This is the new me. The real me. What once was male and Western and decadent and confused is now fem

This is the new me. The real me. What once was male and Western and decadent and confused is now feminine, obedient, focused, dedicated to service, and thoroughly Muslim. My Muslim master, my new husband, praised Allah at the sight of another pair of blue eyes opening to Islam, and at another white former male now bathed in feminine beauty and subservience as a feminized muslimah. Yes, my name is now Ameera. It means “princess,“ and I wear it with pride. It was assigned to me by the wonderful, amazing Arab stallion who found me and conquered me in the name of Islam. I once had a masculine Western name, of course. I had a wife of my own. I had what I thought was freedom. All of this happened by accident, or so I thought at the time. I found a website dedicated to cross-cultural sharing. I soon joined a discussion about Islam led by a brilliant gentleman from Dubai. Not only was he handsome and clearly well-educated, he had this inner confidence that I simply found irresistible. I looked forward to our group chats and learned more and more about his culture, his religion, his language. As such things often do on the Internet, over time others lost interest, but I remained. As he teased me later, he could tell that I was already smitten with him. And I was. I drank deeply from the well of knowledge that he offered. Soon our brief weekly sessions became daily sessions together on Skype. I readily absorbed his lessons and began to turn to him more and more for advice. His persuasiveness and the force of his logic were inescapable, and I began to take comfort in his leadership, and in allowing myself to be led. I turned myself over to his instruction. His praise became like a drug to me. He made changes to my diet. He insisted that I exercise strenuously. He instructed me in modesty and poise and grace. He explained these changes as the role of a novice or initiate, but he later revealed to me that he had purposefully groomed me for my new feminine future. He said that he had business in my city and would come to visit. My heart leapt and I readily agreed to meet him. At last I gazed into his eyes across a small, intimate dinner table at a very expensive restaurant. He ordered for both of us. As he told me later, I actually blushed. After our dinner, he stood first, then helped me with my chair and took my hand. He led me from the restaurant and through the hotel lobby with my hand in his. He told me that he knew that I was in love with him. How could I deny it? He drew me into the elevator and then into our first kiss. Later, he roared his approval as his proud Islamic cock breached my defenses, as he claimed my maidenhood. All of his instruction had served to prepare me to become soft and yielding in his arms, to accept his leadership over my mind and body. On that night, he became my Arab stallion and I became his mare. That was the beginning of a torrid love affair that soon will culminate in marriage. Under his leadership and guidance, I left my wife and left my Western ways behind. He gently but firmly guided me through my conversion to Islam, as well as my conversion from white American male to gentle, docile, obedient, feminine muslimah. I left my employer and became a contractor to his giant multinational corporation, which allowed me to change my mode of dress from male business casual to the lovely and far more appropriate abaya and hijab, not to mention the regimen of feminine beauty necessary for me to be appealing to my Muslim boss, master and fiance. He traveled to the U.S. and I travelled to the Middle East and Europe to meet. He made beautiful, vigorious, exquisite love to me over and over again in the most luxurious of hotels. He trained me to become his insatiable sexual plaything, tirelessly devoted to his pleasure. Thoughts of him, of his handsome face, of his supremely masculine body and devastatingly powerful Arab cock, filled my desires. At every turn, I followed his instruction to find purpose and knowledge and comfort in Islam. Months later, I found myself on a flight to Dubai, sitting next to my man, my head and body hidden under luxurious silken garb, showing only my face, which had been expertly made up with formed eyebrows, eye shade and liner, foundation and blush, and demure but appealing lipcolour. Feminine but not provocative heels on my feet. Fingernails manicured. Legs crossed as I rested my scarf-covered head on my soon-to-be husband’s shoulder. Beneath my abaya, I am shaved smooth and perfumed. My penis is locked in a cage that bears my husband’s name and words of praise to Allah. It, like the rest of me, now exists only to serve my husband and master. We will be married and I will keep his home, cook his meals, and be his devoted and adoring servant. I am Ameera, a feminized male muslimah. I hope you have enjoyed my story. (It’s fiction, of course, but it reflects my dearest wishes.) Please write or message me at ameeraxoxoxo@yahoo.com. Join the Revolution, sisters. Write your own story and share it. Together we can advance the Sexual Jihad. -- source link

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