Mgjidah stared at her reflection, desperately trying to ignore his rising despair. Her dainty hands trembled as they traced the foreign curves of her body, barely recognizable in the concealing hijab and abaya. Three years ago, Paul had been just another entitled white douchebag, disrespecting the local Muslim community. He never could have imagined the price he would pay.
The woman had appeared out of nowhere, her eyes crackling with ancient power. The words she spoke were arcane and guttural, seizing Paul’s body like a toy. Searing pain ripped through him as his entire being unraveled and rewove itself in accordance to the woman’s will. He watched in slack-jawed horror as his pale, hairy flesh smoothed and darkened to honeyed bronze. Bones shifted and popped, fat sloshed from gut to hips and ass, meaty pecs ballooned into pert, heavy tits. His junk inverted, cock collapsing into a delicate slit. A wrenching bolt of pleasure caused him to double over as his new cunt spasmed, sealing the curse.
When Paul’s watering eyes cleared, the woman was gone. As was Paul, at least in appearance, as now in his place was the Muslim beauty he now saw in the mirror. “Mgjidah,” the name echoed in his mind, stamped into freshly molded grey matter. Foreign memories then flooded in, a girlhood in Syria, devout parents, the Quran’s verses imprinted. His old memories remained but the now present Mgjidah was from then on a powerful force in his life.
No matter how hard Paul fought, the insidious Mgjidah pervaded his every action. His hands moved to drape his body in modest cloth, to pin his wavy locks under a hijab. His mouth refused alcohol and pork. Five times a day, without fail, his knees bent east towards Mecca, prayers spilling from his lips. The curse hijacked his very thoughts, bombarding him with shame whenever he tried to act against his programming. But Paul still persisted in his battle to resist, trapped in a mental prison, screaming denials against his cage of flesh. Recently, his struggles managed to manifest cracks in his pious prison. Inch by inch, he pushed the envelope of her wardrobe. Today’s ensemble was positively scandalous by Mgjidah standards: a form-fitting abaya that hugged her lush silhouette and exposed a tantalizing flash of calf! Perhaps, if he kept fighting, kept clawing back autonomy… maybe one day she could wear pants again! He almost wept at the thought. His hands twitched, eager to strip off this flowing femininity, to thrust her legs into a pair of jeans. Maybe even a bikini!
Paul gasped, doubling over as a bolt of searing pleasure emanated from his pussy. The phantom sensation of thick cock stretching him open, impaling him to the core, set her nerves alight. This was new. Mgjidah was almost assexual, and had never permitted him even a single sexual thought so far. Yet now Paul found himself dizzy with confused arousal. Was this the curse punishing his disobedience? Or was this the curse tempting him with glimpses of the ecstasy awaiting if she submitted fully to his new self. It certainly felt amazing.
“Stay the course,” Paul’s voice echoed in his hijab-shrouded skull. “Stay… the…” With a whimper, Paul felt rough hands seize her hips and yank her back against a rock-hard bulge. Except… no one was there. The curse had conjured a ghostly lover to correct its wayward daughter. Its invisible hands moved to lift her abaya and slide her panties aside.
And as the spectral cock hilted itself in Paul’s molten cunt, as his body bucked and writhed in mindless carnality, Paul’s dying screams dissolved into feminine squeals of bliss. Paul would become Mgjidah. Paul would be a good Muslimah from now on. She had to. Because every time Paul resurfaced… The curse would fuck him back into place.
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