop and turned it towards me “We thought you might like to watch yourself being emasculated – we both decided that you would be much better behaved if those offending testicles were removed”

Still drowsy, I was having problems taking in what they were saying.  On the screen I could see myself lying on the kitchen table with my legs raised.  I watched and shuddered as Dr Hassan made a deep incision in my scrotum and teased my testicles through it.  After tying them off he invited Ahmed and Jen to remove one each.  They seemed only too pleased to take the scissors he offered and snip through the limp cords – smiling at each other and kissing as my testicles lay useless on the table. Dr Hassan then stitched me up and the film ended.  I think I passed out at that point.

When I came to again I was coaxed into a standing position – still naked – and guided to the wardrobe mirror.  I couldn’t believe my eyes – apart from the CB3000 and steel slave collar I knew about, they had tattooed “Nadiyah” across my forehead.  My chest – which by the way is kept hairless as is the rest of my body – bore the words “property of Ahmed & Jen” along with more Arabic writing. Eventually I discovered that it translated to “I have now become the muslimah I so desired to be”

Jen and Ahmed are now married and I am their slave – I live merely to serve them and am still punished by Ahmed whenever he deems it necessary.  I don’t know if they have any further plans to alter or modify me in any way, there’s nothing I can do about it if they have.  Apart from those two and Dr Hassan, no-one knows that Nadiyah even exists.

Now you know my story . . .

Copyright © 2016, Yazmeen Hussein











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