The Black Burqa part five by Diana the Valkyrie So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands To some God of Abstract Justice - which no woman understands. By now, there were thousands of us. Every woman who had suffered beatings at the hands of her husband had discovered the truth of "what doesn't kill us, makes us stronger". The permanent swellings that resulted from each beating, turned out to be increases in muscle size, and the more a woman had been beaten, the more powerful were her muscles. Until the advent of the Black Burqas, no-one had realised that these swellings were not some kind of malign cancerous growths. They were the natural reaction of a woman's body to physical abuse. But now, the jinn was out of the lamp. Everyone now realised that these worrying bulges were nothing worse than powerful muscles, able to resist beatings and fight back. The men, of course, were still in denial. Oh, they knew that the Black Burqas were real, but they didn't believe that there could be any sort of threat from their mothers, wives, sisters and daughters. It was time to prove them wrong. Time to rub their arrogant noses in the mess that they'd made by beating us. But how to do that? I used the phone tree to summon the Black Burqa Council. This was an elected board made up of representatives from all over the country. Every Black Burqa had a vote to elect them, and every representative had an equal say. Even me, although as the founder of the movement, I had more of a reputation than most, and people tended to listen when I spoke. Which wasn't good, because I'm not clever like Sfiyah, so I mostly held my tongue. The problem was this. Even the most muscular Black Burqa, like Naamah, looked like any other woman in a burqa; that was the whole purpose of the garment. And no-one could tell who was wearing a black burqa as a fashion statement, and who was one of the muscle queens that could terrorise any man unlucky enough to find himself embraced by her thighs. "Except her husband, father or brother," pointed out Sfiyah. That's true; when in the company of mahrams, you didn't need to be veiled. "Let us all think about this, and come up with a plan." What Sfiyah meant, was that she would come up with a plan - Sfiyah is our planner, but modestly she allowed for the possibility that someone else might have some good ideas. But then something unusual happened. The Black Burqas have a web site, so that people can contact us and apply to be an official Black Burqa. We won't take just anyone who applies. You have to be able to bench press 300 kilograms, which neatly eliminates all men, as well as all women who don't have the musculature that every Black Burqa should have. This is prominently stated on the blackburqas.com web site. Of course, that web site is banned in most countries. Sfiyah set up the web site, and when someone fills in the form to contact us, the contents of the form are emailed to me. And I got an email from a woman who was outside my country. She was American, and she wanted to set up US branch of the Black Burqas. And, she explained, she's a Christian, but there was nothing in her religion that would stop her from wearing a black burqa if she wanted to. She explained that wife-beating existed in her country too. It wasn't common, (it isn't common here either) but even one is too many. I emailed her to tell her that the Council would discuss the matter at our next meeting, and please wait patiently until then. When I told Sfiyah about this, she got very excited. "This is just what we need," she exclaimed, "Black Burqas world wide!" And at the next weekly meeting of the Council, she proposed a motion to licence groups around the world to use our name, provided they used the same stringent criterion for membership that we used - 300 kilograms, which translates to 666 pounds (I added a bit for luck). The motion was passed unanimously, so that evening I emailed back to Phillida Watkins to tell her the good news, and to remind her of the 666 pound minimum. She emailed back at once "Great news. Can I come and visit?" "Sure," I replied, and told her that I'd meet her at the airport. I stood at the "incoming" area at the airport wearing my best black burqa. I noticed that men edged away from me nervously, but the women seemed to like being nearby. I didn't have to wait long before the flight from Chicago disgorged its passengers, and Phillida was obvious, because she was the only woman getting off that flight wearing a dark blue burqa. I stepped forward. "Phillida Watkins, I presume?" and we both laughed. "Coffee first," I said, and we went to the ridiculously over-priced airport coffee shop. "Your husband allows you out without a guardian?" she asked. I snorted. "Raafid allows me to do whatever I tell him to allow, He's tasted the crushing grip of my thighs, and he doesn't want to ever feel that again. But," I continued, "tell me about you." So Phillida told me. She was a Christian, born into a group called "The Real Christians". "It's a cult, really," she said, "and they keep women in line. They quote proverbs 10:13. If you have good sense, it will show when you speak. But if you are stupid, you will be beaten with a stick." "Yes, we have something similar in our religion," and I told her about Quran 4:34. "But beating is not compulsory, and a good husband would never beat his wife. That includes most men - they might be dumb sometimes, but it would be more than dumb to beat the person who prepares your food." Phillida continued, "Same with us. But I got unlucky. My husband got it into his head that I was rebellious and disobedient, so he would take a stick to me each evening when he got home. But when I read about the Black Burqas, I realised the the growth of my arms and legs that had so worried me, wasn't some awful disease, it was my body reacting to the beatings. What doesn't kill me, makes me stronger." Read the rest of the story on https://www.amysconquest.com