Agne lay in her sleep-sack thinking about the events of the day. Two nights before – well, two nights that she knew of, who knows how long she had been knocked out for her modifications? – she had also been sleeping in a sack much like this one, as she had been doing for months before that. But last night it had been oh, so different. Last night she had been with her husband.
For she was now a married woman. Mrs. Nasser Udeen Bukhari.
She rolled that thought over in her mind. She still had not fully comprehended her new reality.
After waking up from her modifications and having the reward and punishment system explained to her, more of her new life was revealed to her. First up, she met her co-wives.
Co-wives. Even the idea of sharing a husband with another woman was outrageous to her. Or at least, it would have been when she was living in the decadent west only a few months before. Now though, her brain having normalised at least part of her new existence as a silent, anonymous, rubberised purdah wife in Saudi Arabia, it seemed sort-of comprehendible. I mean, men have needs, do they not? And could one woman truly satisfy the needs of a man like Nasser Udeen Bukhari?
And yet, at the same time, even though she knew that they had as much say in their lives as she did these days, she was jealous of those co-wives, the women whom she had to share her man with.
It was the pendants that did it. And the bump.
After she had digested the rewards and punishments, Nasser Udeen Bukhari had returned to her. He had taken hold of her leash and pulled her over to the bed like a dog. Then they had lain together. He had held her and stroked her rubberised form, but they had not made love. His member had hardened, but he had made no effort to insert in her modified hole. Slowly she realised what she must do, but resisted the idea. He did not seem to mind; they lay there together, he seemingly content just to hold her rubber body, running his hands over it gently and teasingly, exciting her.
She didn’t want to bend down, have him remove her gag and swallow his tool in her mouth, but she desired some form of skin-to-skin contact and the idea of an hour’s exercise was just too tempting. After twenty minutes or so of foreplay she turned to him and groaned. “Do you wish to service me, darling Saaliha?” he asked. She nodded, hating herself for doing so.
“You are an excellent wife,” he said, removing the gag. She let her mouth engulf the waiting member. The feel of human skin against her tongue was exquisite. He groaned as she moved that tongue up and down the shaft, the piercings titillating him foruther. She sucked and she licked and he cried out in ecstasy. Warm, salty semen flooded her mouth. Dutifully, she swallowed it, almost retching at the taste. He stroked her head as one might do with a horse, fiddled with one of her cheek chains, and then repeated his earlier words: “You are an excellent wife,” before adding, “and now we shall meet your equally wonderful sisters.”
She had been dressed as before. Although her intimate purdah suit was radically different in both colour and content to denote that she was no longer a virgin and instead a wife, externally nothing had changed. Layers of slippery black cloth transformed her from something akin to a rubber sex doll into an anonymous black cone. There was only one noticeable difference. These days it was her husband who was guiding her, not a maid. And he used a leash to do it.
The other wives of Nasser Udeen Bukhari were sitting on a plush carpet in the middle of a sumptuous, airy living room. Daylight streamed in from skylights and frosted windows and the smell of frankincense hung in the air. Nasser Udeen Bukhari led her to them and then bade her kneel down at their side. Then he took her leash and fastened the end to a chain set in the floor. When he flipped back her veils allowing her to see more clearly, she noticed that the other two also had leashes leading to the floor ring.
“Wives,” he began, “this is your new sister, Saaliha. Please welcome her into our family and treat her with love and respect. Saaliha, this is my first wife, Shanza and my second wife, Abdia.”
As he introduced them, he flipped back their veils too, to reveal two rubberised faces. Behind her bondage, Agne gasped. Shanza wore a purple suit and Abdia a black one. Were they the same purdah women whom she had met at the restaurant on that fateful day when her life had changed beyond all recognition? The two women leaned over in turn and rubbed their faces against her in greeting. They too, it seemed, had their arms restrained.
Seeing this, their husband announced, “You may all have a period of two hours to relax and get to know one another. I will get the maids to remove your monogloves and you may communicate via notes.”
This was duly done and soon the wives were busy writing to each other.
I am so happy to welcome you into our family.
We are blessed to be able to live in purdah together!
It is the holiest of lifestyles!
My name is Shanza. I am thirty-six. My name means ‘woman of dignity’. That is why our beloved husband has chosen purple as my colour. It demonstrates that dignity as I am like royalty, a queen.
And I wear black because my name means ‘slave of Allah’. A slave is the least important of people, a non-person. I feel honoured to wear it.
I am Saaliha. It means ‘pure, pious and devoted’. Green is the colour of Islam so it represents that piety I suppose.
Mashallah! How wonderful! You are truly blessed!
And our sister is doubly-blessed Abdia, look! She had three pendants already! And the last one was earned only a few minutes ago.
Confused, Agne put a hand up to the chain and, yes, there were three pendants there now. In the reflective rubber of Shanza’s face, she noticed that the two flowers had now been joined by a golden flower. Then she looked at her two co-wives and noticed that they sported numerous pendants dangling from their chains. Shanza had far more than Abdia, but they both had a lot, some bigger than others, but all representing peaches, flowers, jewels or, very occasionally, rosebuds.
What do you mean: I earned my pendant?
Has our beloved husband not explained how the pendants work to you yet?
Agne shook her head.
Well, everytime we fulfil our primary role in life, that is, bring him to pleasure, he rewards us. If his seed erupts in our mouth, we get a flower; if it is in our bottom, a peach; if it is somewhere else on our body, for example the face or breasts, a jewel; and, most rarely, in our womanly holes, a rosebud in honour of the treatment that we have been blessed with there.
You are in a unique position today, Sister Saaliha; your have more rosebuds than anything else. Trust me, it won’t stay that way!
This caused the two co-wives to laugh and, as they did, Agne examined their pendants. The vast majority were peaches and flowers, rosebuds were tiny and rare indeed.
Each eruption gains us a small pendant, but when we have achieved ten, they are swapped for a larger one and then, a hundred, a larger one still. Look, I have five large peaches because, over the eighteen years of our marriage, our beloved husband has climaxed in my bottom over five hundred times!
I am nearing a hundred, but, unlike Shanza here, I am still a relatively new wife. We only got married two years ago.
But how did you know that I earned my last pendant half an hour ago?
Because of the plugs in our bottoms. In his infinite love, our beloved husband has arranged it so that whenever he climaxes with one wife, the joy is shared with his other wives by having the plugs in our bottoms vibrate sensuously for five minutes. It is very exciting!
Wanting to change the subject away from sex – Agne had been counting up Shanza’s rosebuds and she had already reached thirty and was starting to feel insanely jealous – she decided to change the subject:
Have we met before? Before I was Saaliha, I met two purdah-living women. One wore black and the other purple.
Yes, of course, that was us! But you were Saaliha then; you have always been Saaliha, you just didn’t know it. Shaitan had led you astray. But it was us that brought you back to your true self.
I don’t understand.
Our beloved husband heard of a woman affected by Shaitan. He asked us to save you and return you to Islam. So we attended the lecture and brought you to the cafe. As a reward for returning you to the True Faith, Abdia here has been allowed to bear a child.
Abdia took hold of Agne’s hand and brought it over to her belly. Agne could feel the tautness and roundness.
I am so happy! Bearing a child fulfils me as a woman. Before I was nothing but now I am something. Shanza here has given our beloved husband three children already but this is my first. In his wisdom he did not deem me worthy before. But in bringing you here he has rewarded me and he says that if it is a son, I shall be allowed to bear a second!
Agne was shocked. They had lured her here merely so that Abdia could gather the reward of bearing a child! She thought of the rewards and punishments sheet that she had been shown. Well, she would never betray a fellow human being for something like that, however much she may want a baby. It is the ultimate act of betrayal. But more than that, there was something more to this that was troubling her.
But I bet you regret it now that I have ended up marrying your husband and taking him away from you!
Regret it? Not at all. We knew before we met you that this would be happening. After all, he had selected you!
Selected me? That’s not possible.
Of course he did. He saw your videos on feminism on the internet and liked what he saw. He was the one who arranged and paid for your university to send you over here.
That can’t be possible.
It is. He even asked for you in person. They wanted to send a Dr. Higgins.
But it can’t be. In Al-Bayt Aleadhara I was the one who agreed to marriage, no one forced me. And they gave me a choice of candidates to marry. I chose him of my own free will.
No, that is not true. The other candidates were not real. They were just mentioned to make you think you had made a choice. The choice was made for you back in the decadent west. But do not be sad about it; you are here now in a joyful purdah life, with a guaranteed place in paradise at the end of it.
Agne, however, did feel sad. She felt destroyed. It had been a plot all along and she was just like some brainless fly who had flown straight into the spider’s sticky web.
At the end of their “conversation” time, maids entered the room and motioned for the girls to move. What’s happening? Agne asked her co-wives. Relaxation and arm training wrote Shanza in reply.
A maid flipped down her veils, cuffed her wrists behind her back, unclipped her leash and, holding the end, led her away. After walking down several corridors, she found herself in a large and well-appointed room. Against one wall was a single bed and beside it was a door which led to a bathroom. The maid stripped Agne of her veils and then led her to the toilet. Having not gone for a while, she was glad to evacuate her bowels, but felt somewhat ashamed as this unknown and unseen woman wiped her bottom like a baby’s. Also embarrassing was how her pee now only dribbled out of her modified hole, making the process take much longer.
Once she had used the toilet, the maid led her over to a most curious device indeed. It was a pole, standing about a metre of the floor, with a sort of saddle at the top. The maid indicated that she should sit on the saddle, which she did, except that, disturbingly, it incorporated a faux tool that was clearly designed to enter her bottom hole. The maid lubed this and, carefully, she let it slip into her. Once that had been done, whilst she was still panting somewhat, the maid fastened a strap around her waist connected to the saddle, which secured her firmly in and guaranteed that she could not either lift herself out or fall off it. Then the maid went behind her and took hold of her cuffed wrists. She raised them up, behind her back until the position became rather painful and then clipped the cuffs using a short chain to her collar. Following this, she then took out another pair of cuffs and fastened them around her charge’s arms just below the elbows. These were also linked by a chain which, using a ratchet, the maid began to shorten. The pain was intense but, after a couple of turns, the maid decreed herself satisfied and walked back in front of Agne. Using a notepad she then wrote, Your husband has decreed that you will rest for three hours every afternoon. During this time, your arms will also be trained to accept the reverse prayer position which he finds pleasing.
And then, bending down, she pressed a button and the pole began to rise. It did not rise much, twenty centimeters or so, but it was enough for all the weight to be transferred off Agne’s feet – which now dangled in midair – onto the saddle. And then she was left there, halfway in the air, fixed onto her seat by a buttplug and her arms bent in some painful and extreme position. How on earth could anyone relax like that?
But once she had got over that, she noticed something else.
This room was her bedroom. No one needed to tell her that; it was clear. Above the bed was the framed calligraphy made with her own hair and on the table beside it was the doll depicting her as she had looked when she was Agne. But all around the wall were a series of photos. They were blown up large, printed on canvas and framed. She traced her eyes around the walls from left to right.
The first depicted her in a form-fitting low-cut short sleeve dress with black sheer tights and black heels with a silver floral necklace . It was quite the opposite of the outfit she was now wearing, and encapsulated everything that she had been taught was evil about the decadent west: alluring, immodest, attention-seeking, an invitation to extra-marital sex. She recognised it immediately: it had been taken at an office party the year before.
The second was of her smiling in a simple white t-shirt with a yellow rose design at the shoulder, a knee-length black front ring zipped skirt, black hose and black leather flats. It was typical of her everyday clothing in her former life and she recalled posing for the photo on a trip to Kew Gardens: she had gone there that day with her sister. It demonstrated clearly that even an outfit that she would have worn not intentionally seeking non-mahram male attention, was irrevocably lewd in her old life; again, a total contrast to her pious, fully-covered self today.
The third was of her wearing the green dress that she had worn for the lecture and her graduation, and that she had valued so dearly. It represented her values and ideals back then and, once again, it seem to scream attention-seeking and immodesty. A lady wearing such a dress will be noticed and will be seen as a person in her own right; even with the perfect husband at her side, she would always outshine him; the polar opposite of how she now realised things should be.
And the final one showed her exercising on a climbing wall on a day that her friends had bought her as a treat for her twenty-sixth birthday. In that image she wore a matching pair of black leggings and a sports bra, very simple and common among western workout styles. Again, here was an outfit that she had worn without thinking, almost every single day in her former life in the decadent west and yet, looking at it now, to her reformed eyes, she appeared almost naked, her tempting curves and alluring athletic body available for all to view. She winced when she thought of the unrelated men who had frequented that venue and in all the gyms that she used to visit. She had been nothing more than a prostitute!
Yet that was not all. Whilst feeling embarrassed on the one hand about her sinful, former life, at the same time, looking at those pictures, she also found herself casting her mind back to those very different times and missing them. She imagined herself climbing that wall, drinking alcohol and flirting with her colleagues in that party, smelling the flowers and showing herself to strangers that day at Kew Gardens and loving the attention focussed entirely on her during her graduation and lecture. She found herself longing for the same again and, despite their sinfulness and the likelihood that but one of those experiences alone could well deny her a place in jannah, she wished with all her heart that she could free herself from her blessed purdah suit, undo the restraints controlling her arms and lift herself off her relaxation stool and do them all over again. Taking all four images (which had clearly been taken from her Facebook page) into account, the message was clear: Here is the life you have lost.
Too numb to even cry, she rested limply, dangling there on her pole, sweltering in her rubber suit, the butt plug burying its way deep inside her rectum whilst her arms adjusted themselves to the next perverted ordeal they were to endure.