Time to make you sound dumb. No one takes you seriously anyway, lets help reinforce their beliefs about you. You should be abandoning all your friends for porn anyway, they distract you.. This will help them distance themselves from a dumb loser like you. 

Go to your phone. Click on settings, then general, then keyboard. You’re going to sound so so dumb after this, no one will want to hang out with a loser like you. 

Firstly, click off to auto-capitalization, auto-correct, check spelling, predictive and smart punctuation. You’ve relied on these aids for so long, your punctuation and spelling are going to seem piss poor compared to normal people. But maybe you’re naturally good at spelling, even with auto correct etc providing assistance etc. People won’t think you’re dumb, you just made a mistake or two. That won’t do. We need to punish you for spelling correctly, for not being dumb. 

Click on text replacement. We’re going to change your vocabulary so that if you choose to spell a word properly, your phone will change it into something dumb sounding. The only way not to change it is to spell it wrong. You’ll have to choose, send a text that sounds like it was written by a 16 year old girl, or a text by someone who doesn’t know how to spell or use basic English. Either way, people will be laughing about you behind your back, judging you. And you’ll be jerking off to the thought of it. Oh, and as you write, some things that change wont be grammatically correct. Don’t delete it. If you wrote “if you want to” and it comes out “if u wanna 2″ then that’s how it is. So dumb sounding. Perfect for a dumb loser like you. Never use delete any more. Keep all your mistakes in.

In the phrase section, you’ll write the new replacement word. In shortcut, you’ll type the correct spelling of the word you meant to type.

Your list of words to input are below. Once you’re done, jerk until your almost leaking. Write a text to the hottest girl in your contacts, choosing whether to spell a word wrong and sound  like an illegible idiot or spell it right and sound like a brainless bimbo. Then hit send. Goon knowing she’s confused as fuck deciphering your text. Phrase          Shortcut

Hmmm…  I don’t know.  That seems like a decision that a man should make.  There are so many options.  More than my little girl brain can handle. 

So how about it guys, do you want to send me a pic of what sort of slutty costume I should wear for Halloween? 

But there are rules.  Well not many.  It has to be street, bar and bedroom legal.  So it has to be more than nothing.  And it has to be a costume that I can tell people what I’m dressed up as, so it has to have more or a story or character than girl in tiniest bikini legal in VA. 

Bonus points if it doesn’t need something I can’t beg/borrow/buy/acquire before Halloween, but don’t let that limit your imagination.

IT WILL PROBABLY COME OFF TOMORROW NIGHT…

YOU ALWAYS WONDERED IF

THERE WOULD BE SOMETHING TO GIVE YOU AWAY

AT WORK ON MONDAY

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 long and 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.

Yes, your penis must be locked away. Your husband must hold the key. It and you belong to him now. Your body was once a parody of masculinity. Western and weak. Now it is smooth and perfumed. It belongs to your strong, powerful Muslim Alpha Male master and husband. The thoughts in your pretty head belong to him as well, sister! Think thoughts of pleasing, of obeying. What could possibly be more perfect?

(more of my fiction)

Following the international business conference in Dubai, my former Western male identity simply ceased to be. My Muslim master told me that I didn’t need to worry about it any longer, and so I simply didn’t. I bowed my head and nodded, a smile on my prettily made-up face, and accepted his authority to make all decisions regarding my life going forward, as it should be.

I had arrived at the conference as a married man, at least nominally heterosexual, having never really closely examined my own sexuality nor my spiritual beliefs. Simply another Western male cruising on auto-pilot through his own life, never truly understanding what was missing, until he demonstrated to me how my life could be complete in every way.

He had this unmistakable air of Alpha Male authority about him. I was taken by that from the beginning, even though I didn’t understand what it meant. My own mind was awash with feelings, unbidden thoughts and newly awakened desires. The touch of his hand actually gave me goosebumps that first time, and still does today.

As it it were the most natural thing in the world, he simply took charge of me, and I followed. He taught me about his culture and religion and how these influenced his business dealings and outlook on the world. It did not dawn on me until hours later, after meetings and conversations and dinner, that I had been in his sights all along, that I had value to him and not merely as a business acquaintance. As he explained later, I was an unpolished gem, my true nature and needs hidden away, just waiting for Him, put in his path by the will of Allah.

He led me by the hand that first time, into the elevator that would take us to his palatial penthouse. That act alone, being led by the hand by a man, a man who had sexual intentions for me, was enough to make my thoughtful mind turn off. The force of his will was inesapable. I was fascinated by this man, enthralled by him, and the thought that he wanted a deeper and more physical relationship with me thrilled me to my core. In the back of my mind, I thought it would simply be a dalliance, a one-time thing, when-in-Rome, a chance of a lifetime to live out a sexual adventure.

What I could not have known, and yet what I am now most thankful for, is that this would be the last time in my life that I would wear male clothing. The suit, the starched shirt and tie, the proper Western business shoes, all of it – when they came off of my body that night, I never touched them or anything like them ever again.

There in his room he seduced me. We stood by the window, the lights of Dubai twinking below, and he pulled me into his arms and kissed me. My clothes fell away. Deeply in his power, I did not object as he began to speak to me using feminine pronouns and delicious little possessive nicknames. I felt like a girl. He told me that I was a girl, to him. In comparison to him, I was truly female. It was all so overwhelming.

In the twilight, he kissed me until I melted into his arms, then guided me to the bed and made love to me. For the first time in my life, someone made love to me. It was tender and loving, hot and passionate. He ruled my body. I accepted his authority over me, over and over again, whimpering into his shoulder has he took me, sobbing joyously as he had me on all fours, panting and begging for more as he had me on the bathroom countertop. Hours upon hours of serving him, pleasing him, offering myself to him, being taken again and again. He claimed every last ounce of my male-sex virginity, every bit of it. My head spun, thinking of how I had gone from not even mildly curious about sex with a man to becoming his insatiable pleasure toy.

Night turned to day turned to night. He told me not to worry about the conference, about my return flight, about my former life. I was so deeply in his thrall. He kept my mind filled with new visions of femininity, of obedience, of opening myself to the light and truth of Islam. He kept my body wracked with pleasure, and he took his pleasure from my moaning, twisting, straining body, again and again, with great relish.

Night turned to day again and only then did I notice that my clothes were gone. It was no matter. After bathing I covered myself in a beatiful caftan, feeling so desirable for the first time in my life. He supervised me, seeing that I dressed appropriately, and then others joined us in the suite, Arab men and women. They spoke in Arabic and I did not understand them. I merely sat in my chair, covered in my flowing and feminine caftan, gazing at him adoringly, still dizzy with pleasure. Later the women helped me with my makeup for the first time. He had simply cupped my chin, kissed me until I grew weak, and told me to accept it and obey his wishes. I did and was grateful.

I was instantly swept up in his power when we met at the conference on the West Coast. I was far from home, on my own in a beautiful city, away from the wife and kids. It seemed so natural to fall into conversation with him and hang on his every word. It was natural as well to continue our conversation in his luxurious hotel suite overlooking the city. Something about him and his demeanor and self-confidence made it seem perfectly natural to do whatever he wanted to do. Before I knew it, I was naked and kneeling before him, taking immense pride in making such an incredible, worldly man gasp and swear in Arabic as I took more and more of his thick cock in my then-virgin throat. Little did I know that I had inadvertently taken the first step down a long road that would lead me to converting to Islam and becoming his bride.

He was like a drug. His every word filled my mind. He was a force of nature. It felt right to let him lead, let him do the thinking, follow along in his wake, grateful for his attention. After that first evening, he made love to me repeatedly. Relentlessly. The part of me what was straight became a distant memory. I lived for him now. For a time, he was content to have me as his remotely controlled plaything, a dalliance for him to enjoy when he was in my East Coast city on business. He knew that he had but to call or email and that I would soon be beneath him, naked and moaning, begging and pleading, pledging my devotion to him. He praised my obedience, my growing skills at pleasing him, and my tight, accommodating pussy. When he raised the subject of a deeper commitment to him, I didn’t even think. I couldn’t. At the time, he was ravishing me, pounding me into the king-size mattress, proclaiming his ownership of me, reveling in my moans and sighs and acknowledgement of his supreme power.

He explained that our arrangement was not that unusual. Throughout history, naturally weak and submissive whites have succumbed to more powerful, more masculine, dominant Alpha Male Muslims. Having wealth and privilege in the Muslim world, a man like him has certain leeway in his personal life, and the acquisition of a submissive, feminized white male wife was among them, so long as I converted and strictly obeyed the customs. He explained this to me in the afterglow of our lovemaking as I lay there, spent and enthralled. He intended to have me, to take me from my family and job, not to mention my culture and homeland, and turn me into his muslimah wife. As he explained this further, he spooned me from behind. His thick, Arab cock grew and thickened and poked my soft, white ass. His knowing fingers manipulated my tender nipples. His hot breath at my ear whispered promises of untold pleasure, and my deep submmission and obedience.

I agreed.

He assigned me a new name, Ameera. I accepted it gladly.

Now I wear the hijab and the abaya. Underneath, I wear deliciously feminine lingerie. My face is kept pretty, yet understated. My nails are manicured and pedicured. My body is kept smooth and silky. My man demands femininity and elegance. I am, of course, kept in chastity. Above all, my sexuality belongs to him, now and forever. It is not for display. My body belongs to him, in a very deep and real sense. The merest look from him causes me to flush and anticipate his touch and his cock. My heart flutters when he speaks my new name, my true name.

It is deeper than mere romantic love and affection. I am his prize. His wife. I am living proof of his dominant intellect and Alpha Male prowess. I do as he commands. My old life is gone. Now there is only Ameera, wife and muslimah.

Ameera

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The perfect “sissy wife” dress is likely to be found among vintage clothing lines that feature 50′s and 60′s femininity.  Among the most feminine are those flared dresses made to be worn with petticoats, featuring a slim waistline that enhances the flared fullness of the dress/petticoat combination.