Francis moped about his room for the fifth day in a row. Sitting at his PC, he stared blankly at the screen his thoughts taken up by memories of his ex girlfriend Fatima. She had left the week before, after her 4 years of study had finished. They were together 3 of those 4 years but she had to return home and, not being compatible with her conservative Muslim family, she tearfully broke up with him and gathered all her things.
“Damn man, I just really miss her. Graduation sucked. It’s been a few days now. I hope she’s okay.”
He mused, gazing blankly out the window. It was grey and dreary but he knew he should at least get up and out for a walk. Rousing himself, he opened his wardrobe to get a coat, but his fingers brushed something soft. Out of place yet familiar. Perplexed he grabbed the silky fabric and pulled it out.
It was a beautiful nightie and hijab. Francis’ heart thumped. It was Fatima’s, she must have forgotten it. She loved these so he knew he should at least post them over as a last goodbye. Going to pick up his phone to message her, he stops. A lewd thought cropped up in his boy brain, and he looked back at the clothing.
He loved how it looked on Fatima. How would it look on him? Undressing slowly, he tentatively picked up the luxurious fabrics, carefully manoeuvring into it so as not to tear Fatima’s favourite nightie. The sensuous silk gliding over his rough body as it stretched in all the wrong places.
Looking at himself in the mirror, he smiles, looking like a amateur crossdresser. Picking up the long fabric, he scrutinised the clothing, unsure of how to tie it.
Fidgeting with the hijab, Francis stared at the mirror, unaware his thighs began to thicken. Blotches of flawless brown skin crept over his thighs, spreading up his waist and down his shins. His hair falling out where it washed over.
“Shit, this thing is fiddley. How on Earth did Fatima do this every day?”
As his legs thickened, shedding their hair, his butt began to expand, the lightly tanned skin of the white Irish boy being washed in warm brown. He always loved Fatima’s butt even though she rarely showed it. But even so, his cheeks plumped, while his pink butthole tightened, turning a deep brown.
Above, Francis had figured out the initial wrappings, as his waist cinched inwards. His faint 6 pack abs melted, with the wash of brown, turning toned, with a hint of pudge.
But his attention was brought right back as his hips snapped outwards with a crunch, widening to the curvy booty Fatima modestly covered up.
Ouch! “What the fuck!? My ass! Its… Brown! And huge!”
He could see the brown creeping up his skin beneath the fabric, spreading over his chest. His nipples tingled, turning a deep brown and widening. The mass behind them building as they pushed two cute little breasts out of his chest. Francis gasped. He knew that body anywhere. It was Fatima’s.
He wanted to stop. But a morbid curiosity made him want to finish his hijab. He folded the fabric over his head, seeing his arms slim down, in his reflection and shedding their hair. The colour had reached his hands.
He had no idea what he was doing but he felt like he was learning. Yet as he brought the silky fabric under and over his chin and head, he felt his spine crack violently. Several vertabrae shattering and dissolving in an instant as he jolted down from his tall 6 foot 1 inch right down to his tiny Ex’s 5 foot 3 inches.
Undeterred, He kept working, feeling them pop and shift, his fingers becoming slender, his nails growing long and elegant, like Fatimas’s. This seemed to help, as Francis was now working on wrapping the final part around. His dexterous little fingers nimbly working the fabric and folds.
As he finished, tucking it neatly but not tight, the tan crept up his neck to his face. Below his cock stirred, throbbing at the sight of his girlfriends exposed body. Francis moaned softly, taking a moment instead to reach down and gently caress his cock. Closing his eyes, his cock felt huge in his hand. And to his cock it felt just like when she would give him handjobs.
He shuddered, stroking his engorged length. His lithe hands feeling just like when Fatima pleasured him. He could almost hear her giggles at the effect she knew she had on him. Revelling in their past lovemaking, he unexpectedly reached climax, his sensitive throbbing cock spurted out the content of his balls. Ejected everything, he would ever need to have a white little western baby.
The brown hue crept up the base of his member as it reached the tip, turning it from a pinky purple to a deep brown. As he played with his pulsing cock, relishing in the orgasm, it started to shrink. Little by little, back into his wild brown bush. His ballsack pulled up taut against his body, a small opening forming at the base of his shaft, where it met his balls.
His wild unkempt bush fell down onto the floor, and he watched as a well groomed, tidy strip of straight black hair grew out above his cock. Light stubble appearing around the base and mound, because Fatima like to shave and shape.
“Oh fuck, No! I like seeing her naked but not in this way!”
Desperatly trying to grab his dwindling dick, Francis watched as the thick white rod he used to stretch out Fatima’s loyal slit, slowly retreat. The shrinking throbbing head turning into his ex girlfriends beady little clit, hidden under a little brown hood, as his foreskin swelling and plumped up matching her juicy lips. He knew these well on all the times he had enjoyed going down on her in secret. His testicles pulled up inside him, rising up his burrowing womb deep within.
Their DNA and purpose being overwritten with superior Iranian genetic. His genetics for blue eyes, blonde hair and gingers in the family, overwritten into Fatima’s pure brown eyed, black haired Iranian muslim heritage. His or rather her new ovaries settled, pumping her body full of oestrogen. Between his thighs was a perfect copy of his ex girlfriends pussy, right down to the dark brown freckle on the left lip.
Frantima couldn’t fully process what had happened. The orgasm had left her head feeling funny, and as if on autopilot her hands reached down sliding inside the fabric covering her sex.
She rubbed and toyed with her soft pliable lips, her old member remade into the pussy it once loved. As she circled her clit, she gasped, her voice sounding much softer and feminine. Gulping, she clears her trepidation, swallowing the lump that made her voice not as dulcet and melodic. Circling faster, she takes the dive, sliding inside her wet folds, still leaking slick fluid. Its contents the last fading chance she had to continue her Irish bloodline and name. Her folds part and she slide deep, a crash of pleasure and arousal flooding her body and brain.
“Oh fuck… Fuck… إذا لم أتوقف، سأتحول إلى فاطمة، تمامًا.”
(“If I don’t stop, I’ll turn into Fatima, completely!)”
But Fratima couldn’t help herself as she pleasured herself, sliding her fingers in and out, her mind being eroded and overwritten. Native english fading into broken, barely passable English. Memories of growing up in rainy Dublin and its dirty bustling streets turned into long Summer nights in sunkissed Tehran. Knowledge of computers, geography and science were converted into a love of baking, embroidery, vintage clothing and native Arabic. She tried to think back to milestones in her life, but with each one she tried to hold on to, it morphed faster into Fatima’s life.
Playing with toy soldiers and playing in the mud turned into dance lessons and fashion tutorials. Skipping Mass with the family? No, she was a pious girl who always went to Mosque with the family, amd Mamah and Papah. Rowdy nights drinking or gaming were not proper for a responsible girl so she spent her teens learning to sing and practice art.
She thought she could see herself from the doorway when she thought back to when she made the painting hanging beside the door. But the more she did, the more her view changed to being to one spending hours over every brush stroke as she softly sung to herself in Arabic.
The pleasure brought her back to reality, still she tried to think one last time. She imagined her first boner, learning to jack off to her older brothers stolen Italian porno magazine. Her first time getting lucky with a girl and sliding inside the warm inviting folds of a pussy for the first time. But her thoughts blurred, and clouded. The pasty tall boy laying on the bed jerking his cock, turned into a petit brown girl, delicately and secretly exploring the folds of her blossoming womanhood. She couldn’t remember what sliding inside a pussy was like. Only the first time a man slid his thick hairy member into her tight virgin slit. And it felt incredible.
As she approached her first female orgasm with Fatima’s body, Fratima threw her head back, her face becoming tanned and soft. As the waves washed over her, she felt her skull crunch and reshape. Her jawline softened, her nose became Fatima’s cute little nose. Her brows thinned and arched, while her lips plumped up into Fatima’s brown kissable pillows. Her lashes fluttered, lengthening, as her eyes widened, their grey blue hue overwritten with the deep brown irises she had stared into so many times. Her short fair hair darkened turning black, growing long and straight under the loose hijab, forming a tight bun.
In a final moment, the faint image of Francis stared at Fatima in the mirror. His body, brain and mannerisms all erased and turned into hers. But as the last wave washed over her brain, the sparkles and colours manipulated the mental vision of the white man she thought she saw herself as, transforming into Fatima.
His skin darkened. His hips widen, and his chest and butt grow. The horrified imaginary Francis watches his hands and feet reshape, his hair tumbling down around brown breasts, and turning black. His face snapping as he screams. The male screams raise in pitch as his member becomes hers kitty. All that remained when she thought of herself was the beautiful brown muslimha left behind. Not Francis. But Fatima.
The room swirled, Francis’ clothing, items and decor all morphing into the colourful exotic ones the real Fatima has taken away. After all, she was still in Tehran getting ready to meet her family’s proposed groom for her. Local reality shifted, as friends who believed she left, now knew she stayed. And the real Fatima herself would think nothing of why her European friends stopped contacting her for her local clone instead. The West was fun but she was ready to cut all ties and stay in Iran for good. English was a disgusting and hard language anyways.
The room was remade, as if Fatima had never left her dormroom, but now in the old boys apartment.
And with that, the hijabi girl giggled, catching her breath. She had made the right call to stay and tell her family she would not come home, and cut all ties. She wanted a little freedom. She did not need them to find a man for her, she could find her own as college had proved. But she broke up with Francis because while he was nice he wasn’t Muslim. And if she was staying,for good, she couldn’t wait to start working and meet her new future husband. One day he would knock her up, send her home, and that would be it. She would marry him, and live her purpose giving him many babies and growing the Muslim community abroad.
Once Fatima was ready, she got up, getting her phone to snap a pic. Sending it to her bestie Dhariya, she captioned it:
إذن خمن من سيبقى في الولايات*
*المتحدة بعد كل شيء؟ حمدالله
(“‘iidhan khuman man sayabqaa fi alwilayat almutahidat baed kuli shay’? Hamdallah~”)
(“So guess who’s staying in the US after all? Praise be to God~”)
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Howdy! Hope you enjoyed and are having a smashing day~
This is my first proper story here I knocked up with a little inspiration from someone
Let me know what you think! Always love ideas, so Peace, Love and have a safe and pleasant day, gorgeous random reader <3
- Benny
