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An Unorthodox Conversion

Note to readers: My story line continues with a new narrator.

How did a nice Yeshiva University alumni like me end up in a situation like this? Here I am getting my beard trimmed to almost nothing at a Fort Lee barber shop so that I will look good for my trip to Cairo. I feel like a shipment about to be delivered.

I guess it all started with the rent being too damn high in New York City. I couldn't make ends meet in Manhattan after getting my college degree, so I moved across the bridge to New Jersey where the apartments were a bit more reasonable. I told myself that it would be worth living outside the Manhattan eruv if it meant getting a place big enough to raise a family in.

It never occurred to me that living far from the community would lead to me going off the beaten path ... well, to be honest, maybe a part of me saw that as a feature, not a bug, of moving away from Washington Heights. Starting the first weekend after the move, I enjoyed Saturday mornings in the park watching the goyim while my apartment key hung from a necklace securely underneath my shirt.

I forget how many weekends it took for me to notice "her" in the park ... Oh, Damn it! I'll say it without reservations, because she is a woman even if she does have a penis and balls. I forget how many weekends it took for me to notice her in the park. She wasn't like any other woman I had ever met, but she had the features I had always admired in the ladies I've dated in the past.

And boy could she dress to impress. The slitted dress, not the mini skirt, so that the eye slowly travels up her leg until it lingers just above the slit, imagining the one thing the dress refuses to grant a view of. Those daydreams became night dreams that filled every sleeping hour.

She snapped a picture of me with her mobile phone and then ran up to me to show me what I looked like. "That expression is priceless. Do you mind if I email it to my husband in the UK?"

"It's a free country," I said.

"Thanks," she said.

"I'm Avrum," I said. She shrugged and started to walk away. "What's your name?" I called after her.

"Bitch, slut, whore, on the weekend you can call me any of those," she laughed over her shoulder before disappearing.

For a moment, I wanted to follow her despite knowing that she was another man's wife and realizing that her anatomy wasn't a typical woman's anatomy. That desire became a demon, a demon that grew every time I fed it by smiling as I recalled the encounter.

It didn't take many weeks before smiling at those memories was not enough to feed my demon. It drove me to visit her usual spot every Saturday and smile as I gazed upon her. She would smile back. She made a point of being there at the same time and place as me every Saturday morning. It became our meeting place, even if we never spoke a word to each other.

She made the first move to elevate our relationship. I guess the demon inside me called out to her. "My husband doesn't mind if I play around with you," she said by way of introduction that day.

"Pardon?" I responded.

"When he saw you picture, he said he wants me to be your sharmota. The UK is far away. I get lonely for physical contact. Besides, he wants us to expand our social circle," she said, fluttering her eyes at that last line. "I want to be in your bed tonight."

"You must be a slut if you are seeking a man other than your husband," I said, but the demon inside of me had enough control over my voice to make it sound like a compliment instead of an insult.

"Where is your apartment?" she asked. "I will be there at 9 pm."

Like a fool, I told her the address. The moment Shabbat ended, I showered and put on cologne. I put on an outfit that I normally wear on dates, dates that would always end without me so much as shaking hands with that night's lady friend. I knew that the night with this slut would be different. She would shake my hand and do so much more.

The hand job she gave me was my first experience with anyone touching me sexually. I normally avoid jerking off my own cock, much less letting someone else masturbate it. The load in my balls had built up for days. She was very impressed with how much I shot. When I told her why my eggs shot so much, she asked me to save all my cum for her, to never release it by myself again. It seemed like a reasonable request, if she was to become my new lady. A man has to make her woman happy.

And so the weekly ritual began. Saving myself for her six days a week, making small talk Saturday morning, and ecstasy Saturday night. She never had to ask me to do anything during our morning conversations. She just had to mention what she likes and doesn't like. My wardrobe changed soon enough. I wore more modern clothes with all sorts of color, although every outfit had at least a bit of red.

She surprised me one Saturday morning by running up to me, whispering in my ear, and running away before I could react. She whispered, "I want to be your whore tonight." My mind couldn't fathom what she had meant. I left it to the demon to figure it out. It was wiser than me when it came to these matters. It always knew what outfits I should buy.

She knocked on my apartment door, with the special knock that she always used, at 3 pm that Saturday afternoon. I wasn't expecting her until after the stars were out. My mind was numb as I opened the door to let her into my apartment. The demon was growling.

"Give me two dollars, and I will give you a blow job. I want to be your two dollar whore," she laughed before I could even close the door.

I shut the door firmly and locked it. Then I begged off her suggestion. "Prostitution is illegal in New Jersey."

"It's not prostitution. It's just a bit of role playing. No judge will seriously believe that I make a living charging $2 to each client. Common, play the game with me," she insisted.

"I would rather not," I insisted.

"Don't be a stickler. We've been dating for months without you giving me any money. Those dinners at restaurants we enjoy after sex aren't free. I know you're not cheap. What's $2 between long-term lovers?"

I couldn't explain my objections in a way she would except. "Look, I just don't want to do this," I said.

"Give me $2, or I am out of your life forever," she threatened.

"My wallet is in the end table next to the couch. You can take $2 out of it if you want," I compromised.

"I want you to give it to me," she ordered.

Just as I had opened the door, I took $2 from my wallet and gave it to her. The demon was howling.

She had me stand naked before the couch so she could sit as she sucked my cock. My arms were crossed over my chest. My mind barely noticed her. The demon made my cock rise for her. It savored the feeling of her mouth on my cock for hours. My mind focused on the setting sun outside the living room window. I imagined how hot that sun is. I knew I would feel a heat that intense soon enough. Enough sperm filled her throat to make it leak past her lips.

I didn't bother finding a congregation to spend the holidays with when that time of year came around. Doing so would be pointless, given my new lifestyle. The nights were starting earlier, but that didn't matter much either. She and I would rush to my apartment as soon as we found each other in the park.

After Thanksgiving, she surprised me with a new request. "I want to be your bitch," she said in the hallway on our way from the elevator to my apartment door. My grin was a hearty consent.

Inside I had my first experience touching a pussy. Don't argue with me. Remember, she really is a woman, which means that hole is a pussy when a man touches it. My hands, my lips, my cock, explored it enthusiastically. When I was done, my seed overflowed from her pussy. She whispered, "You belong to us now." We fell asleep in each others arms for the first time. I was unconscious before I could think of a response. The demon controlled all my dreams that night.

The next morning, she introduced me to Michael, her husband in the UK, via a video chat. He's an impressive looking Arab man. He was rather upset to learn that had I bred his wife. I promised to never do that again. He thought it would be best if she never saw me again. I convinced him to compromise. She would wear the key to a chastity belt around her neck, and I would wear the chastity belt. She would only unlock if he gave her the order. He would allow me to be part of their marriage. That is how the haggling ended.

In the months since that video chat, I have asked her several times to ask Michael for permission to release me. She never even bothered to email him about it. Something about "standing orders". Eventually, I had enough of this treatment. A man can go mad if he goes too long without an orgasm. I told Michael I wanted out of the marriage.

We compromised on him sending me to his friend in Cairo who can give me many orgasms each day. I work from home in the tech industry anyway. Moving to Cairo wouldn't affect my career. Michael emailed me the details of our agreement along with a picture of what my beard should look like to make his friend happy. The style consisted of nothing but a strip of short beard hairs along my jawline.

And that is why I'm getting my beard trimmed now, by a goyim barber, in a barber shop in Fort Lee. My suitcase is under the coat rack. My coat is above the suitcase. I'm only bringing one bag of possessions. She took care of selling the rest of my things. She mailed the key to Michael's friend a month ago. I must go now, a text just came in from Michael's friend. He wants to know if his new slave is ready to ride a limo to Newark airport.

I send him a face pic of my new look. He loves it. He sends me a face pic back. He has a nice full beard.

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