She asked, "How did this happen?" and Momproceed to explain the events from last night and this morning. Margiekept repeating "Oh my God" and "My goo...ness." Then she startedcomplimenting me on my appearance and manner. She said no one would eversuspect that I was not a real girl. I sat down in the lobby while Mom puton a smock and sat in Margie's styling chair. I could not hear theirconversation while I read a hair fashion magazine. About 30 minuteslater, Mom, in rollers, called me to. We had on our hijabs, modestly covering our hair like proper, Muslim women. Of course, I was a futa. My clit-dick was twitching in my panties, hidden by the bulky folds of my dress. Other than the pale features of my face and my blue eyes, you'd hardly know I didn't belong here. “Look at her,” Wahida whispered, nodding to a woman moving through the crowd in a full burqa, the black cloth hanging over her body. It was clear she was a willowy woman even wearing the bulky clothes. Her hands looked. More

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