Fatima’s Mistake

Fatima’s Mistake

By Steve Quilt

Version for “Tales of the Veils” website.
Not for reproduction on other websites or in any other publishing format without author’s permission.

 

We all make mistakes when we are young, or perhaps the mistakes we make then should be tempered by the fact we are getting old enough to know better. I was however at that age when I felt the lure of rash adventure and fought down any objections rising in me. In short, I shouldn’t have done what I did and here I am, paying for it.

A young man paying for an adventure he could have avoided.

Let me set the scene before I get too wrapped up in exactly what happened, because what preceded my unthinking act was not my fault. I was a victim of someone else’s wastefulness.

My father works hard to run his own business, but it has allowed us — my mother, younger sister and myself — to live in a good size detached house on the edge of the large town where my dad has his business. It is a bespoke joinery business and while as a growing male I was expected to take an interest in the art of working with wood I have to say I was probably a disappointment to him that I wouldn’t as soon as possible take over the business and allow him to take it easy at long last. But he used to take me in to work with him and show me stuff and while I feigned interest I am sure he could see I wasn’t all that bothered about wood and saws and drills and all the rest of it. Still, I did what I could to avoid being seen as utterly disinterested.

I used to think Cathy, my younger sister, would make a better joiner than me. She was better with her hands and she has a sharper brain for numbers than me. Maybe she would run the business one day, I told myself, so it wasn’t a crisis if I wasn’t eager to fasten lumps of timber together.

My mother never said much about all this: she had a part-time job as the joinery business  accountant and as both my parents spent a lot of time at work I had time alone at home — at least when Cathy was out with her friends — to amuse myself. That was when and where the mistake happened.

This ‘adventure’ began when dad took me in to his work one Saturday morning. His team of joiners weren’t there working overtime for once and he was just tidying stuff up, he said. He asked me to take some offcuts of timber to one of the large skips where bits of wood were thrown, ready to be collected by a recycling business. All pretty straightforward except when I opened one of the bins I saw the bundle in there. It was supposed to be all wood but there was a large bag, tied round with cord, of something soft. I knew the recycling people got annoyed when other waste was thrown in there so I hoisted the bag out. It was full of cloth. Black cloth, at that.

Now as this point I could have put the bag in the regular waste bin, the one collected by the local council, along with the rest of the non-timber rubbish. That would have been that.

But I made the mistake of putting my nose in the bag, and getting an idea.

The black clothing — I was sure it was clothing and not curtains or offcuts of fabric — smelled of a woman. There was more than a hint of perfume about it all. These black clothes, for I soon realised there was more than one item, were made of what looked like silk or satin and were embroidered in places. They had belonged to a woman, and the idea struck me the way sudden ideas do with unexpected force, that I could wear these clothes.

I know, teenage boys and young men aren’t expected to dress in women’s clothes. But we all have our weaknesses. One of mine had been to try on Cathy’s clothes when alone in the house, but mostly to try on my mother’s clothes. Actually, I preferred hers because they had a fullness and a maturity about them. Dresses and skirts that felt like a woman should wear. Cathy liked jeans and t-shirts but my mother had some lovely clothes. Yes, dresses that were either satin or silk or some such fine material.

Temptation is a terrible thing, because for it to work it has to be exciting enough to contemplate it being in reach. I am for example not tempted to hang glide off a peak because we have no mountains near us and I don’t like heights, but this was temptation right here in my hands. Of course I had no idea who had put this bundle in this skip. Someone I imagined had come past in the previous night and dumped the bag there. No idea who, or why.

I decided to take the bundle home and examine it. I put the bag by my father’s car, picked up his car keys from where he always put them down in his office and stowed the bag in the boot of the car. I returned the keys without being seen and then impatiently hopped about from foot to foot wishing father would finish tidying up and take me home. Me and the bag of women’s clothes.

Eventually it happened, and he did notice I was agitated. I could hardly help it. He must have wondered why I was so fidgety but I hid it by saying I was keen on some girl or another and was thinking of asking her out. I suppose he believed me because he didn’t remark on my agitation again. But, a gift of unbelievable proportions had fallen into my lap and I was eager to see what delights I had found. I imagined a ballroom gown, or some mature woman’s elegant below-the-knee dress. Mature, womanly stuff. More importantly, I could wear this dress (or dresses, I hoped) without the risk of disturbing my mother’s wardrobe. More fun, less risk.

The day dragged past but I got the opportunity to get out to the garage, slip the bag of clothes out of the boot and find somewhere safe to hide it. Then I could do nothing but wait for the opportunity to examine my find. Better still, try the clothes on. Unless they were made for a stick-thin model or some land-whale of a female, I was sure they would fit me. But the waiting around was killing me. I barely slept that night, thinking about it.

On the Sunday my parents said they were going to the mall in the next town and Cathy wanted to go too. I said I didn’t feel great and would stay home and play on the computer. Once they had gone I took the bag to my bedroom and when I tore it open and out tumbled not one but two long black dresses and some sort of long scarf, all in black. I was overjoyed for all of five seconds.

Then it hit me. They weren’t what I expected.

Long and black, yes. Women’s clothing, yes. But not what I would wear.

There was a long black coat like garment, which would reach to the floor complete with long sleeves, and what was another long black dress of possibly finer fabric. Oh, sure, they smelt great and were definitely part of a woman’s wardrobe, but I understood they were from a muslim woman’s wardrobe. I felt utterly deflated and sat on my bed near to tears. I felt I had been taken for a ride by fate. Maybe, I told myself, that was what temptation really was. You got so close to something desirable and it turned out to be not what you expected.

I started to put the stuff back in the bag, thinking I would dump it all someplace and console myself that maybe mum had gone to buy a new dress and one day I could wear that. Then I thought again. What if they were wearable? Well, of course they were: millions of muslim women wore this sort of thing everyday. More to the point, these clothes had been worn by a woman.

If that was the case, then I could wear them. The more I thought about it, the more the idea appealed. It would be quite something to be clad as a muslim woman would be, and certainly the fabrics were delightful to touch. That would mean delightful to wear. My excitement grew.

I went online to look at images of muslim women and I had to admit, although I had not thought of it before, they were lovely. Most of all they were lovely because of what you couldn’t see. Sort of the idea of the appeal of hidden beauty. I went back to my ‘new clothes’ and found one long item was an Abaya, and the other long item was a Niqab. The long scarf arrangement was the veil part. I went back to the computer and searched out Niqabs. As I did so, my cock got hard looking at them. I liked the idea of only being able to see the eyes, and even then some of them had some sort of covering over the eyes so they were completely anonymous. I loved the idea, and had masturbated to it often, of being trapped in women’s clothes. A virtual prisoner under female clothes. I even had some toy handcuffs I sometimes wore when dressed up so I could feel what a real female prisoner would feel.

Now I could do that. I looked up how to wear a Niqab and there was a handy guide to putting one on. I began to dare think this could yet be the best day of my young life. I liked the clothes, and the black fabrics (with a little embroidery) appealed enormously. I wasn’t going to be any woman; I was going to be a muslim woman. A handcuffed and perhaps gagged muslim woman, for under the Niqab I realised the female could be gagged. Perhaps, for all I knew, muslim females were routinely made silent under their veils. I knew from something I had once read, that muslim men often considered a female’s voice haram, or forbidden. So it made sense they were covered up when gagged. Best of both worlds.

I sat there and thought this was better than thinking of being a prisoner in women’s clothes. I really could be one with this.

First I needed to get a woman’s shape even if it would be covered up. I stripped off and went to find what my mother called a corselette in her underwear drawers. It was peach coloured, but that didn’t matter. I pulled it on, stuffing the cups with old socks to give me ‘breasts’ and enjoying the feel of the way my male waist was narrowed by the tightness of the corselette. My cock was rigid with excitement so I pulled on a pair of my mother’s worn panties, found in the laundry hamper. I preferred mother’s knickers to the thongs my sister wore because I loved the fullness of it all. Better to catch any leaks, I reasoned, and I could put them back in the laundry basket later.

Then I put on the Abaya before donning the Niqab. It took a while to sort it out but I was in a new kind of heaven. It was confining and hot but I didn’t care because the way the fabrics settled round me was sensational. In other words, a wonderful sensation. I was a woman of a different culture.

I loved looking in my mirror and seeing just my eyes peeking out from the mass of black, and I felt very special. I loved the fact I felt restricted. Then I took some lengths of duct tape I kept hidden and taped my mouth up, like a gag. I had to lift the veil to gag myself and I couldn’t help feel it was cheating to even do that, but needs must. I was happy when I had silenced myself and my veil dropped back in place. Then I took my toy handcuffs and clicked them on with my hands behind my back, suddenly feeling annoyed my hands were exposed. I had already gathered that women in Niqabs often had the minimum of flesh showing but there were my hands, on show. Well, that was soon resolved. I took the cuffs off (they had a small plastic release catch which I could manage with one hand to free the other hand) and went to my mother’s chest of drawers  and dug out a pair of black satin long gloves. I pulled them on and that increased my feeling of helplessness even doing that. Then I cuffed myself again and could now admire myself even better in the full-length mirror in my parents’ bedroom. I looked great, I thought. I was now a veiled muslim woman, gagged and cuffed and gloved too, waiting for my master or even mistress to come and use me.

Ah, fantasy. It is a wonderful thing. I was utterly absorbed in my new restricted identity. But that was where my biggest mistake came.

I had lost track of time. Normally I permitted myself ten minutes being dressed as a woman and then got out of the clothes, however reluctantly. But all this had taken way longer. I had spent far too much time on the ‘net looking at pictures of muslim women in Niqabs, finding out how to wear the veil. I had spent too long like this and now everyone was home.

Were they back too early? Had I been wasting too much time admiring the new me? Either way, it didn’t matter. I fled, gagged and cuffed from my parents’ bedroom but they heard me on the upstairs landing. ‘Tim,’ my mother called out, ‘is that you up there?’

I couldn’t reply. I made an urgent mmphing sound into my gag, which must have sounded worse than it was. Worse, I couldn’t get my bedroom door open: it had closed and I couldn’t get my cuffed hands round to the handle to open the door. I fumbled to release the cuffs but I had never tried to do it wearing gloves. The small catch slid off my satin-covered fingertips.

At that moment, dressed in a Niqab, gagged and cuffed and fumbling, my sister arrived to see who had making those strange noises upstairs. Cathy either expected me to do something stupid (I think she suspected strongly I was dressing up in her things as well as our mum’s and wanted to catch me) or she simply adjusted to reality fast. She now stood hands on hips and grinned, then she called out: ‘Mum, Dad, hurry up! Come and see what my dirty-minded brother’s doing.’

They came to see, running, and that was that.


I suppose I am happy now, being the ‘new daughter’ as my mother calls me, though Cathy mocks me as ‘the new home help.’ I am a bit of both if truth be known. Dad largely ignores me as he cannot quite grasp why a young man wants to be dressed as a woman, and more so that this  particular young man has chosen to take the veil. From my — restricted — point of view I like to think it’s better if the family don’t see either my face or the gag under my Niqab.

A proper gag now though, not some tape that could come off easily.

Why did they do this to me? Good question. I think it was because they recognised that I wanted it (both my mother and sister were amused that I was raiding their clothes though they are far more pleased I have clothes of my own.) They also don’t have to worry about me being recognised when family and friends call at the house. Sure, a lot of people find it odd our family has a home help who is devout muslim by all appearances and never speaks. Just a helping hand, and not making waves or having language difficulties as this black-shrouded female clearly understands all orders.

I even think some of my parents’ friends are jealous our home has a helper who causes no problems. I even heard some of them talking one day, saying that the cost of outfitting this silent muslimah might be very reasonable indeed. Just a black blanket, they said. Outrageous! A muslim woman in a veil deserves better than such disrespect.

It annoyed me, and had I not been gagged I would have told them so. My mother and sister spend a lot of time getting me the best Niqabs and Burqas, which I find even more exciting as I can barely see through the mesh when they choose to put one on me.

Oh, yes, and they have proper handcuffs for me now if they wish to put my arms out of the way. That and a pair of manacles for my ankles. They say it makes a lovely sound as I walk, or rather shuffle, round. Dad merely sighs but I think he is happy I am some use to people now. I think he had his doubts I would be any use at all.

Of course, it can get lonely like this, being silent and helpless at times. But everything has a price. You just have to be willing to pay it. My mother and sister occasionally like to buy me nice underwear (or I get to wear mum’s cast-off bras and knickers) and they get a huge kick when buying the items to tell the assistant that the underwear isn’t for them. It’s for a young man they say, which apparently amuses the women serving.

Which is also why I suppose one day Kerry showed up at our house and wanted to know if she could help them ‘tame me.’ Yes, I heard her say that. Kerry worked in the lingerie department at a retail store and thus got to now about me. I’ll admit she is not the best looking girl I have ever seen but she seems to like the idea of being around me in my outfits. I can’t complain, in more ways than one.

I have even heard mum and dad and Cathy talking about Kerry being a good person to take care of me if they aren’t around. Kerry seems to like that idea, too. I also have seen this young woman looking at a lot of wedding magazines, so maybe she has a bigger idea of us being together than ‘taking care of me’ in my Niqabs and Burqas.

We shall have to see what Kerry has planned for Fatima, the silent home help.

 


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