International Student

A Short Story for Yoyo

By Maryanne Peters

I had a spare room since my daughter left and I decided that I would make it available for an international student. The arrangement is that the college fees provide for the “boarding with a local family” and the college bursar pay me funds for room and board. There is an expectation of some additional hospitality, and I was ready to give it. The fact is that I was living alone having raised a family, and I was used to providing for people. I hated being alone.

I was also upset that my daughter had left, although I did my best to hide it. We were close in a way I was not close to my sons. After they had left my daughter and I had turned our home into something of a pink palace. It was just the way we liked things.

I would have preferred a young lady from a developing country but instead they sent me a young man from India. His name was Jasprit (although I preferred the name Jasper) and he was a Sikh.

I was not sure that I had even heard Sikhism before he came into my house wearing his turban on his head, but if I was concerned that he might present a threat that was soon dispelled by his smile and those beautiful big brown eyes. I suppose Americans associate turbans with Muslims, and Muslims with violence. But this young man was so gentle and so polite, I quickly understood that he was the very opposite of a threat.

He explained something of his religion. He said that a key element was that a man should not cut his hair or shave his face. I could not see any hair, and it took a closer look to see the whiskers on his chin and top lip, and few more in front of his ears.

He said that His religion recognized one creator just like our God, but he said that his people simply believed that no single religion had a monopoly on him. I had never thought of it like that, but it seemed sensible to me that some folks must have different name for our Father, even if they have never heard of Jesus. Surely a loving God would not damn them for ignorance.

To me it sounded like Sikhs must be good folks, because they believe in equality, honesty and service to humanity. There are also some principles for looking after the planet which came way before environmentalist and such. Jasper disappointed me a little by saying that this was why he was a vegetarian, but after a while he relented in saying that he was not strict in following that diet. I don’t know much about preparing vegetarian food, and well – this is America.

In all other respects he seemed like a healthy young man, although a little small and underweight – probably because he was not eating enough meat. He was almost always dressed in jeans and a hoodie. He could pull the hood over his turban if he wanted not to draw attention to himself. I had to point out that not wearing it might be the best option, but he said that his hair was very long.

I just nodded. I brought him some tea and cookies. But as I walked back, I saw the hair at the back of his turban and the hair pulled up off the nape, and I confess I wondered just what his hair looked like. I loved to braid my daughter’s hair, but that was light brown and fairer at the ends. It was just another thing that I missed doing.

I have to say that I spied on him in his room when he took off his turban. He only did it in private. I finally caught a glimpse. It was wound up tightly and dressed with oil perhaps, but it was long and shiny black. It was longer than my daughters. It sounds crazy but I just wanted to burst into his room and offer to brush it, as I used to brush my daughter’s hair. I really did miss her.

I suppose that Jasper settled in well. He was very polite and gentle, but he had a sense of superiority that I found a little galling. He said that he came from a good family, and very possibly he did, but this is America where we don’t have maharajas. I put no stock in the fact that I am a white woman. Everybody is entitled to respect. I felt that it was lacking in Jasper. I just felt that he needed a lesson in humility.

I wished that I had chosen to receive a female student instead. But the fact is I was ready for anyone, and Jasper was my responsibility under my arrangement with the bursar. It was not something that I could easily get out of.

I have to admit that my attitude to Jasper changed when I understood what his attitude was. He almost looked down on us. He talked about how old “civilization” was in India and how complex his culture was. I felt that he came to America to learn from us and go to our schools. If his country had so much to offer then why not stay there among his “civilized” people. No – we are the greatest country in the world and countries like his are (although I dislike the crude term) shithole countries.

And that hair? Hair that long is for women. And why grow it then hide it? It made no sense. If you want to have hair like a woman in America then perhaps that is what you should be while you are here?

I had been prescribed hormones as I was going through menopause. I had stocked up on enough for a year ahead, but after discussion with some friends I decided that I would let nature take its course and abandon HRT - Hormone Replacement Therapy. The drugs were just sitting there, and it seemed hard to throw out good money – but what use were they. It was then that I decided that I would feminize Jasper.

It sounds such an awful thing to say it as bluntly as this. It makes me sound vindictive and villainous, and that is not me. I like to think that hindsight proved me right, but that assumes a motive that was not present at the time. The fact is that I did not like Jasper very much, and like I said – he needed to be taken down a peg or two.

The fact is that Jasper started everyday with a yoghurt drink, which was not uncommon in India as I am told. It was simply to add the hormones to the yoghurt. It takes a long time for those drugs to have any obvious effect, but in time this started to happen, and when they did the effects were dramatic.

But it the meantime, it seemed to me that my opinion of Jasper was confirmed when I discovered that he was a cheat. A young man came around to my house asking after him and he seemed very annoyed when I told him that he was not at home.

“You tell him that my terms are cash,” this man said. “He knows why. He pays or the college learns all about it. You tell him that.”

I suppose that this person thought that I was some stupid old woman who would just pass on the message without a thought, but I started to think about what he would be buying for cash that the would inconvenience him if the college. I decided to look in his room for correspondence with the university and I discovered that he had been doing very poorly up until only a few weeks before when he had passed in a stellar assignment – and A mark following a crop of Ds.

The paper itself was there, and I could see at a glance that it was not Jasper’s work, and I had little to compare it to. It was just that I know the boy, and this was not him. It struck me that the professors cannot know him at all.

I mentioned his visitor when he returned. I even added – “If you need money urgently you can always come to me, Jasper.” I had no intention of giving him any money, but I wanted to find out more.

I went online to find out more about “Assignment Templates” and after a bit of work I felt that I had latched on the author of his assignment. He was known only be the nickname “Mokepon” but I felt that would be enough to turn the screws on Jasper.

Then one morning Jasper came downstairs for his breakfast drink ashen faced and I asked him what was wrong.

“I am not well. I need to go to the doctor. I need to go urgently.”

“Whatever is the matter,” I said. “You look fine. What is the problem. Have your breakfast drink.”

“Little titties are growing on my chest,” he said. He showed me his chest. He had placed some duct tape across to hide them, but it was clear that the hormones had at last shown their power. “And there are other things too. Other parts are getting smaller.” I almost laughed out loud.

“You poor thing,” I said. “You are turning into a girl, Jasper. Is that such a bad thing? I am female and I love being that. Perhaps you should try it? It might make you a better person.”

“That can’t happen! Are you crazy?” he said. He stared at me wildly. It was the fire that lit my fuse – I have to say it. I thought that here was this dark faced boy whom I had taken into my home and cared for, calling me a mad woman. I was angry.

“No, I know exactly what I am doing,” I said to him so coldly that I could see shock overtake his belligerence. “Your masculinity has become tiresome, so I am fixing that, and if you want to stay at this college of yours, you had better follow my instructions.”

“You definitely are crazy,” he said, with confusion and perhaps a touch of despair.

“I know all about Mokepon and how you got you’re a mark,” I said. I watched his face and knew that I had touched the nerve I was probing for.

“My parents must never know,” he said, ashen faced again – perhaps more so.

“And they won’t,” I said. “But this house has seen the last of Jasper or Jasprit. I want somebody new. I think that I will call her Jasmin. I will call you Jasmin.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, you can take off that ridiculous head covering of yours right now,” I directed. “We will have to wash that hair of yours and get the oil out of it. I have the right shampoo and conditioner. I then I with dry and brush that hair for you. I want to see it shine.”

“I cannot do this,” he said.

“Well, it is that or your American adventure is over and you will have to go back to India and explain yourself to your parents. I would be happy to help by explaining to them about your cheating for grades and your experimentation with a transgender life.”

“I will do what you want,” he said, looking suddenly and a little too easily defeated. “So long as you tell nobody, and you allow me to finish my degree here.”

“You are not in a position to set terms,” I snapped back. “But if you are a good girl, then why would I wish you any harm. Will you be a good girl, Jasmin? Will you do what you are told without argument?”

I could see that I had him in my grasp. I could now control him, or should I say her. I would not have to tolerate that awful young man a moment longer. I had Jasmin who was more like the daughter I no longer had to dote over. I just needed to get that hair free.

I was amazed at just how thick and shiny it was when it was washed and brushed out. I remember thinking how awful it was that hair like that should be hidden away, let alone be growing out of the head of a man.

But perhaps the female hormones had a role to play. I could not wait until I had a face to match such beautiful hair.

Jasmin had quite a pronounced nose and brow but with shaping and eyeliner, the eyes and the mouth dominated the face. With a centre part and curtain bangs she was simply gorgeous

She was less than happy about the changes, but as I pointed out, it was better to be clearly a woman than to be seen as some boy pretending to be a woman.

“Looking the way you do, nobody will question you,” I said.

“I thought that you just wanted me to dress up like this here at home,” she said. “I can’t go outside looking like this!”

“My dear, with beauty like yours it would be a crime to hide it indoors. No, Jasmin is going out, and the first thing that we will be doing is getting your ears pierced!”

But the most important thing was to get to walk down the street with hair on full display. I simply braided and let him wear and plaid shirt and jeans. But his hair was so glossy and thick, and with just a little work on the face and no makeup, it was clear that nobody thought that he was male.

He was in a state, but as I explained to him, the next time out he should embrace the person that he was becoming.

“I think that we should start again with a clean slate, Jasmin,” I said to him. “To be honest I never liked the person that you were. He was conceited and now we find out that he was dishonest. It is time for a fresh start.

“You have had your fun,” he said. “I have walked down the street with my hair exposed which my faith does not permit, but in the fashion of a woman. You have debased me!”

I just smiled. Yes, I had. That was my intention. And I was not finished. Not by a long way.

“Hairy legs do not go with hair like that,” I said. “They should be waxed but for now you can shave them,” I said.

I had not seen his legs before. I expected them to be thin but they were quite shapely in the thigh yet with almost no calves. He said that was normal for his race. Again it struck me that these were not man’s legs. He was not really a man at all, and from that day I never treated him as one.

Did I mention that I work in a jewellery store? I had him get his ears pierced on that outing and I decided to use Jasmin as a model for some items that I could borrow from the store.

The fact is that gold looks so good against darker skin, don’t you think. And the reality is that once a few errant whiskers were pulled from his face, his dark skin was close to perfect. But it was the hair that made him appear magical. Tell me if I am wrong. A long glossy ponytail sprayed with a little color highlight and draped down a plain black jacket makes hoop earrings and a fine necklace look so wonderful. Don’t you think?

I taught him how to arrange his hair in a simple bun. I love the way that it falls after I have brushed it, but when he is doing anything, all that hair just falls all over the place.

“We are done with that turban and that top-knot-in-a-cloth thing,” I said. You can tie back your hair, but you need to learn how to twist it properly and how to use hairpins. It is the right look for you to head back to college as Jasmin.”

He was horrified, but as I explained to him – “This is the United States of America – we not only accept trans-students but we fully support them.” And that is exactly what the college did.

I was there to help. As his insistence his registration name was not changed so he could still receive his degree as “Jasprit” but for all other purposes he would be starting the new term as “Jasmin”.

He was horrified, but as I pointed out, he had not much choice. I had advised the college and the bursar. He was now Jasmin, for all purposes a female university student.

For going to college there are other practical hairstyles as well and Jasmin was becoming used to those. It was everything I wanted. Hair like hers should never be hidden from the world. This style is a little complicated but her hair is so lovely to work with that enjoy doing it.

She came to understand that with hair looking that good even if she only wore denim, a little mascara and lipstick is essential. You need to show that you care about the way you present – a nice hairdo and proper makeup.

She decided to work on disguising her male voice simply because it was easier when dealing with strangers. Students that she already knew accepted her as being “in transition” just as I had hoped. This is the way things are in America today – I am not one to judge how right that is.

But for me it was like having my daughter at home again. I could brush Jasmin’s hair and I could play around with styles. Even when letting her hair hang done with just a few waves for volume, there was so much hair I could weave little braided highlights.

As I explained to Jasmin – “You cannot walk around with hair like this and not be wearing a dress.”

It was too much for him. He started to talk about all of the punishments the his god would wreak upon him for dressing so completely as a woman, but I had to point out to him the punishments on Earth that he need to worry about – no college, a reputation as a cheat that would follow him through life and humiliation in front of his parents.

“But this is humiliation,” she said.

“Not if they don’t know who you are. You are Jasmin now, not Jasprit. If you play the part of a woman then where is the shame? Should I be ashamed of being a woman? Have you learned nothing from your wrongs?”

I had a dress with an ornate bodice that I allowed him to wear when I took him out to dinner at the Victoria Hotel Dining Room. It had faux pearls and she could wear the matching earrings, but it needed the right hairstyle – a low braided bun. Jasmin looked absolutely gorgeous.

As we sat there dining on three different occasions men approached her to tell he that she was the most beautiful woman they had ever seen. Three. It is a great dress and I had turned some heads when I wore it, but there was no denying that Jasmin was far too pretty to be a boy. I told him so. She was horrified.

But by the time the third man had smothered her with compliments I started to see the flicker of some pleasure in her eyes. Nobody is impervious to praise of that kind.

I suggested that we find some Indian clothing that she might like to wear. She said that Sikh women wore pants and they never wore sarees. I was having none of that. Some Indian dresses are absolutely beautiful and the are usually set off with jewellery made of gold. It is an Indian thing I suppose.

I used Jasmin as a model for displaying some of my jewellery. My photographer said that she was naturally photogenic – she had a body shape that was not curvy and made clothes look good and she had a long neck with a hard almost masculine chin.

Of course he had no idea that Jasmin also carried something that was decided masculine further down, but that was certainly not hard, and as I said to the child, it seemed unlikely that it ever would be again.

“You had better get used to bending over to get your pleasures from now on, Jasmin,” I told her. “Jasprit is no more so you had better get used to it.” She just burst into tears. I suppose the hormones might be behind it. He must have been becoming away that his body chemistry was changing – but perhaps he thought it was his God playing a trick on him.

For my part, I was sure that I was seeing some changes in the shape of her body – perhaps some swelling of the chest? I suspected that she would never be big breasted, but nor should she be. She was not that shape of woman.

She seemed to be giving up. Where is the fun in that? The photographer said that she seemed to have acquired “a certain grace”. I could see it is this image. She had arranged her own hair, parted in the middle and wound into a big bun held with pins only. It is something a young girl would take years of long hair to learn to do properly.

I decided that what I needed to do was introduce her to a man. That would allow her to see just how weak and powerless she was. I posted her image on dating sites. I described her as “a pre-operative transsexual”. I was not about to put her at risk of being attacked. That would be going too far. She needed somebody who would take advantage of her - hopefully without abusing her, or at least not too much. After a quick look at dating sites I was sure that there were men who would be happy to have her despite whatever might be found in her panties.

I told Jasmin that we were going out and that wanted her to dress up. I found the right outfit. I styled her hair in curls. She looked very happy to have her picture taken in what was in the style of her home country, but that was before we went out.

“I cannot possibly go out dressed like this,” she said. I have been happy enough to play this silly game, and at college I have been accepted, but I am not going into the middle of the city dressed like this.

“It is time that you understood your full potential,” I told her. “At college you have learned to present as female, and before the photographer you have show just how glamorous you can be. Now we need to put both of those things together and see just what kind of person you are.”

I took her to the bar that I had arranged, and I left her there. I just told her that I was going to get a drink and I snuck out the back. I did it well ahead of time to allow “Tom” to do his thing.

I imagined that he would approach my startled victim who would be furiously surveying the bar or maybe rummaging through that bag in search of her phone which I had.

“You must be Jasmin?” he would say.

It seemed to me that It was done. I sat at home imagining her despair. She was alone, dressed like the Indian royalty she imagined herself to be (except a princess rather than a prince) but totally alone. The bag had only the key to my house, some mascara, lipstick and a tampon (my joke) plus a tube of lubricant, because I did not wish her unnecessary pain despite the deviousness of my plan.

She would be in distress. She would ask how he knew her name. She is not stupid and would work things out. Perhaps she would ask him to drive her back to me, but then she would have already arrived. No, he would want to spend some time with her, and she could talk about her studies, and her part-time work as a jewelery model, and of course all about her precious ancient Indian civilization. Maybe he might even listen.

But he would want is to plunge into her virgin ass. Of course he would offer to drive her home. We he drive to his own home, or to a cheap motel? Or would he simply pull over and do her in the back seat, or the bare ground, on all fours like an animal. What would she think of that, Miss High and Mighty?

So I waited. I was ready to brush out her hair that night. I was wondering about some styles for the coming week. Her hair was important to me, given that my daughter was no longer living with me, or even communicating much, and given my problems with my own hair.

It was very late when I went to bed, but I decided that I must. I slept fitfully. I hoped that she might have sneaked in while I was unconscious, but in the morning, I saw that her bed had not been slept in. The following day was a Saturday, and she did not appear. It was not until Sunday evening that she did. I heard the key in the lock and there she stood.

I did not approve of the blue eyeshadow and the notion that it should be worn with a coat that I did not recognize seemed naïve. She looked different somehow – changed, self-assured and maybe even a little angry and even aggressive.

“I have come to collect my stuff,” she said. A simple as that. She brushed past me.

An expensive European car was parked outside, with a large man standing beside it. I was not sure if I should talk to him, as I heard the door to her room slam shut and activity within.

What did I have to say? I had no idea what had happened. All I knew was that I did not expect this. It seemed to only last seconds but it must have been minutes. She had a suitcase.

“I hope there is none of my shop jewellery in there?” I said.

“No,” she said as she pushed past me.

“You’re a cheat, and the world will know,” I said as she went down the path. The man took the case from her and she turned around to look at me.

“Tell the world if you like,” she said. “I live in a new one now.”

The last sight of her I ever had is when she turned her back to me and placed her hands under that huge mass of shiny black curls and swept them up so they fell about her shoulders. Hair to beautiful to hide. Hair too beautiful for a man. But then, she wasn’t that – was she?

The End

© Maryanne Peters 2022

for Yolower Yolower

“This story should be about a Sikh boy with long hair where he is slowly slowly being transformed against his will and being shown how feminine he is and all by a Woman. So, he gets multiple hairstyles and is forced to keep them on. So basically, friendly at first and then femdom. You can get creative with humiliation and all.

Thanks”

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