A Whore For Islam Ch 01

Tags:

Breast Expansion, Transformation, Growth, Bimbofication, Mind Break, Breeding, Interracial

Disclaimer:

The story, all names, characters, and sexual incidents portrayed in this production are purely fictitious and above the age of eighteen. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. Rated X, reader discretion is advised.

Chapter 1: Becoming a Woman

Rosalie knew that most of the food that she and Abdullah prepared for the family was supposed to be healthy, but she noticed that she had gained weight since she moved into his home. There wasn't much of an issue with her stomach, which still felt tight. However, her hips and her ass could barely fit into her skinny jeans or her shorts without extreme discomfort. Even the seams of her panties protested. Her tops, once flattering, felt much tighter around her chest. She had to completely forego wearing a bra because the padding, however thin, just made things feel even tighter and more uncomfortable.

She hoped that this weight gain only meant that she was becoming a full-fledged woman. She thought that she'd be fully grown at 22, but she had heard of a second wave of puberty that hit some women at her age. Supposedly, breasts and hips didn't fully come in until some women were 26, she had read somewhere.

She brought some dresses and skirts with her that luckily might accommodate her growing ass, which she could still wear since her waist was still the same as when she moved in. She also brought some more elastic shirts that could accommodate her growing chest, but those were very figure-hugging, and that simply wouldn't be appropriate in the house of a conservative Muslim man.

In desperation, she tried on her dresses, which only made her more frustrated. Her breasts were spilling out of the bodice of her dresses, and one white dress practically see-through due to how much it had to stretch around them. Another dress laced in the front, and in order to wear it, she'd have to untie it enough. Of course, this exposed too much cleavage. The length was an entirely different problem. Many of these dresses were several inches shorter now that they had to drape around her full hips and her plump ass. One of her skirts barely concealed the bottom curve of her ass cheeks. She bent over in the mirror and could see her entire pussy. Abdullah would certainly not appreciate that view!

Many of her skirts were too tight to fit around her hips, but she had a couple that were more flowy. The flowy ones used to sit on her hips, but now it could only fit around her waist. Unfortunately, fitting around her waist and having to drape around her growing ass meant that it was several inches shorter, just like her dresses. And just like her dresses, one gust of wind would expose everything she was trying to hide. However, she had a couple that were just long enough to not be obscene. She set those aside.

As for tops to wear with these skirts, the only tops that might fit were some spandex crop tops and some tube tops from her trip to the beach, before moving in with Abdullah and his sons. They were cute, but they made her growing chest look much too sexy. They also exposed her midriff, which made the entire outfit look like she was trying to show off her body.

Wearing spaghetti-strap crop top and one of the only skirts that fit, she sat down on her bed and cried. Younger Rosalie would have killed for a voluptuous figure like the one she was developing now. But now, she couldn't afford to go out and buy new clothes. That's why she was living with Abdullah and his boys, who had generously taken her in when her parents cut her off.

They were once just regulars at the store she worked at. Abdullah and his sons were kind, polite men. He always flattered her by complimenting her hair or her new nail polish. He didn't make her feel like an object, unlike the other male regulars. They grew closer, and they discussed some of the shallower details about their personal lives.

She complained about her parents, who she still had to live with and who were desperate to control every aspect of her life, and he confided in her about how difficult it was to adjust to life in America as a refugee from Syria.

On the day she was cut off, he could see how she had been crying. When he asked, she confided in him about how she had nowhere to go, except to an abusive ex-boyfriend's house. She'd rather be homeless than live there.

Abdullah seemed shocked about her misfortune, and he offered to take her in as long as she would take care of the house. Muslim hospitality, he explained, could never allow him to let such a nice girl live so unsafely, but they also needed a woman to help them manage the home—clean, keep up with laundry, have it ready for guests. He had to leave his wife behind when he fled with his sons. He said that he would teach Rosalie how to make the food he and his sons like to eat. She enthusiastically accepted. It was a second chance.

She smiled at the memory before remembering her current situation. The only condition, besides her helping with housework, was that she be a proper woman for him and his boys. She agreed to live by their rules in their home, and now all of her clothes made her look like a trollop. These religious, Arab men certainly wouldn't appreciate such temptation in their own home, would they? They were always dressed modestly themselves, and they averted their eyes when some of the more exposed women were around.

Abdullah must have heard her crying, because she heard a knock on the door and he asked, "Sweet girl, what is wrong?"

He opened the door when she didn't answer. "No!" she cried, "Get out, I'm not dressed!"

He walked in, sat next to her and stroked her back, "What do you mean, you have a shirt and a skirt on, you are covered enough. Why are you crying?"

"What do you mean 'I'm covered enough?'" she said in between sniffles, "Abdullah, I'm barely covered! I've outgrown all my appropriate clothing. I look like I'm dressed for the beach, which is completely inappropriate for you and your boys to be around. You'll have to kick me out if I can't follow the rules of your house and be a proper woman," she whimpered.

"Oh, sweet girl. No more crying." He wiped the tears from her cheeks and pulled her close for a hug. This was the first time he had been so physical with her; he usually kept a very respectful distance save for the usual pats and nudges. But she was so grateful for the warm human contact, she accepted it without a second thought and leaned into his chest and cried.

Her crying soon slowed, becoming only jagged breaths without the tears. He smelled so good; she wondered why she hadn't noticed it before. And he felt so warm and comforting. She was hyperaware of where his arms and hands touched her body, but it was a welcome sensation. She could feel the slight scratches of his beard near her hairline, but it felt soothing instead of itchy. He rubbed her back, encouraging deeper inhales and slow exhales.

When she caught her breath, she lifted her head up, and Abdullah let her go. "Do you want to leave us?" he asked.

"No!" she exclaimed, "I don't want to leave. I just need better clothes, and I don't know how to get them." A tear slid down her face, but Abdullah caught it with his thumb.

"Shh, I said no more crying," he quietly laughed but there was a tone in his voice that she desperately wanted to obey.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry."

"That's better. Rosalie, sweet girl, we don't want you to leave. And if you'd like to stay here with us, in our humble home, we can make some changes to the rules." His accent comforted her further, it was so exotic to her yet still felt so familiar. She looked up at him with hopeful eyes. "We cannot afford new clothes for you to fit the previous rules, so we must change the rules, yes? We live in a very hot climate, here in the southern United States. Women frequently walk around in bathing suits and shorts and skirts. American women in particular have a different culture than us; they like being more exposed. My sons and I see it every day."

She nodded. That must be true, they must see much more exposed women than she. No wonder Abdullah seemed unphased when he walked in on her in this outfit.

"Further," he started again, "I'm trying to teach my sons how to properly treat the white women in this country. There is no harm if you must dress the same in this home as you would outside of the home. I assume you dress this way sometimes, otherwise you wouldn't have these clothes, would you?"

She nodded. He was such a gentleman. He smiled at her, and she smiled back.

"Ah, there it is! I missed that smile. Thank you for returning it to me." She giggled in response. Giggled? Rosalie was a bit surprised by her own reaction, but before she could think more about it, Abdullah said, "Now, stand up for me and let's see how you look."

She stood up for him and was suddenly nervous, but she couldn't tell if she was nervous because she felt exposed or because she wanted him to approve of her. She felt her skin prickle under his gaze and, strangely, she felt her nipples perk up.

Abdullah didn't make any effort to conceal where he was looking, and she could feel his eyes scanning the curves of her body. His face, however, didn't give away how he felt about it. He walked around her and really took in her image. When he got back to where he started in front of her, he took one more look at her breasts, and it felt like an eternity to her. Finally, he smiled at her and walked up to her.

Gently touching her jaw, he said "I think you look very nice." She was overcome, then, with a wave of joy. He approved! She bounced a little and he grabbed her gently by the shoulders.

"Now, this can't have been all you were crying about. Are you sure you're okay, sweet girl?"

She looked down. "Abdullah, I'm in this clothing situation because I have been gaining weight."

"No, no. I don't believe it. You said you had outgrown your clothes, yes, but you look good to me. Maybe you are just taller?"

"No, I've gained weight in my..." she trailed off from embarrassment.

"Continue, sweet girl."

"I've gained weight in my hips and in my breasts. I have gotten too comfortable, and I've eaten too much of your family's food. Particularly that almond milk you make. It must be so expensive."

"This is your home too. We make food so that it gets eaten, and I make the almond milk just for you because the boys don't drink it. It brings me great pleasure to see you eating enough. You were very skinny when you moved in. But you are a woman." He used his hand to move her face so that she was looking up at him. "And a beautiful one at that." She giggled; she just couldn't help herself. "American girls like to be so thin. But a woman is meant to have breasts, and she is meant to be soft in the right places."

He placed his hands on her hips, and she looked into his eyes. She felt almost hypnotized by him, by his smell, by his touch. "Aren't you glad that you're developing into a woman, a beautiful woman who'll be able to take care of the men of her house?"

This made her smile, but it also confused her. Men? Plural? But before she could think about it too much, his hand slid down to the top of her ass and he gave her ass a light pat. "Answer me, sweet girl."

She gave a light squeal when he tapped her ass, and she felt her pussy tense. "Yes, Abdullah. Thank you." She was grinning up at him.

"Good girl. Now, I seem to remember asking you to call me something else when you moved in."

"Yes, Abi."

"That's it, good girl. It means 'daddy,' because I'll take good care of you. Now how about I get you a glass of that almond milk you like so much?" She nodded fervently. "And why don't you follow me downstairs, and I'll tell my sons about the adjustment to the rules."

She bounced after him. She was so grateful that she found such a kind and understanding man to take her in. Abdullah pulled his boys aside and explained that Rosalie will be dressing differently, but she is a proper woman and will be treated as such.

Abdullah's sons did not have much to say about the change in rules, and she was thankful that they mostly stayed silent. His younger sons, twins, didn't take much of an interest at all, and they ran back to their toys. But his 18-year-old son, Ibrahim, told her that she looked very feminine and that it would brighten up the masculine household. She blushed; they were such kind men.