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Arab Femdom

By: Samuelx



I think all human beings are bad news. Doesn't matter what their race or gender is. Even people who have been mistreated throughout history turn around and do the same exact thing to innocent others. It never ceases to amaze me. The bigotry some minorities can have for other minorities. Take my submissive Ahmed Aimren for example. He's a Middle-Eastern guy living in the City of Ottawa, Province of Ontario. And he hates Black folks with a passion. Yet he doesn't seem to realize that almost everyone in the Western World thinks of all Middle-Eastern folks as nothing more than potential terrorists. Rather than join forces with Asians, Hispanics, Africans and Aboriginals, the minority groups which are suffering in Canada, he sides with the White folks even though most of them don't think much of him either.

The funny thing is that the people that are called minorities in White-dominated areas like America, Canada, Australia and New Zealand are really not minorities. Not if you look at it from a global perspective rather than a local one. What do I mean? Please read on. There are one billion people in the Republic of China. Another billion folks in the Republic of India. Nearly one billion people in Africa. More than a quarter of a billion people in the Middle East. Close to one hundred million people in the Caribbean. Half a billion people in Latin America, most of whom are a mixture of European, Native American and African. They're all people of color in Latin America. And there are a little over six hundred million people of Caucasian descent spread over Europe, North America, Australia and New Zealand. If all of these so-called minorities united instead of fighting among themselves, planet Earth would look very different. I'm just saying.

My name is Nadira Isa Mohammed. A six-foot-tall, pleasantly plump, black-haired and brown-eyed, dark bronze-skinned Saudi Arabic woman living in the City of Ottawa. By day, I am a patrol officer with the Ontario Provincial Police. At night, I am a whip-smart Dominatrix. The only Arabian Dominatrix in this part of Ontario. I specialize in the intense eroticism of race play. Most of my clients are men and sometimes women from minority as well as European backgrounds who want to experience the pleasures and torments of race play. Well, I'm more than okay with that. I'm getting paid to whoop some ass. Who wouldn't want that? I'm having so much fun these days, I must really check myself.

Why does Ahmed Aimren come to me? To be completely dominated. He's got black hair, dark bronze skin and beady little dark eyes. He looks very much like a Middle-Eastern guy. And like a lot of minority guys, he's got a thing for dominant Arabic women like myself. I am not surprised. White women are considered the western world's standards of beauty. Even though there are far more beautiful women in the Caribbean, Africa, the Middle East, Asia and Latin America than in Europe or North America. Women of all colors are beautiful. I know this. And I acknowledge it. However, if my purebred Arabic good looks are what attracts guys like Aimren, that's more than okay by me. I have to make my money somehow, you know?

Presently, Ahmed Aimren is kneeling before me just like a good Middle-Eastern bozo should kneel before his Dominant Arabic Goddess. Ahmed Aimren sucks my pearly bronze toes and I crack my whip. I whip him on his back because he's not sucking my toes right. That's what he gets for being a dirty Arab motherfucker. Amazingly, he obeys me. A lot of these so-called macho Arab guys are actually really submissive behind closed doors. Arab women know this explicitly but this would absolutely shock the men and women of Europe and North America. They think all Arab women are submissive weaklings. What a load of crock! Mess with a Western woman and you'll get a word of rebuke, or a call to the police. Mess with an Arab woman and you're dead, no matter who you are. See the difference?

I am having quite a lot of fun dominating the hell out of Ahmed Aimren. After making him suck my toes, I made him kneel before me. I spread my creamy bronze thighs, exposing my hairy bush. I let him get a good look at it and forbade him from touching it. Ahmed Aimren looked at me with a pitiful look in his dark eyes. I see hunger in those eyes. Good. That's why I tease and deny him. He wants some of my sweet pussy. My sweet Arabian pussy. I've had so many men and women come to me, begging for a taste. I almost always deny them. The better to ensnare and subjugate them. And it always works. Like a charm, really.

I tell Ahmed Aimren that he wants to get a taste of my pussy, he must do something for me. The pitiful fool agrees to it before even hearing what I want from him. I order him to get on all fours and spread his ass cheeks wide open. I donned my strap-on dildo and smeared lubricant all over it. Then I began fucking Ahmed Aimren in the ass. That's right. A tall and bossy Arab woman is fucking some limp-dick Arab motherfucker up his ass with a strap-on dildo. Now you've seen everything. I gripped Ahmed Aimren's hips tightly and thrust my dildo into his ass. I think if more Arab men got fucked in the ass by Arab women, the world would be a better place. There would be fewer wars. With those thoughts in mind, I happily thrust my plastic cock into the forbidden ( but in need of exploration) depths of Ahmed Aimren's asshole. He screamed like a madman. How I loved that sound.

I spanked Ahmed Aimren's ass while slamming my dildo up his butt hole. This drove him nuts. I berated him while ramming my dildo up his ass. I called him a dirt bag, a loser and a punk. I told him he was a sissy and a loser. He took it without reply. He was too busy howling as my strap-on dildo basically stretched his asshole from a tight orifice to a wide receiver. After fucking Ahmed Aimren's ass for a while, I pulled my dildo out of him. I looked into his now gaping asshole. Not a pretty sight. I spit in his asshole. Then I made Ahmed Aimren clean my strap-on dildo with his tongue. That's what he gets for being such a good little submissive. 

Afterwards, I told Ahmed Aimren to get the hell out of my property. And he left like the bitch he is. I am so happy to be the only Arabic Dominatrix in the City of Ottawa. I've got a lot of women and men ( of all races) all anxious to kneel before me. The idea of a sexually adventurous and dominant Arabic woman intrigues many denizens of the Western World. And I use that to my advantage. I guess it's mainly because Westerners forget that behind the veil, Arabic women are women. Just like all other women. We've got sexual and emotional needs. We're individuals with individual tastes and interests. There's more to us than what you see.

Arab Femdom at Carleton University



My name is Subhiyah Karim-Adul. A young woman of Saudi Arabian descent living in the City of Ottawa, Province of Ontario. I attend the legendary Carleton University, where I study Criminal Justice. I recently became a Canadian citizen by process of naturalization and I want to work in Provincial Law Enforcement someday. That's if the bigots of the Conservative Party let me, of course. Canada is far from the bastion of racial and cultural tolerance that it claims to be. I've met people in the capital who would give the worst bigots of the Southern United States a run for their money. As Canada heads into the twenty-first century, and more and more immigrants from outside Europe move in, many Canadians of European descent are starting to feel threatened. And they're really not in love with us Muslims. But by the grace of Allah, we shall persevere. 

Anyone looking at me sees a five-foot-eleven, slim ( yet curvy and big-bottomed ) young woman with dark bronze skin, long black hair and pale brown eyes. I dress conservatively and wear the hijab. A lot of people think they've got me figured out just because I am an Arab woman. What they can't figure out is that all of us are surprisingly multidimensional characters. No one is just one thing. There are cops out there with the souls of artists. There are artists with the hearts of soldiers. And there are athletes who are really great big nerds at heart. The truth is that the narrow-minded folks of this world can gawk at me all they want but they really have no idea what I am. For you see, I am also the first and only Persian Dominatrix operating in the Continent of North America. You've been warned. I am a proud Saudi Arabian woman and a devoted Muslim, by the way. I don't feel that they conflict with my sexual identity as a bisexual woman and as a Dominatrix.

Presently, I'm dominating the hell out of a handsome Somali stud named Youssef Kader. He's six feet three inches tall, with dark brown skin and long, curly black hair. I have a thing for Black Muslim men, especially the ones from Somaliland and the Republic of Djibouti. Youssef is married to a Somali gal named Atifah and she's got no idea about his sexual proclivities. Youssef is kneeling before me, and he is obediently sucking on my toes while I lash him with his own black leather belt. He is so damn good at sucking my toes with his beautiful, full lips. A lot of women from the Arab world are curious about Black men but are afraid to explore their hidden fascination with these gorgeous studs. Not me. I live my life the way I see fit.

Youssef looks up at me after polishing my toes with his agile tongue. I smile at him and then spread my legs. Time for the Somali stud to get a taste of my delicious Arab pussy. Youssef plants his lips against my pussy and his agile tongue darts inside my pussy lips. He teases my clitoris and I moan in pleasure. So very few men out there are gifted in the ancient Art of Pussy Licking. And that is a damn shame. If more men out there learned to properly eat pussy instead of shooting guns, the world would be a better place. At least, that's how I feel. I rub my tits together as dear Youssef continues to lick my pussy. Hot damn. He is so good at it. I've had many lovers, both male and female, since I moved to the Confederation of Canada from my homeland of Saudi Arabia with my family seven years ago. I've met men who loved eating pussy and women who sucked at eating pussy...and not in a good way. People can definitely surprise you. I am thankful to Allah that I am a bisexual Arab woman living in a liberal country where I can explore my previously undisclosed desires. 

After Youssef thoroughly licked, teased and sucked my pussy, I decided to reward him. I grabbed his eight-inch cock and his hairy balls. I squeezed them real hard. Youssef moaned in surprise. I laughed, then began sucking his cock. I love sucking on Somali guys dicks. They've been blessed with long Black cocks just like so many men of African descent. Somali guys dicks tend to be long and lean, just like the Somali men themselves. And that works just fine for me, ladies and gentlemen. You see, I am the kind of gal who fancies herself as a sexual explorer. I have explored masculine bodies and minds the world over. And I must say, I'm eternally fascinated by them.

Youssef groaned in pleasure as I sucked his dick. I looked up at him as I sucked him off. Hot damn. Somali men are so beautiful. I've hooked up with Black guys from all over the world. Haitian guys from Haitian-dominated North American cities like Miami in the U.S. State of Florida and Montreal in the Canadian Province of Quebec. Afro-Arabian guys from the realms of the Berbers. And of course, sexy African-American guys from Detroit and New York City. Michigan is not too far from Canada and I go there regularly to sex up some authentic African-American men. I love Black American guys with their swagger and unapologetic manliness. I feel sorry for Arab women who limit themselves to Arab men or Caucasian men. In my experience, any heterosexual or bisexual woman who hasn't tried a Black man at least once hasn't truly lived. 

I sucked Youssef's cock until the Somali stud was hard as a rock. I knew he was mine for the taking the moment I first laid eyes on him. Call it a woman's intuition if you want. Youssef is a newcomer to Ottawa's very own Carleton University. He just transferred from Algonquin College in the town of Nepean. I found him seriously hot and just had to have him. There are lots of Black women at Carleton University and they chase good-looking, educated and well-spoken Black guys such as Youssef with an urgency bordering on desperation. If I wanted Youssef, I had to act fast. And so I did. I approached the tall and handsome Somali stud, and let him know in no uncertain terms that I wanted some of his Somali dick. Black guys from the Horn of Africa got the best dicks in the world. In the City of Ottawa, legions of women and gay men can't wait to hop on a great big Black dick and ride till kingdom come. And I am immensely proud to say that I belong to that category of International Black Cock Addicts.

After polishing Youssef's cock, I put a condom on it and pushed the handsome Somali stud on the softly carpeted floor of my Nepean apartment. Then I slowly climbed on top of him. Nothing I love more than riding on a great big Black dick. I took Youssef's cock and inserted it into my pussy. And just like that, I began fucking myself with his dick. Yes, I fucked myself with his cock. He wasn't fucking me. Not really. I controlled every part of the action. And we both knew it. That's what makes this so damn special. I'm a woman doing a Muslim guy and I am totally in control.

I rode Youssef's cock, loving the feel of it throbbing deep inside of me. It was an awesome feeling. Soon, I wanted to experience that cock of his in yet another part of my body which craved him. I got on all fours and shook my big ass at him. Youssef looked at me, smiling. I tossed him a small bottle of hand lotion and winked at him. A few moments later, Youssef and I started going at it like never before. Youssef pressed his hard dick against my well-lubricated asshole and gently pushed it inside of me. Oh, man. By Allah, I absolutely love anal sex! Nothing quite like it in this world. I love to get my ass filled with dick, and Youssef was definitely the right man for the job. Holding my hips tightly, he fucked my ass real good. I rubbed my pussy as he fucked me, and the feel of his dick in my ass while my fingers teased my clitoris sent me in frigging heaven. I shrieked in pleasure as I came, squirting hot girly cum all over the bed.

To reward Youssef for fucking my ass so damn well, I returned the favour with my strap-on dildo. Yep, I bent the sexy Somali stud over and admired his sexy ass. Then I greased him up with the hand lotion, and pressed my strap-on dildo against his asshole. Youssef seemed nervous. He'd never been fucked in the ass before. I told him to relax, and promised him I'd be gentle. And I kept my promise for the most part. I held his narrow hips tightly as I worked the strap-on dildo into his asshole. Youssef seemed tense at first, and he groaned as I initially penetrated him but after a while, he seemed to get over it. My sexy Somali stud relaxed and enjoyed himself as I fucked his ass with my strap-on dildo. 

Man, if there is anything I enjoy more than getting a big dick in my pussy or asshole, it's strapping on a dildo and banging a guy with it. And I thoroughly enjoyed myself as I fucked Youssef in the ass with my strap-on dildo. I put him on his back and raised his legs in the air as I worked the dildo even deeper inside of him. I looked into the sexy Somali stud's handsome brown eyes as I fucked him. I drank the delicious look of sweet surrender in his eyes as I totally transported him into another realm with the power of my fucking. Youssef screamed, howled and moaned as I fucked him good. So good that he had tears of joy ( and perhaps pain) in his eyes by the time it was over. I planted a deep, passionate kiss on his full, sweet lips. Hmmm. I think I've found the perfect lover, ladies and gentlemen. Youssef and I are going to be amazing together. I am certain of it. What a pair we'll make. A Saudi Arabian Dominatrix/Carleton University and her handsome, studious, East African Muslim lover. Living together and doing naughty things that would stun our respective communities if they ever caught wind of it. Hmm. You gotta love life in North America.



Arab Femdom: Black Couple



Sliding my strap-on dildo deep inside Abdul-Hamid's asshole, I smiled with satisfaction as he screamed sharply. The young Somali had merely grunted as I pushed my dildo inside of him initially. And I wanted to really hear him scream like the bitch I knew him to be. I knew he'd be okay with this sort of thing the moment I first laid eyes on him inside the Saint Laurent Mall in the City of Ottawa, Province of Ontario. There he was. Five-foot-nine, slim, with dark brown skin, dark eyes and curly Black hair. A young Black Muslim guy with an oversized swagger, strolling through the shopping center with two of his guy friends. I wanted him and so I claimed him. Young men are really easy prey for women like me. He had a really nice ass underneath his baggy pants. I really wanted a piece of that ass.

When Abdul-Hamid got separated from his buddies and went to get a snack upstairs at the Food Court, I followed him. Casually, I approached him. And he was really surprised. I knew what he saw. I stand five feet eleven inches tall, with light brown skin, long Black hair and pale brown eyes. And I knew I looked stunning in my Black leather jacket over my white blouse, black silk pants and dark gray Gucci shoes. I looked like a million bucks. I was born in the City of Toronto, Province of Ontario. I hold a Master's degree in Business Administration from York University and I work for the Canadian Government. I'm a Board Member of the Greater Toronto Chamber of Commerce. And on top of that, I'm a good-looking woman of mixed parentage. My unique good looks cause male and female heads to turn everywhere I go. My father was Italian, and my mother was Somali. They got divorced shortly after my birth. I was raised Muslim by my mother and her family. Aamina Tartaglia Osman is my name and seduction slash male domination, that is the nature of my game.

I wanted a piece of Somali male ass. Had been craving it for quite some time now. And I was determined to get it. So I seduced Abdul-Hamid. I quickly learned a lot about him. Abdul-Hamid was born in the City of Mogadishu in Somaliland. Three years after his birth, his family moved to the region of Ontario, Canada. He worked as a security guard for Securitas Canada part-time and attended Algonquin College in metropolitan Ottawa. He aspired to become a police officer someday. His father Hassan is a cab driver and his mother Fatima is a cook in an Italian restaurant. He rarely goes to Mosque and doesn't consider himself particularly religious. And he likes older women. Especially the ones who were Black or mixed. That's actually right up my alley. 

I took Abdul-Hamid home for some fun and games. It sometimes amazes me how easy young men are. It's really not hard to pick up nine out of ten young men if you're a decent-looking and determined woman. They would do anything for sex. All of them without exception. And I happen to be the type of woman who understands the power of sex. I use it to my advantage. Always. I brought Abdul-Hamid back to my friend Esther Wellington's place in the Baseline Road area of Nepean. I always use Esther's place for kinky encounters. She's always out of town. Esther is this Jamaican woman I met at York University. We remained friends long after graduation. These days, she's married to Liam O'Neill, an Irish guy who occasionally smacks her around because she's got a smart mouth. I often wonder why she stays with him since he's such a bastard. He's always belittling her in front of other people. Esther has this complex where she worships white men. A lot of women from the immigrant communities have this complex too. 

I find it completely and utterly pathetic. I feel zero sympathy for these women. They really ought to know they deserve better. Especially since many immigrant women from continental Africa, Latin America and Asia. After living in Canada for a while, these ladies are usually more educated than the average white Canadian male. These dullards only think about drinking beer and watching hockey. And they try to holler at me. I turn them down ten times out of ten. Esther's hubby Liam is the male version of a gold digger. He works as a night club bouncer and his wife is a highly paid executive for the Quebecor Media Corporation. I tell her she should call the cops but she refuses. As for Liam, he's currently in jail but not because of Esther. He failed to support his half-white, half-Japanese daughter financially and the brat's mother Yomi Yamamoto had him arrested by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Times like these make me feel glad that I'm a single biracial woman who believes in no-strings-attached sex. That's why I brought Abdul-Hamid to Esther's master bedroom. 

I explained to the young Somali stud what I expected of him. What he had to say in the matter actually surprised me. Abdul-Hamid told me that he was actually into the fetish stuff. He liked women with strap-on dildos, and all that jazz. He even pulled out his Blackberry and showed me a picture of a dark-skinned Black guy getting fucked in the ass by a skinny blonde chick. He told me it came from one of his favorite websites, something involving some truly divine bitches. Well, it looks like I really know how to pick them! I mean, seriously, what are the odds of that? I approach a cute albeit random young man at a shopping center for some quick mid-afternoon sex and he turns out to be as kinky-minded as I am? Hmm. It's times like these that I wonder if we truly live in a not-so random universe after all. What do you think?

I sat on the king-sized bed inside Esther and Liam's master bedroom. Clad in a Black bra and Black Lycra panties, I knew I looked hot. And I stroked my strap-on dildo both lovingly and menacingly. Abdul-Hamid stood before me, slowly undressing. He really looked good. Not like the male models I occasionally pick up in New York City or Toronto but good-looking in a real, average guy kind of way. Off came his Algonquin College Rocks T-shirt, followed by his baggy gray pants. He stood naked before me. I smiled. A lot of Black guys I know seldom wear underwear. And Abdul-Hamid was part of that category. I admired his dick. It was both long and thick. Nice. Abdul-Hamid waved it at me. I told him to get his ass on the bed if he knew what was good for him. Grinning sheepishly, the Somali stud did as he was told.

In no time I had him lying on his back with his legs in the air. I tied his hands and feet before lubricating his asshole while gently stroking his cock with my gloved hand. I then pressed my strap-on dildo against his asshole, looked into his beady little eyes and asked him if he was ready for me. Abdul-Hamid nodded. Slowly I pushed the dildo inside of him, and he grunted. From the way he reacted, I knew he was no stranger to this sort of thing. I asked him if he'd been fucked in the ass before. He shook his head, but admitted to owning several dildos. I smiled at that. He's a naughty one, isn't he? I began fucking him deep with powerful strokes, pushing the dildo almost all the way inside his ass. He seemed capable of taking quite a bit. I fucked him harder and faster, determined to make him scream. Like a lot of Somali men I've known, he's got that deep macho thing going on. Well, I'm a man breaker. I love to turn macho men into crying, sniveling little bitches after power-fucking them in the ass with my strap-on dildo. And that's exactly what I did to our good friend Abdul-Hamid.

For the better part of an hour I fucked him good, and I had a really good time. While fucking a submissive male in the ass with my strap, I like to stay totally focused. Some dominant ladies like to finger their own pussies or stroke the guy's dick. Not me. I focused exclusively on the act of fucking him, savagely drilling my strap-on dildo inside of him. Abdul-Hamid screamed, shrieked and begged me for more. I like the kind of sub who gives as good as he gets. Some guys are whiners who really can't take it. Other guys are so fearful and tense throughout the whole thing that they spoil the fun. And then there's guys like Abdul-Hamid. The kind of guy a dominatrix dreams of meeting. He's willing to push the envelope. He gives as good as he gets. He encourages you to push his boundaries while respecting yours. And he takes it happily as you dish it out energetically. Oh, yeah. Fucking Abdul-Hamid felt so good that I knew my pussy got really moist without my even touching it. And he wasn't the only one screaming in the room as he came. Fuck, I came too!

A while later, Abdul-Hamid left the house in Nepean with a smile on his face and a slight limp from getting his ass thoroughly fucked by me. I took a shower after he left, then drove to my place in the suburb of Barrhaven. That night, I lay alone on my bed. And I fingered my pussy while thinking of Abdul-Hamid's sexy body. I visualized myself towering over him as I hammered his ass with the strap-on dildo. Furiously I shoved my fingers deep inside my pussy. And once more I came, and this time, my floodgates opened. I came all over myself. Gently, I sighed and brought my wet fingers to my lips. Hmm. I'm glad I took Abdul-Hamid's cell phone number before we parted ways. I've got to have that man again. And this time, I'm going for the whole enchilada!



Arab Femdom For Ethiopian Studs



As a senior partner at a high-powered law firm in the Bay Street block of Toronto, Ontario, I wield a certain amount of power. The kind that a woman of my age and background isn't supposed to wield, at least in the eyes and minds of many, even in this supposedly liberal, racially diverse and progressive North American metropolis. Wherever I go, I attract the male gaze and revel in it, though few men can return my vicious, predatory stare. Perks of being a six-foot-tall, attractive woman in a business suit.

My name is Samira Safafi, and I was born in the City of Zahle, Lebanon, on November 9, 1985. Proud Scorpio, folks! Three years later, my parents, Amina and Antonius Safadi moved to the City of Toronto, Ontario, for political and religious reasons. You see, the conflict between Christians and Muslims was raging in the Republic of Lebanon, and my parents feared for our family's safety. While pregnant with my younger brother Samuel, my mother came to Canada as a refugee with me, and we were later joined by my father.

Why did I tell you that? Simply because I want you to know something about where I came from, and what truly drives me to excel at everything that I do. Life isn't easy. It's full of challenges, and people we barely comprehend. Stop running from conflict and sorrow, face them and defeat them, by fighting on your own terms. My parents met while they were both in a Christian militia fighting against Lebanese Muslim fighters and their Syrian allies. I guess you could say being a fighter is in my blood. That's why I don't tolerate bullshit.

"Malcolm, if you didn't want the responsibilities of being first chair in the Crown V. Maguire Case, all you had to do was say so," I said evenly, looking at my co-worker, Malcolm Tremblay, as he stood in my office on the seventeenth floor. From my window I could see all the way to College Street and Queen Street, and all the little people walking around looked like ants to me.

"I can handle it Sam," Malcolm said, in that French-inflected voice I once found charming. Standing five-foot-ten, with reddish brown hair and blue eyes, Malcolm was born and raised in Montreal, and earned a Law degree at McGill University before moving to Toronto. I bristled at the fact that he still called me Sam. As far as I'm concerned, what we had was over a long time ago. We slept together after the office Christmas party two years ago and I've regretted it ever since. Malcolm was a lousy lay, and a bit clingy, too.

"In here, you call me Miss Safadi," I said, in a polite but firm tone, and Malcolm nodded, then walked out of my office, feeling a bit deflated no doubt. Bastard deserves it as far as I'm concerned. A week ago, I overhead him say that he hoped Canada stopped taking in refugees from the Middle East. Racist bozo should count himself lucky I didn't fire him. Seriously. 

I sat down and massaged my temples, wondering why on earth some people decide to become lawyers. I grew up watching shows like Law & Order, Boston Legal and The Practice, I guess that probably glamorized the legal profession in my eyes and influenced my choice of major when I enrolled at the University of Toronto in September 2003. I got my bachelor's degree in criminal justice in 2006 and went straight to the Faculty of Law at the University of Toronto, earning my Law degree in the summer of 2009. 

I went to New York City for a bit, and studied for the bar exam, while brushing up on New York laws at Fordham University. I am licenced to practice Law in the State of New York, but I never really got the chance to practice there. For when I returned to Toronto, Ontario, I got hired by the good folks of Garibaldi, Winston and Tremblay. One of the most prestigious law firms on Bay Street.

This law firm, founded by three Law school buddies in the 1980s, now has four hundred and seventeen employees, and offices in Toronto, Ottawa, Vancouver, Montreal, and most recently, Buffalo, New York. After eight long years of hard work, I rose from associate to junior partner, and, when co-founder and senior partner Mateo Garibaldi retired, he nominated me to take his place, bypassing long-time junior partner Russell Peterson, one of the firm's sharks. The bozo has hated me ever since.

I'm honestly not surprised that I am feared at this topsy-turvy Canadian law firm. I'm a Middle-Eastern woman with an Arabic name, and an immigrant, and I'm highly educated and successful. I'm often mistaken for other ethnicities such as Brazilian or even Italian due to my long black hair, dark bronze skin and brown eyes but I always tell people, proudly I might add, that I am Lebanese-Canadian.

In the eyes of many older white men, that makes me a threat. The Confederation of Canada is changing, and we're starting to see highly educated and ambitious people from places like Africa, Latin America and the Middle East working in business offices from Toronto and Montreal to Calgary, and beyond. Not everyone is happy about such diversity in the Canadian workplace.

I'm good at my job and I'm in charge, and that makes me a target with a capital T. Last week, I represented Nadine Adewale, a sixty-two-year-old Nigerian immigrant woman who was suing Toronto Hydro for cutting off her power during the Christmas season last year, resulting in her being hospitalized after passing out in her frozen home. Only the due diligence of her friend and neighbor Joel, the young man next door who typically cleans up her driveway, saved Miss Adewale's life.

"Ma'am, I'm going to do anything in my power to make them pay," I said to Nadine Adewale, after the old woman approached me at the Starbucks where I usually get my morning coffee. Typically, senior partners at high-powered law firms in downtown Toronto don't take on clients like this, it's usually a firm decision, and said decisions are made based on the type of case, the client's detailed background ( ethnic, financial, political, educational ). There are issues of payment and liability to consider as well.

The firm wasn't thrilled that I took the case without consulting them, and typically this sort of case is tried by a junior associate, with a more experienced attorney as second-chair. I knew that the firm wouldn't even consider Nadine Adewale, even though, in my eyes, her case had merit. Toronto Hydro has been in the news for cutting power to vulnerable people unable to pay during the winter months, and they'd never been successfully sued for it...until now.

"God bless you dear," Nadine Adewale said to me as we stood in the middle of the packed courtroom at the old Toronto South Court on 70 Centre Avenue. The presiding Judge, the Honorable Lynn Vega, not only sided with us but awarded us a judgement of six hundred and forty thousand dollars. Considering how cheap and deeply conservative most Judges rule in cases like this, this finding was absolutely extraordinary. One third of that would go to our firm. How cool is that?

"You play with fire young lady," said my archrival Russell Peterson, after he found out about the Judge's ruling. I looked him up and down. Tall and skinny, with hair that was both receding and more salt than pepper, clad in a dark business suit, Russell was the very picture of an old-world patrician. With the hawkish eyes, aquiline nose and smug, vaguely condescending attitude that typically go with the territory. 

"Yet I never get burned," I retorted smartly, then ended the conversation by walking back to my office. I could feel Russell's eyes on me. Let him stare all he wants. I win the day, so I get to live and stay in power for another day. Law firms are shark tanks, promotions and demotions are handed practically every day, and everyone is jockeying for position. It's like a wolf pack at times, only more vicious.

As I sit in the office, going over a document, my cell phone buzzes. "Hey mamas, where are you?" the text message reads, and I smiled as I read and reread the text from my beloved, Ammanuel "Manny" Teshome, the young Ethiopian gentleman who stole my heart. Just getting a text from him sent my heart aflutter. I call him my Aquarian prince, since he was born on the first day of February 1989, and he's worthy of the title in every way.

"I'm leaving work as we speak," I replied, and then promptly grabbed my briefcase and my coat, and marched to the elevator. Typically, senior partners put in longer hours than anybody else, cost of running the firm and wielding power over lowly associates. Tonight, I don't give a fuck. I marched past legions of my overworked colleagues, and got into the elevator.

I live at a loft in the Singer Court area of Toronto, and rent at this high-rise apartment complex costs nineteen hundred a month. It's got all the bells and whistles, though, this I must admit. That's not where I'm going tonight. Nope, I made the long drive from downtown Toronto to Mississauga instead, and it's all because of him.

"Welcome home angel," Manny says, and he greets me at the door of his Applewood house in the Bloor area of Mississauga. It's a two-story, four-bedroom house which Ammanuel grew up in. His parents, Neissa and Debel Teshome bought the place a year after they moved to Ontario, Canada, from the City of Jimma, southwestern Ethiopia. Manny was born in that house and now takes care of it while his parents are spending the wintry months abroad.

"It's so good to see you Manny," I say and greet him with a hug and a passionate kiss. Ammanuel smiles that fearless smile of his and puts his arm around me, ushering me inside. The place is warm, and alive with something I can't quite put my finger on. I don't know if it's the pictures of Manny and his parents all over the walls, or the paintings celebrating key moments in Ethiopian history such as Emperor Menelik and his battles against the Arab invaders, or the Northeast African artworks. The place simply pulls me in...and I feel humble for a change.

"Long day at the office I take it," Ammanuel says, and we sit in the living room, and he offers me a cup of orange juice. I nod silently and smile faintly, resting my head against Ammanuel's shoulder as we sit there, calmly enjoying the moment. It's been a week since we've seen each other, too long if you ask me.

Ammanuel and I come from different worlds, but we're a lot more alike than most people would believe. Ammanuel earned his bachelor's degree in Nursing at Humber College and now works at the Trillium Health Center, formerly known as the Mississauga Hospital. We met when I got into a car accident a while ago. Ammanuel was one of the paramedics on hand on that fateful day, and he saved my life.

"You've got no idea," I reply, shaking my head. Ammanuel pulls me close and kisses me on the forehead. Seriously, there are times where I wonder where he gets his strength. The six-foot-two, burly and outgoing brother from southern Ethiopia is a pillar of calm and strength in even the toughest of circumstances. When I lay in a pool of my own blood after a three-car accident, Ammanuel held my hand and assured me that everything would be okay.

As I underwent surgery, and later, physiotherapy and rehabilitation, I couldn't forget the handsome, dark-skinned young paramedic with the calm voice and haunting eyes. That's why I sought him out, and I'm glad I did. For they don't make men like Ammanuel anymore. Last time I saw him, Ammanuel took me out to celebrate my victory over Toronto Hydro.

"You did a lot of good day, I'm proud of you," Ammanuel said to me as we sat inside Nazareth, a chic Ethiopian restaurant located in the Bloorcourt Village area. I smiled and nodded, then bit into my spicy injera ( a type of sourdough flatbread ) and washed it down with a can of Pepsi. I smiled at Ammanuel, who looked dapper in a blue silk shirt, black silk pants and boots. Damn he looks good.

"Glad I was able to help that Nigerian lady, but you really do spoil me," I replied, winking at Ammanuel, who smiled back at me and shrugged. Seriously, I'm in danger of getting chubby thanks to all those tasty Ethiopian dishes that Ammanuel treats me to whenever we're together. The brother knows how to cook, among other things. I'm now addicted to Ethiopian food. I like it as much as I do Lebanese food, if not more.

After that sumptuous dinner, Ammanuel and I went back to his place, and he made sweet, rough love to me. I desperately needed it. No man makes my heart soar like Ammanuel has. All the creepy, insecure, sexist and poor-excuses-for-a-male types that surround me at work leave me cold. Tremblay wouldn't have gotten anywhere with me all those years ago if I'd had a man like Ammanuel in my life...

"Make love to me," I whispered as Ammanuel laid me on his king-sized bed, in a bedroom adorned with posters of everyone from Beyonce and Jay-Z, to Kanye and Kim, and Ethiopian-American singer Gigi. Some women might have found this immature, but I found it charming. Ammanuel simply is who he is, and he's one helluva man.

"With pleasure," Ammanuel said, grinning wolfishly before he kissed me, then licked a path from my tits to my belly, and finally to the space between my thighs. Most men don't realize that the female body is a work of art whose every inch is to be treasured. Ammanuel knows this in spades, and let me tell you, his tongue work is second to none.

"Yes just like that," I hissed, clucking my tongue as Ammanuel buried his face between my thighs, and licked me slowly and deeply, just the way I like it. I love having my pussy thoroughly licked, by a man who takes his time and knows what he's doing, and Ammanuel is all that and then some, wrapped in one hot package. Soon Ammanuel had me crying out his name in every language I knew, including Arabic, English, French and profane!

"Ready for an encore?" Ammanuel said to me, once I recovered from the whammy he just laid on me. I smiled and nodded, and happily assumed the position. I know what Ammanuel likes. I don't mean to offend but I've never met a brother who didn't like big butts, and this Lebanese Christian diva has one of the biggest, meanest, most beautiful butts in town.

"Kiss my ass," I said smartly, as I got on all fours, shaking my plump derriere at Ammanuel, who gave me a smile a wolf would recognize. Gently he kissed my bum, then proceeded to lick it all over, and I do mean all over. When Ammanuel spread my ass cheeks and stuck his tongue in my asshole, I giggled softly, for it tickles me a bit.

I can't speak for every woman but I absolutely love having my ass eaten, and nobody eats ass like Ammanuel. I swear, the Ethiopian stud licks my ass more often than he eats my pussy, not that I'm complaining. When Ammanuel finished giving my bum a tongue bath, I told him I was ready for more. As in I wanted to feel something more than his tongue in my ass.

"If you want it come and get it," Ammanuel said, grinning, as he took off his shirt and pants, and I was happy to see that he had no underwear on. The brother held his long and thick dick in hand, and waved it at me. Teaser, I thought, and went to him, with a hungry mouth and eager body. Hey, I'm a horny gal, alright?

Happily I sucked Ammanuel's dick, after stroking it good and proper, and the Ethiopian stud moaned softly as I did my thing. Not a slut or anything but I know how to rock it in the bedroom. Ammanuel certainly wasn't complaining about my skills or technique, for he got hard as a rock, and told me he was ready for me.

"We'll see about that," I said, grinning wickedly as I rolled on my back, and raised my legs in the air. I winked at Ammanuel, who took my legs, kissed first one then the other, and rested them against his shoulders. I grabbed a bottle of lotion on his nightstand and tossed it to him, and he knew exactly what to do with it. Locking eyes with me, Ammanuel pressed his hard dick against my well-lubricated ass.

"Love that ass of yours," Ammanuel said, and then he pushed his dick into my bum. I'm no stranger to anal sex, but it still shocks me every time. Ammanuel is to date the only man I've done this with. Certain types of sexual activity I can only engage in with a man who thrills me sexually as well as emotionally and intellectually. 

"Shut up and fuck me," I said, and Ammanuel grinned and shook his head, then did as he was told. I licked my lips, and relaxed as Ammanuel's dick went deep inside of me. Yes, I'm a bossy woman in and out of bed, if you don't like it you can sue me but since I'm licenced to practice law on both sides of the border, I don't think you'd win against me.

"I want you to dominate me," I said through gritted teeth, glaring at Ammanuel. Seriously, love-me-tender isn't my style. I am really dominant, in and out of bed. I've been known to tie guys up, spank them, flog them and have my way with them. I can be pretty sadistic with my whipping and have been known to make grown men cry...with their consent, of course. Ammanuel is one very few men who bring out my much-repressed and seldom acknowledged submissive side.

"Got it milady," Ammanuel said, and then proceeded to astonish me by switching things up. Ammanuel is a gentle giant on most days, a friendly and easygoing, soft-spoken guy. Tonight, however, with my expressed permission, the Ethiopian brother unleashed a hurricane of masculine dominance on me...and I liked it. Shoot, it's what I crave at times, though I can't always admit it.

Grabbing me by the throat, Ammanuel held me down and thrust his dick deeper into my ass than ever before. A shocked little gasp came out of me, for I felt like I was being split in half. Ammanuel slapped me hard across the face, and I blinked in surprise. I smiled wickedly, loving how rough the usually gentlemanly Ammanuel got with me.

"More," I screamed, and Ammanuel indulged me, pinching my tits, hard enough for me to cry out in pain, and forcing two fingers into my mouth as he continued hammering my ass with powerful thrusts of his long and thick Ethiopian dick. The bed shook as Ammanuel and I made love, or fucked, whatever you want to call it. Finally, I felt something deep within my core. That fire down below, so to speak. It built up and up until I couldn't take it anymore and cried out, orgasmic. 

"That was frigging amazing," I said, my eyes moist and my body covered in sweat, as Ammanuel gathered me into his arms. I'd never cum while having anal sex before. I'd heard about it, sure, but had never experienced it myself. Shoot, like the natural skeptic that I am, I doubted such a thing were possible. Now I know better. It's an absolutely intense experience.

"Glad you feel that way," Ammanuel said, and then he silenced my post-coital mumblings in the best way possible. With a passionate kiss. We held each other for a long time, just enjoying the moment. It's funny, but Ammanuel's place in Mississauga feels more homey to me than my high-rise, uber-expensive condo in one of Toronto's priciest areas. 

Lying in bed with Ammanuel, safe in his strong arms, kilometers away from my fast-paced, frenetic life as a corporate attorney, I felt at peace for the first time in ages. I think I'm falling in love with this beautiful, wonderful young man. We're from different worlds. I'm a Maronite Catholic from Lebanon, and Ammanuel is an Orthodox Christian from Ethiopia. We're both immigrants, highly educated and successful in our fields. 

"I wish I could be with you every moment of every day," I whispered, and Ammanuel smiled, kissed my forehead and said nothing. A moment later, the brother was fast asleep. I'm talking about the kind of deep sleep, punctuated by acute snoring, that I have trouble achieving due to my supremely stressful and demanding job. Ammanuel works four days a week at the hospital and volunteers at the YMCA, working with immigrant youths from Mississauga's growing population of Sikhs, Jamaicans, Arabs, Tamils, and ethnic groups I could only guess at. I envy Ammanuel with his simpler life, seriously. Goodnight, I whispered, as I pulled the covers over our bodies.



Arab Femdom in Australia



Abdul Al-Haddad is the kind of guy who thinks he's all that just because he's a big and tall young Black Muslim man. He thinks he's the Big Man on the Carleton University campus in the City of Ottawa, Province of Ontario. He's from the City of Mogadishu, Somalia, and has that All-Somali Swagger about him. He always wears a Black leather jacket with the Canadian and Somali flags on it emblazoned side by side, a tribute to his Canadian-Somali origins and aspirations. I find him annoying as hell sometimes, and oddly appealing occasionally. That's why I decided to teach the fool a lesson. Black Muslim men in North America think us White girls are easy, and submissive. Well, I decided to show this arrogant Black guy my dominant side. My name is Rose Arlington and I approve this message. 

I was born and raised in the City of Melbourne, in the Australian State of Victoria. Just a five-foot-eleven, blonde-haired and green-eyed gal of English descent. I used to play rugby for Melbourne's very own Winston Academy and I excelled at other sports like basketball and soccer. I won a scholarship to study at Carleton University in the Ontario region of Canada. I never thought about living in Canada until that day, but I guess life can take us many places. While living in Canada, I encountered a strange and fascinating world. Canada is really more politically correct than the Commonwealth of Australia will ever be. Now, don't get me wrong. Australia is home to many immigrants from Africa, the Arab countries, China, India and the Caribbean. However, these immigrants know that Australia is run by Australians while immigrants in North America think they run the show. What a load of crock! 

Canadians appear meek on the outside but they're mean as hell on the inside. Australians aren't pretenders. If we don't like you, we let you know. I happened to be in my Criminology class, browsing through my iPhone one afternoon when Abdul Al-Haddad opened his mouth and said something weird again. He said something about White guys not being able to jump, and a lot of the White students and the Black ones laughed it off. I reminded everyone that Lebron James and Dwayne Wade got their asses handed to them by a big and tall White guy in the 2011 NBA Finals. That's when the class fell silent. I guess I wasn't supposed to say anything controversial. I'm supposed to be a meek White chick and act all flowery while macho Black guys act like they own the place. Well, sorry. I'm not that kind of gal. I'm an Australian woman born and bred. If you piss me off, I will put you in your place.

Like a simpleton with a one-trick pony, Abdul called me a racist for reminding everyone that Black guys didn't have a monopoly on athleticism. I simply hate stereotypes. If a Black guy can swim in the Olympics and be celebrated for it, then a White guy can excel at basketball without being considered an anomaly. That was my reasoning. I don't play the political correctness game. Abdul scoffed and told me I was taking the easy way out. I got mad, and challenged him. I told him that I, a White chick, could kick his ass at basketball. The whole class fell silent. Abdul looked around, smiled, and accepted my challenge. That afternoon, in front of twenty or so people, I beat him twenty six to twenty four in a shoot-out challenge. 

To say that Abdul felt humiliated would be the understatement of the year. I stood there, victoriously smiling. Everybody clapped for me, including several Black guys from class who were usually in Abdul's corner. Abdul tried to play it off, and told me that he was being a gentleman by letting the lady win. I shook my head, laughed loudly and walked away. I expected Abdul to be seriously angry about being publicly humiliated by me, and he was. Hey, I always win because I play to win. I don't bow down to stereotypes. I've beaten Black girls and Black guys at basketball. 

The reverse is also true. Talent flows in many unexpected directions. I once got my ass handed to me by a Nigerian female student when I took up swimming in high school. Elisabeth Adewale of southwest Nigeria grew up near a vast river. She'd been swimming ever since she could remember. This shows you that stereotypes don't mean shit. A White chick who beats Black male and Black female athletes at basketball can get her ass kicked by a Black female swimmer. Your gender or skin colour shouldn't mean anything on a level playing field. There are winners and there are losers, and that's simply that. My father taught me that.

The next time I ran into Abdul Al-Haddad was inside the University Center Building. I was on my way to the cafeteria when he accosted me. Instantly my guard was up. He held his hands up, and told me he came in peace. I narrowed my eyes and looked at him dubiously. Abdul told me that he wanted to congratulate me on my awesome basketball skills, and apologize for his behaviour. I didn't think his apology was sincere but took it anyway. Hey, us Australians can be awfully polite and considerate when we want to be. Never let anyone tell you different. Abdul scratched his head, and then hesitated. I told him to spill what was on his mind. He smiled weakly, and asked me to grab a bite with him. I hesitated. Was he up to something? If he was, I'd kick his ass. I know Krav Maga because one of my uncles joined the Israeli defence forces after emigrating to the State of Israel in the 1980s. I was raised Catholic but I've got Protestant, Agnostic and Jewish folk in my family background as well. Anyhow, I accepted Abdul's offer, and we sat down to eat.

Abdul was amazed by how much I ate. I keep my five-foot-eleven, 150-pound body trim and fit. The gym and swim pool of Carleton University are like my second home. I'm there every bloody day. Yet I got a sweet tooth and I love chocolate. I also love French fries, and big burgers. My mum told me once that if I didn't play every damn sport there is, I'd be one fat chick. I think she was right. Abdul and I chatted while dining together. It was during that first dinner together that I saw a different side to the Somali macho man. He confessed to me that back at his old school in Mogadishu, he was a big nerd. He was captain of the debate team and vice president of the fledgling computer science club. He was studying Criminology with a focus on Cyber Crimes at Carleton University. When I asked him what propelled him in such a field, he told me that an online predator once kidnapped one of his Canadian-born Somali female cousins. She was returned safely, but neither she nor the family was ever the same. Abdul told me of his dream of one day joining the Ontario Provincial Police. I told him I wanted to become a police officer in my hometown of Melbourne in Australia. He wished me the best of luck and told me I'd be as kick-ass as the character Clarice in the Hannibal movie series. I smiled at that. I love those movies!

Thus it was that I found myself smiling as I lay in my bed that night. I couldn't get any studying done. Abdul and I exchanged cell numbers and we spent two hours on the phone. Hot damn. The next day, he asked me to go to the movies and I agreed. That's how it began. Abdul and I began hanging out as friends, and I found myself intensely attracted to him. He was far from the annoying bozo he appeared to be in class. He was really smart and sensitive, but for some reason he chose to hide that under the fake macho swagger thing. I told him he could be himself with me. And he was. I found myself drawn to this amazing man. Amazingly, we had a lot in common. We were both international students at Carleton University, and the school made us pay through the nose. Still, education is all-important these days so we did what we had to do. Our friends and classmates were really surprised when we showed up in class together one morning, hand in hand.

Ladies and gentlemen, I think I'm falling in love with Abdul Al-Haddad, the Somalian stud from Mogadishu, Somaliland. And I'm a Melbourne gal! I never thought it could happen to me. Falling in love with someone so different from me. Oh, well. You can't help who you fall in love with. Abdul and I have a passionate relationship. Oh, yeah. My new man has a seriously sexy body and I don't mean to be stereotypical but he's really well-endowed. Equipped with eight inches of thick, uncircumcised Black manhood. I'm addicted to that sexy body of his. And he worships me while making love to me. What a man!

We're talking about a man who will undress you, carry you to bed, lick every inch of your body and then sex you down like there's no tomorrow. He licked my pussy so damn well I thought he might have been a lesbian in a past life. When I told him that, he laughed endlessly. I love to make love with him. Licking and caressing his broad, muscular body. I love playing with his chest hairs while kissing him. And I can't get enough of the hot, musky scent of his manhood while I go down on him. I love to make him moan while sucking him off. Then I put a condom on his thick rod and hop on for a ride. Oh, yeah. We go at it all night, and leave each other's bodies pleasurably sore. My man is awesome! 



Arab Femdom in Boston



Raindrops keep falling on my head as I stride through the busy, crowded streets of Boston, Massachusetts. It's a late Monday afternoon in early September and feels more like spring than fall, mainly because of the hot rains we still get from time to time. It's times like these that I miss home the most. I am a daughter of the desert. It's who I am. I don't believe in hiding who and what I am in today's world. I don't believe in compromising. I have to be myself.

My name is Aamina Rashida Rafiq. I was born and raised in the town of Gaza in Palestine, and my family moved to the U.S. when I was much younger. I attend Harvard University, and I like my life these days. Sometimes, everything just seems to fall into place. Three months ago, my life and my world changed forever. I met someone I would never forget. Antoine Saint-Mathieu. A young man of Haitian descent hailing from the City of Montreal, Province of Quebec. We don't get a lot of Canadian students at Boston University, so I was quite intrigued by this six-foot-two, lean and wiry, absolutely gorgeous young Black man with the kind eyes and wickedly sexy smile. 

Antoine transferred to Harvard University from Concordia University in his hometown of Montreal, Quebec. We had a class together, Fundamentals of Criminal Psychology. Our professor, Miriam Khan, the only foreign-born female Muslim faculty member at Boston University, was a really nice lady. She paired us together for a class project entitled Psychology of Deviance. We had to get inside the mind of the modern criminal, figure out what makes him or her tick, and build a semi-anthropological study around it. Antoine, never one to stir away from controversy, chose to focus on the mindset of terrorists in the region of Palestine and their eternal war against the State of Israel. I bristled in anger when the charming Haitian-Canadian gentleman sitting next to me chose this project. Just what I needed. I get stared at all day as I walk through Boston because I wear the hijab. 

As soon as Antoine and I had a private moment, I asked him what in hell he was thinking. And he ended up surprising me. Antoine chose to focus on the true motivations of the so-called terrorists from Palestine. And he amazed me with his empathy. Many Americans are frighteningly simple-minded. They see all Arabs as potential terrorists and they see nothing wrong with the mistreatment the Israelis dish out at the Palestinians every chance they get.

I am a Palestinian-American woman living in America. I have felt the anti-Arab sentiment which emerged in the U.S. after 9/11. I was a mere child when it happened but it's not something I ever forgot. I remember my father Mansur, a devout Muslim who's as conservative as can be, asking my mother Sabah not to wear the hijab because he feared for her safety. And my mother refused to allow bigots to affect her conduct in any way, shape or form. That's my mother, one tough Sirah ( lady). Who says Arab women aren't strong women? Yes, my family has been through a lot. I remember coming home from school one day and finding our house vandalized. And our once-friendly neighbors, a mix of Irish, Italians and Puerto Ricans, glared at us angrily as we removed the hateful graffiti painted on our walls. 

I have seen the hatred many hold for my people. For these reasons, I found myself really pissed off at Antoine for choosing such a topic. He's a Christian. What in hell does he know about Islam? And why choose something so damn controversial? I found myself scrutinizing him throughout the project. Antoine was handsome and charming. Had his charm blinded me to his faults? Was he a bigot who hated Muslims, like so many folks in North America and Europe did? Antoine Saint-Mathieu's outlook on the whole Israeli/Palestinian conflict surprised me. He drew interesting comparisons between the Israeli paramilitary state and the Apartheid Government which terrorized Blacks in the Republic of South Africa before the Rise of Mandela. I looked at Antoine, stunned, as he explained his reasoning to me. I really wasn't expecting that.

Antoine told me that the Israelis of today were like the Afrikaners of South Africa. A misanthropic, deeply prejudiced minority with a sense of entitlement who seized power in a land that wasn't theirs and relegated the indigenous population to second-class citizenship. The Israelis were doing to the Palestinians what the Dutch and the English did to Blacks in South Africa and what Europeans did to Natives in the Americas and Aboriginals in Australia and New Zealand. 

I listened to Antoine, captivated by the passion in his speech. Man, the brother could speak! With a dangerous light in his eyes he told me that he longed for the day when the United States of America would cease to act as bodyguard to the Israelis as they constantly mistreated the Arabs who surrounded their tiny nation. Sighing, I wondered aloud if such a day would ever come. Antoine gently touched my hand, and looked me straight in the eyes before continuing. As a devout Muslim woman, I'm not supposed to allow men to touch me. Yet I didn't mind Antoine's touch. Even though he was a Christian and not a Muslim, even though he's Black and not a Persian, he's a lot like us. At heart, he seemed like a son of Islam.

Antoine told me something I sort of knew already but never truly factored in my thought process. America was changing. A day would come when the majority of Americans were people of color. We who were called minorities for centuries would become the new majority. The Blacks, the Hispanics, the Asians, the Native Americans and the Arabs, along with the mixed-race peoples. As America becomes mostly non-White, it could cease to be an imperialistic pain in the ass. Maybe it might actually become a peaceful nation once it was no longer mostly composed of people with a sense of entitlement based on the pallor of their skin and nothing else.

I smiled when Antoine said that. Wow. I really liked the sound of that. What a glorious day that would be. Too bad it was decades away. Antoine smiled, and reminded me that the biggest states, like Texas and California, were already mostly non-White states. The rest of the country wasn't far behind. I asked Antoine what he thought of Obama's actions concerning the Israeli/Palestinian issue. Antoine told me that Obama was no enemy of Muslims. Rather, the President's hand was forced. The pro-Israel Lobby of America was powerful enough to compel both Democratic and Republican politicians to bow down to the Middle-East's sole imperialistic force.

That explanation didn't really satisfy me, but I knew enough about politics and human nature to find that explanation plausible. I took Antoine's hand in mine and shook it. He smiled and I smiled too. This young Black man simply amazes me, folks. Seriously. Antoine is so different from the African-American guys I knew growing up in the City of Boston. Most of them saw nothing wrong with America's way of dealing with foreign powers. They complained about racism in America but rarely had a global perspective on the issues of the day. Antoine was different. This guy was smart as a whip, ambitious, driven and insightful. I have never seen the likes of him before.

Antoine and I began hanging out as friends while working on the class project together. I found myself fascinated by him. His kind smile. His charm and wit. His keen intelligence. All that drew me to him. One time, I asked him to have dinner with me at Copley Mall in downtown Boston. We met in the Food Court, and had some delicious Chinese food. After that, we went to the New England Aquarium. Once again he amazed me. Here was a guy who knew how to be smart without sounding pompous or boastful, proud without arrogance, flirtatious without being disgusting. I mean, he walked a fine line. All the time. And I wanted him.

Now, I'm not exactly what most people think when they look at me. A lot of folks think us Muslim women are insufferable prudes and that we're born to be submissive. Before 9/11 happened, I was a radically different person. I seldom wore the hijab. I made out with guys and girls. I smoked a little weed. And I didn't go to Mosque unless my parents forced me to. I didn't like speaking Arabic or Farsi at home. I spoke English, and my friends were always Hispanic, Irish or Black, never Persian. I avoided my fellow Arabs like the plague.

Then 9/11 happened, and it made Islam much more than a religion. And it profoundly changed me. I began learning a lot about my religion, and the culture which spawned my parents. Thus, I began learning about myself. When I turned eighteen, I made the decision to dedicate my life to Allah the Merciful and wear the hijab daily. Now, it wasn't always easy. Sometimes I got taunted, and other times I got tired of wearing it. Following the rules of Islam and traditions such as Ramadan wasn't easy for me, a gal who grew up on burgers and fries...and had the body to prove it. I'm five-foot-nine and dangerously close to two hundred pounds. My body is chunky no matter what I do. My breasts are huge, my hips are wide and my buttocks are enormous. Dieting for any reason never appealed to me, but during Ramadan I did it for Allah's Grace.

Sometimes, I had relapses. I missed sex, and I enjoyed sleeping with both men and women. I've considered myself bisexual long before I dedicated my life to Allah and I felt conflicted at times. Was it possible to be a good Muslim and a bisexual woman at the same time? So many questions, so few answers. And now things were getting more and more complicated. For I am falling for Antoine Saint-Mathieu, the handsome Haitian guy from the City of Montreal. What was I to do? The day of the class project presentation came, and Antoine and I geared ourselves up for it. We were up against a lot of smart students with interesting projects. A cute, petite Jamaican gal discussed feminism and gay rights s in minority communities with the help of her obviously queer Caucasian male partner. A Japanese-American guy discussed the effects of social norms on functional sociopaths. And so on. Yet it's our project that had tongues wagging. For we had ventured into super controversial territory.

The professor was really critical of us. And that annoyed me. Antoine told me not to worry, that professor Miriam was just doing her job. Being a Muslim woman teaching at Harvard University couldn't be easy. She walked a fine line too. Our critic of Israel's imperialistic and divisive policies toward the Palestinians apparently struck a chord in the assembled students. Many of them agreed with us, to my immense surprise. Little did I know I was in for even more surprises. We won first place! I was so happy I threw myself in Antoine's arms and showered him with kisses. In front of the entire class. Yes, you read right.

By the time I realized what I was doing, my tongue was playing tonsil hockey with Antoine's, and the entire class was cheering us on. Professor Miriam tried to restore order as folks hooted and hollered all around us. I smiled shyly at my classmates. Antoine put his arm around me and looked at me adoringly. To hell with it, I thought. Then I kissed him again.

Like I said before, Antoine changed my life. And I knew then that he was destined to become my husband. Of course, we had a lot of stuff to work out. He's Black. I'm Persian. He's straight. I'm bisexual. He's a Christian. I'm a Muslim. He's a fitness fanatic. I'm a couch potato. However, Antoine convinced me that love could conquer all, if given the chance. 

This man changed my life in ways I couldn't predict, but ultimately I was thrilled with those changes. Antoine taught me to look at the world in a new way. Until he persuaded me to go with this controversial topic for our class project, I had mainly kept my hatred for American imperialism deep inside of me. I rarely expressed it around friends. Antoine, a Canadian guy of Haitian descent, helped me see my fellow Americans in a whole new way. 

Whenever I would lump all Americans into the category of xenophobic anti-Muslim fools, he would remind me that our classmates supported us when we expressed our views. He also pointed out to me that many Americans, Europeans and Canadians were embarking on flotillas toward Gaza to help the Palestinians and that the Israelis were ruthlessly turning them away. Not all Americans agreed with the imperialistic bastards and bitches who ran the country and foolishly sided with Israel as they bombed innocent Arabs in Palestine.

Antoine taught me how to be optimistic again. He reminded me that the wise and wonderful Nelson Mandela waited nearly three decades in an Afrikaner prison for his time to come and he liberated his country from the racist regime of Apartheid without bloodshed. Antoine offered me hope that someday, Palestinian independence would be recognized by the entire world, and certain high-ranking Israeli military guys and gals who bombed innocent Palestinians in Gaza would go to trial like Nazi War Criminals accused of crimes against humanity. 

Antoine also reminded that in times of conflict, even good people can do terrible things. He pointed out to me that there were voices of dissent among American Jews and liberal Israelis. Many American Jews disagreed with the Government of Israel's treatment of the Palestinians, and so did many liberal-minded Israelis. Things weren't as simple as Black and White. I regret to say that in my passion for my people and my empathy for them, I sometimes forgot that not everybody was our enemy. Antoine helped me see the light. And he taught me to love myself. I've often cursed myself for being a chubby Arab gal in a world made for skinny Caucasian women. 

My Antoine taught me that real women had curves, and curves were definitely in. I looked at my naked body in the mirror, from my round face to my big breasts, from my round belly to my wide hips, chubby legs and huge round butt. And I found myself beautiful for the first time in what seemed like forever. Oh, yeah. I thank Allah for sending Antoine Saint-Mathieu into my life. I introduced him to my parents. My folks were a bit surprised when they met him. He wasn't what they expected. A supremely charming, intelligent and charismatic Black man who spoke multiple languages, including Arabic. A proud Canadian who disagreed with NATO's actions in the Middle East and their policy of staunch inaction when Israel mistreated one of its Arab neighbors. My parents were thrilled with Antoine once they got to know him. Especially after the four of us marched through the streets of Washington D.C. together one weekend ( along with hundreds of others ) to protest America's treatment of innocent Arabs caught near the Israel border. This we did shortly after the tenth anniversary of 9/11, believe it or not.

After that, I had my parents blessing to bring Antoine into our family. They already saw him as the son they never had. Antoine and I are living together now. We got engaged, and he put a pretty big rock on it. I am one happy woman! He still wants to go back to Montreal in a year, though. And he wants me to go with him. Apparently he misses Canada, especially the Province of Quebec where he was born. I have a much better idea. Antoine is going to stay in America with me. He excels in his undergraduate Law classes at Harvard University. Why not go to Harvard Law School afterwards? I totally believe he can do it. I'll file for him to get his permanent residence, and eventually his U.S. citizenship. And I know just the thing to do to bind him to me. Let's just say two is about to become three. Don't look at me like that. A woman's got to do what a woman's got to do. 



Arab Femdom in Canada



For those of you who ever wonder about what really goes on inside a Mosque, I got some enticing news for you. My name is Ahmed Hassan, and I'm a young man of Saudi Arabian descent living in the City of Orleans, Province of Ontario. I am openly bisexual, and the Imam of my Mosque is okay with it because he embraces a radical new form of Islam. Relax, folks. I know I just made some of you nervous. Don't worry. We're all about fun in the changing Muslim community of North America. The more open, woman-friendly, gay-supportive and western-loving brand of Islam which the world has never seen. There are progressive men and women in the Muslim community, you know. Many of us believe in a life of pleasure and fulfillment, not just prayer and self-denial. And I will introduce you to some of our best and brightest toot sweet. 

The honourable Abdullah Al-Fazir is the Imam of my Mosque right here in the Capital region of Canada. At five-foot-eight, he's not exactly an imposing man. However, he is a really friendly, open-minded guy. Dark-haired, bronze-skinned and dark-eyed, he is roughly handsome. Abdullah hails from the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia but has spent most of his life living in the Confederation of Canada. He teaches computer science at the University of Ottawa. How about that? I recently introduced my Imam to my boyfriend Dahir Yousef. The tall, handsome young Black man from Somaliland who stole my heart the first time I met him at Carleton University. Dahir is simply amazing. Tall, roughly handsome, and simply too cute for words. He studies criminology at Carleton University and like me, he's bisexual.

Presently, we at the Mosque are having one of our special gatherings. My girlfriend Aamina Al-Yasser is currently kneeling before me, sucking on my thick cock. At the same time, my boyfriend Dahir is slamming his big Black dick deep into my asshole. I love Dahir and I love Aamina. I never want to choose between them. To me, it would be like choosing between your right hand and your left hand. There was a time when my dear Aamina had a big problem with male bisexuality. Not anymore. Thanks to the sacred and mind-opening teachers of the honourable Imam Abdullah, she now understands that sexuality is part of human nature and that homosexuality and lesbianism are as natural as heterosexuality. I can't thank Abdullah enough for all he has done for me, for us all.

My lovely girlfriend Aamina is simply amazing. Standing five feet eleven inches, she weighs around two hundred and forty pounds. There was a time she hated herself because of her great height and imposing weight. A time when this lovely woman born and raised in the Republic of Libya subscribed to the western world's standards of beauty. If you ask me, that's totally unhealthy. The western world worships skinny blonde women. I find my Aamina simply beautiful with her long black hair, curvaceous body, wide hips, big round butt and thick legs. I love big women. Especially the ones from the Arab world. As I mentioned before, Aamina is sucking my cock with gusto while Dahir slams his dick into my asshole like there's no tomorrow. I scream in pleasure as I climax, exploding inside Aamina's mouth. My sexy plump Libyan goddess sucks me dry, draining me of my manly seed. And she didn't spill a single drop. Is she cool or what?

While the three of us are doing our thing, other members of the Mosque are also having some wicked fun. All of which is sanctioned by the honourable Abdullah, our Imam and the representative of Allah in this world. Dahir's ex-girlfriend, a lovely Somali gal named Atifah Suleiman is also getting busy with two members of our Mosque. Atifah has really come around. She got really mad when Dahir told her that he was bisexual and wanted to be with me. Coming from the deeply conservative Somali community of Ottawa's East End, Atifah hadn't been particularly understanding of Dahir's emerging bisexuality. In time, she came to accept it. Although they're no longer dating, they're still friends. They get along okay these days, and even attend the same Mosque. How cool is that?

Right now, Atifah Suleiman is sandwiched between Omar Khaled and Ben Hussein. Omar Khaled is a good friend of mine who goes to Algonquin College in the town of Nepean, Province of Ontario. He's really good-looking so it's too bad that he's totally heterosexual. He's slamming his thick cock into Atifah's pussy while Ben Hussein fucks her in the ass. Omar is half Black and half Persian. His mother is one of those rare Saudi Arabian women who married a Jamaican man. Wow. He's a good-looking guy and a devout Muslim. I like Black men and biracial guys. Ben Hussein is from Tunisia, and he kinds of looks like a Latin stud with his tall, dark-haired, bronze-skinned self. Ben is taking up Police Foundations at La Cite Collegiale, a French school located in the town of Orleans. These two sexy guys are slamming their dicks into Atifah's holes like there's no tomorrow and the gorgeous Somalian slut is screaming like a madwoman. Atifah is naked save for the hijab, which she never takes off unless she's in bed or in the shower. 

They switch things up a bit. Now the hunky Omar Khaled is thrusting his big cock into Atifah's asshole while Ben Hussein has a go with her pussy. Atifah's screams of contentment and delicious pain filled the Mosque as she got fucked. Next, I switched things up with Aamina and Dahir. Now Aamina knelt before Dahir and sucked his big Black cock with my approval. At the same time, I lubricated Dahir's sexy Somali male ass and slid my cock inside of him. And just like that, I began fucking my sexy Somalian boyfriend while my gorgeous Libyan girlfriend sucked his cock and balls. Dahir screamed, both from the feel of Aamina's eager mouth on his genitals and my cock tickling his prostate. Oh, yeah. Let the Black stud know what it's like to get topped for a change. We fucked and sucked the evening away, folks.

When all was said and done, all of us knelt and said our prayers before leaving the Mosque. Our activities had taken place under the watchful gaze of Imam Abdullah, the greatest leader any Muslim community ever had since the Prophet himself. I think we are going to go far under his irresistible leadership. Ever since he took the helm of our sacred Mosque, membership has increased tenfold. Many young women from the European and Caribbean communities are joining us because we embrace a kind of Islam they've never heard of. We respect women's rights and women's power. We believe in sharing of power and responsibility between the sexes. We don't believe in forcing women to wear anything they don't want to wear. Are we progressive or what? Join us, and find the true way, ladies and gentlemen. May Allah bless you! 



Arab Femdom in Ethiopia



My name is Ghaniyah Hafsah Wakil. My friends call me Ghani. I'm a young Black Muslim woman of Ethiopian descent living in the City of Ottawa, Province of Ontario. A lot of men are intimidated by me because I am very tall and happen to be a loud, outgoing type of female. So much for the stereotype of the African Muslim woman as quiet and submissive. Sometimes I feel that metropolitan Ottawa isn't big enough for me. I've got my sights set for the United States, after graduating from university of course. I'm six-foot-one, athletic but curvy where it counts. My skin is dark brown. I've got shoulder-length Black hair which I braid into neat cornrows. Sometimes I wear the hijab and sometimes I don't. Yes, I do go to mosque. I am a practicing Muslim. And yes, I love sex. No, I don't rap. No, I don't play basketball. I'm kind of nerdy actually and I'm good with numbers. This Ethiopian sister is hot as hell and no slouch in the brains department.

I've been living in this town for the past eleven years. My parents are immigrants from the southern region of Ethiopia. Dad is a cab driver and mom owns a small bookstore. We do alright for ourselves. These days, I attend Ottawa's very own Carleton University. By day, I am a Law student and I occasionally work as a security guard at Bell Canada when I need extra money. Other than that, I focus on my ruling passion. For you see, I am a Dominatrix. And not just any dominatrix. I am one of the best. Just ask my submissive Jamal Garrison. He'll tell you how awesome I am at the domination game. This African-American stud didn't know what hit him when I seduced him and changed him from macho man to groveling submissive. Am I good or what? Judge for yourself after reading this story.

I met Jamal Garrison during my first day in psychology class at Carleton University. The tall, broad-shouldered and handsome young Black man who walked in class with the short, blonde-haired white chick caught my attention. He was built like an National Football League player. I soon found out my guess wasn't exactly too off the mark. Jamal Garrison was born and raised in the City of Miami, somewhere in the State of Florida. He played football for Florida Agricultural and Mechanical University before deciding to spend a year studying abroad. That's how this American stud ended up at Carleton University in the City of Ottawa, Province of Ontario. A lot of Canadian chicks are fascinated by those fearless African-American guys and I knew the white broads at our university would be on him like white on rice. And I wasn't wrong. Amber Hudson, a white chick from downtown Toronto, had already latched onto Jamal. How I stole the African-American stud away from that white heifer is one for the ages.

Suffice to say it involved a campaign of sexual seduction you could base a porno movie on. Seriously. I seriously sexed Jamal Garrison down and hypnotized him using my awesome Black pussy. That short white slut Amber Hudson didn't stand a chance. I can suck a dick like there's no tomorrow. There's only one way to suck a dick, ladies. And that's the right way. Suck your man's dick right and you can convince him that two plus two equals five. It's all about your methodology. I stole Jamal Garrison away from Amber Hudson and made him mine. Forever. Jamal later confessed to me that I was the second Black female he'd been with, out of the dozens of women he's slept with during his twenty two years on this planet. Wow. He told me that Black chicks in America didn't pursue brothers like I did. Well, I happen to firmly believe in Black Love. Black men get on my damn nerves sometimes but I love the brothers. Black men are simply awesome. I like the way they smell and taste. A lot of sisters are into white guys these days. I caution them about their so-called knights in shining armour. When a white man loses his job, he goes crazy and shoots his wife and brats before ending his own existence. Brothers don't do that shit. When a brother loses his job, he either starts looking for another one or he becomes a rapper. I got much love for my brothers.

Having seduced Jamal Garrison away from the white sluts of Carleton University, I made sure I kept him. He's a really cool guy. Standing six-foot-three, kind of chubby, with a roughly handsome face. He kinds of reminds me of Michael Clarke Duncan, body-wise. Facially, he resembles Sean Kingston, only cuter. And man can he throw down in the bedroom! We're talking about the kind of brother who will spend the better part of an hour licking my pussy. He strokes it. He licks it. He teases it. He probes it. He fingers it. He pokes it. He gently bites it. He works me up until I squeal in delight. He's made me cum more times than I can count with his wicked tongue and agile fingers. Jamal Garrison loves the taste of my pussy. Lucky for him, I always keep things fresh down there. Some Black guys I've been with tell me that some sisters and a lot of white females don't stay clean down there. I always shower before sex and I make sure my pussy is washed thoroughly with soap. Sometimes I use vaginal deodorant and sometimes I don't. But I always wash. I'm a dirty gal for sure but not physically. Seriously. The guys love dirty gals but not the ones who are physically filthy. And you know I'm right, ladies!

Anyway, I introduced Jamal Garrison to my freaky side. And you know what? He loves it. As much as I love the brothers, sometimes they frustrate me sexually. I love to suck a brother's thick cock. And I will suck his balls and even lick his ass if he lets me. Some brothers balk at the thought of licking my pussy. Others love to fuck my pussy but won't do other stuff with me. I'm a three-hole woman, ladies and gentlemen. That means I take it in my mouth, pussy and asshole. And I'm not always particular about which order. Just so you know. My thing is this. I will let a brother fuck my ass but I demand that I be allowed to play with his. A lot of Black men think if they let a Black woman finger their asshole or use a dildo on them it makes them gay. Last time I checked, gay guys and bisexual men prefer a real dick up their ass. They don't go for a woman with a dildo since they have access to the real thing. So, straight brothers, letting a hot sister plug your ass with a strap-on dildo does NOT make you gay. It's actually a pretty fun thing to try.

Lucky for me, Jamal Garrison is a bit more open to sexual experimentation than the average Black male I've been with. He doesn't mind kneeling before me and giving me a foot massage. I love it when he sucks my toes. He told me he's got a foot fetish and that's more than okay by me. He also told me he's turned on by my dominant side. Well, that's cool. I already explored my submissive side with him by letting him stick his nine-inch, uncircumcised Black dick deep in my asshole. I love anal sex. Both giving and receiving. Emphasis on the giving part. To get Jamal in the mood, I bent him over and gave his smooth ass a nice spanking. I am the type of Black woman who loves to spank a Black man's behind. And Jamal was really into this. I could tell. And it was fun exploring this with him.

We had a lot of fun together that night. Especially when I took my favorite dildo, slipped a condom on it and made Jamal suck it. Then I smeared lubricant all over his asshole before plugging his ass with the dildo. Jamal's dick actually got harder as I worked my eight-inch dildo up his ass. His ass was kind of tight so I used more lubricant. While fucking his ass with my dildo, I stroked his big Black cock. I've never been with an uncircumcised man before. I used to think they were weird until I met my Jamal. Now I'm convinced. Uncircumcised dicks are hot. Especially the Black ones. They're more fun to play with. Anyhow, Jamal was screaming in pleasure mixed with pain as I fucked him in the ass with my dildo. The way he kept pushing his ass back against my thrusts, I knew he loved getting fucked by me. 

I put him on his back in order to look into his face while fucking him with my hand-held dildo. One of them days I must get a strap-on dildo. I saw one inside a porno shop on Rideau Street in downtown Ottawa but it was too expensive for me. I'm a student, you know. Anyhow, I continued to fuck my sweet Jamal until he came, his cock spurting hot cum all over the bed. I gathered his cum in my hand and smeared some on my breasts. I also rubbed it against his lips. Jamal tasted himself and smiled. I thrust two fingers inside my wet pussy and shoved them into Jamal's mouth. He tasted my pussy, and it tasted good. I smiled and kissed him. This was a fun fuck. However, I was really horny now. I put a condom on Jamal's dick and hopped on for a ride. That's how we do! 



Arab Femdom in Ontario



Watching my boyfriend Salim Abdelhamid's dick sliding into Benzekri Khaled's asshole, I fingered my pussy. The king-sized bed rocked as the two of them went at it in my apartment. Hot damn. This turned me on like you would not believe. I just love when a wonderful plan comes together. My name is Monia Malikah Belhassen, formerly of the Republic of Tunisia and presently of Metropolitan Ottawa, Province of Ontario. Just a curvaceous young woman of Arabic descent having some fun on a Friday night with my boyfriend and his male lover. I just love watching guys fucking guys, especially when it involves sexy Muslim studs like Salim and Benzekri.

Benzekri groans as Salim's eight-inch, dark brown dick slid into his asshole. The handsome Algerian has an ass that is absolutely to die for. Definitely the best ass I've seen on a man. Benzekri is five-foot-eleven, slim, with dark bronze skin, black hair and pale brown eyes. Born and raised in Algeria, he moved to the Canadian Province of Ontario to study Law at Carleton University. Benzekri is one of those delightful Arab studs who likes both men and women. And since he's living far away from his conservative parents, he can do whatever he likes. Such as getting fucked by a handsome Somalian stud while the Somali stud's Tunisian girlfriend watches.

I am so glad I managed to get them together. When I met Salim, he seemed like a really square peg. A six-foot-one, dark-skinned and ruggedly handsome young Black man with the looks of a football player masquerading as a nerd. One of the top students in the civil engineering program at Carleton University in Ottawa, Ontario. Salim was born and raised in the City of Ottawa, and his family is really conservative. Just like the majority of Somalian Muslims living in the Confederation of Canada. It took me a sultry Tunisian goddess like me to get him out of his shell. I'm happy to say that I was the first woman he slept with. His conservative family really did a number on him. He was actually waiting for marriage before having sex. What a load of bullshit. I'm glad I talked him out of that nonsense. And we've been having wicked fun together ever since. His mother Ayanna hates me for sure but I don't care. Salim is mine, not hers.

Benzekri squealed as Salim's cock continued to invade his asshole. I winced in sympathy. I've had that big Somali dick of Salim's in every hole in my body. I can totally relate to what Benzekri is feeling right now. Trust me on that one. Taking a slim blue dildo from my favourite toy box, I slid it into my pussy as I watched the two sexy studs going at it. Man, watching Salim's cock sliding in and out of Benzekri's asshole sure brought back some memories. I recalled the first time I let Salim fuck me in the ass. It was three months into our relationship. We were staying at hotel in Toronto at the time. Just a little impromptu weekend getaway for us. To spice things up in our life as a couple. I noticed Salim eyeballing my round, plump ass as I walked out of the shower and my towel kind of slipped. I smiled and told him to come give my ass a kiss. He ended up doing a lot more than that. Later that night, he bent me over the sofa and slid his cock into my well-lubricated asshole while I fingered my wet pussy. Our first time trying anal sex together was kind of awkward, especially since Salim was a total newcomer to such things. Still, I was really patient with him and he was gentle with me so in the end, things worked out satisfactorily for both of us.

Benzekri was definitely no anal virgin. Earlier, while the three of us dined inside the crowded Saint Laurent Mall food court, he wasn't shy about telling Salim and I what he liked. The handsome Algerian stud described himself as a power bottom all the way, at least with men. Rubbing my hand gently, he told me I was a very beautiful woman. He was really enthusiastic about trying a threesome with Salim and I. As for Salim, he was both nervous and eager. For once, I didn't have to talk him into it. Much. Look at him now. My usually shy and reserved Somalian boyfriend was all power and full force ahead as he slammed his dick into Benzekri's sexy ass. He fucked the Algerian like there was no tomorrow. By Allah, I've never seen something so beautiful, powerful and primal. Two sexy men, a Black stud and an Arab guy, fucking like sex was going out of style. They were both so beautiful.

By contrast, I was far from everyone's model of beauty. I'm five-foot-eight, chubby, with big breasts, wide hips and a big round butt. A chubby Tunisian woman in a world that worships skinny white chicks. Now, don't get me wrong, I love my body. And I have grown to love my curves. It's mainly thanks to my beloved Salim. Like most Black men living on this planet, he's got a thing for curvy women with big butts. He taught me to love myself and to love my body. My Somali stud worships my curves. When he looks into my eyes and tells me that I'm beautiful, I wholeheartedly believe him. The love I see in his eyes when he speaks to me has transformed both how I see myself and how I look at the world. I now feel strong and beautiful, like I can do just about anything. And it's a truly wonderful feeling.

With a smile on my face and a song in my heart, I join the action. I grab Benzekri's condom-covered cock and begin sucking him off. The Algerian stud shudders as Salim relentlessly pounds his asshole. I can tell that he's close to the edge and I want to take him beyond it. I suck him with gusto, and he rewards me with a passionate scream. I hold his trembling cock as he cums, filling the condom with his manly essence. Moments later, Salim pulls out of Benzekri. My man has cum as well. I take off the condoms from both their dicks, and stroke them as they shout in pleasure. Oh, yeah. I've got them exactly where I want them. 

I give them some time to recover, then it's on for round two. They don new condoms, and make use of the lube. For it's my turn to get fucked. I am sandwiched between Salim and Benzekri as the action continues. This time, Salim's thick cock fills my pussy while Benzekri's awesome rod of power enters my well-lubricated asshole. My screams of passion fill the apartment as I experience the fuck of the century from my two favourite men in the world. I got fucked and sucked roughly, and passionately. Every way you could think of, and a few which might surprise you. And you know what? It was one of the best nights of my life. I love my hunky bisexual Somalian boyfriend. I love the fun we have together, and I'm happy to welcome Benzekri into our bedroom as often as he cares to visit. The more the merrier, as they say.



Arab Femdom in Orleans



Please call me Farrah Abdullah. Or Little Farrah. Everyone does, whether I like it or not. Story of my life. I was born and raised in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, but moved to the city of ottawa, province of ontario, about a decade ago. I am still considered a newcomer to the Confederation of Canada, even though I have been here for a while. I am twenty two years old, and enrolled in the law program of the university of ottawa. Welcome to my life. I got some secrets to share with you kind people. Please bear with me.

A lot of people think us Arab girls are nice and quiet, and all we do is pray and meditate, and dream about becoming wives and mothers. Well, we are not that simple. People forget that Arab women are women first and foremost. We got sexual and emotional needs just like all other women. Underneath the veil are women who are just as complex as any women you are likely to meet anywhere, ladies and gentlemen. Please don`t disrespect us by oversimplifying us. You can do better than that, I think.

I recently began exploring my sexuality after a lifetime of repression. And I seriously wonder why I didn`t start sooner. At the moment, my lover Christianne Lassiter is busy licking my pussy like her life depends on it. Christianne is a tall, good-looking young black woman I ran into in my psychology class at the university of ottawa. Christianne is originally from the democratic republic of congo, somewhere deep in the beautiful continent of Africa. I have always fascinated by the natural beauty of black women, and at long last one of them returned my affections. As you can imagine, I was thrilled.

Christianne Lassiter pursued me relentlessly. She is one of the stars of the university of ottawa sports world. Competing at the highest level. I was more than a little intimidated by this tall and beautiful Black Amazon but she proved to be the gentlest, kindest woman I have ever met. Someone I could open up to without fear or shame. We made love for the first time in her Orleans apartment, not too far from the beautiful city of ottawa, which we have both come to treasure. And it was definitely one for the ages, ladies and gentlemen.

I lay on the bed, completely naked as Christianne Lassiter busied herself licking my pussy tenderly. I ran my hands through her neatly braided black hair. By Allah she is such a beautiful woman. Midnight skin. Golden brown eyes. Full lips. Heart-shaped butt. Smooth sexy legs. Sensational hips. Everything anyone could want in the woman of their dreams...and more. Christianne licked my pussy, probing it with her agile fingers. I moaned in pleasure as she went to work on me. I was the ingenue in the hands of a beautiful, tender and powerful expert. And I wouldn`t give it up for the world.

I found myself shrieking in pleasure as Christianne fucked me with her fingers and tongue. I was very vocal as I experienced my first orgasm ever. Definitely an erotic experience I would never forget. Christianne laughed and intensified what she was doing as I howled in pleasure. Then she eagerly licked my wet pussy, draining me of my womanly fluids. I couldn`t believe the things she was doing to me. Sensations so powerful I felt like I was losing my damn mind. And to be honest, I wouldn`t have cared if I lost my sanity. I had to have this woman touching me, I craved her.

Thus Christianne introduced me to a brave new world of awesome woman to woman sex. And things only got better from there. She taught me how to properly lick her pussy, something I did with pleasure. I could deny my sweet Christianne Lassiter nothing. Besides, just between you and me, I think I am honestly becoming addicted to the taste of her pussy. Hell, I craved all of her. I loved getting her big round butt all over my face, and also to climb on top of her and ride her as she fucked me with a strap-on dildo. Hair pulling, face smacking and butt spanking were regular parts of our fun and games together.

Sometimes Christianne and I switched things up just to be different, sort of spice stuff in the bedroom. No matter how passionate the couple, you need to change things a bit to avoid being boring. It was during one of those sessions that I discovered my dominant side. Yep. The meek, friendly and self-effacting Arab woman actually has a dominant side. And it took the sultry and sensually adventurous Congolese woman to bring it out of me. Imagine that. 

With Christianne`s expressed permission and encouragement, I asserted myself slowly but surely during our fun and games. I lay my sexy African tomboy naked on our bed, and licked every inch of her sexy body. How I loved her gorgeous black skin, her smooth body, and her spectacular buttocks. Her perfectly shaped thighs, and her bush. I licked, probed, caressed and teased her. I fingered her pussy, and fucked her with my fingers at first, then slipped a slim green dildo inside of her. Hearing my sexy black goddess moan in pleasure as she surrendered to me and allowed me to pleasure her...now that was an experience I would never forget.

My favorite part was when I put Christianne Lassiter, my incredibly butch lover, on all fours and spanked her sexy ass. I spanked her big round butt open-handed, and delighted in hearing her squeal and moan as I really laid it on her. I swear I didn`t think Christianne could squeal like us regular girls. If you`ve seen her play everything from tackle football to basketball and running track, you`d understand my sheer amazement. Christianne surprised me with a request that I pull her hair while spanking her. I was totally okay with that, as you can imagine. Hmm. Things got even better when I used the strap-on dildo to fuck her really hard, just like I knew she craved it. Flipping Christianne on her back, I raised her legs in the air and drilled my strap-on dildo into her pussy, looking into her beautiful golden brown eyes as I fucked her. We fucked like there was no tomorrow. Then I kissed her passionately, and we lay exhausted in a bed filled with our own love juices.



Arab Femdom in Ottawa



There is a truly beautiful sound that many composers the world over are unfortunately completely unaware of. What is that truly remarkable sound? The unique sound made by a strap-on dildo as it slides into the asshole of a submissive man. I am addicted to that sound. I guess that's why I'm banging Wahid Saleh right now. Wahid is a six-foot-tall, chubby young Persian man with dark bronze skin, black hair and brown eyes. He's from the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and studies Criminology at the Carleton University. Like many Arab guys, Wahid is a submissive at heart who pretends to be a macho man because it's what is expected of him. When I met him during Frosh Week, I knew exactly what he was. My next sexual plaything. Now, I fuck all kinds of guys. Black guys, White guys, Hispanic guys and even the odd Asian guy. I don't do women. I'm strictly into dicks, sorry ladies. I got a thing for Arab guys. Especially the meek ones like Wahid. I couldn't resist them if I tried.

In case you're wondering who this is, I guess introductions are in order. My name is Fanan Fidah Al-Wazir. A young Canadian woman of Saudi Arabian descent living in the City of Ottawa, Province of Ontario. I've been living here for about eleven years now. I was adopted by an Irish-Canadian couple, Arthur and Michelle O'Shea, after my biological parents died. For a while, I was called Fanan Fidah Al-Wazir-O'Shea but I dropped the O'Shea after I turned twenty one. I'm extremely proud of my Middle-Eastern heritage, though I love my Canadian parents and family. I often wear the hijab, and it's purely my choice. I'm five-foot-five, with long black hair, dark brown eyes and dark bronze skin. One hundred and twenty pounds of feminine sexiness. These days, I attend Carleton University, where I study business administration. When I'm not in class, I'm doing all these mean and sexy things which would make most conservative Muslim folk blush. With embarrassment or envy, that depends on the person in question. Anyhow, I've got a story to share. And it's a wickedly hot one. It involves female domination, and wicked hot sexual situations involving Muslim folks in North America. Got your attention, eh?

I like to sexually dominate Arab guys, and I've developed a sixth sense about the ones who are ripe for my conversion to perversion. And I was totally right about Wahid Saleh. The chubby young Arab guy was totally submissive, and he was looking for a dominant Arab woman. I ensnared him into my tender trap. First, I relieved him of his virginity. I took him to my apartment in the Donald neighborhood of Vanier, Ontario, and we did the nasty. I got him naked, sucked his dick and rode him hard after putting a condom on him. I can't believe this twenty-five-year-old Saudi Arabian guy was still a virgin. I'm twenty two and I've been banging hot guys of all shades for what seemed like forever. Wahid has a nice, eight-inch cock and I endeavored to teach him what to do with it. Since I was the first chick he banged, he was really sweet on me. He opened up to me about a lot of things, including his fascination with women who fucked men with strap-on dildos. Well, he came to the right place.

I fucked Wahid's sweet ass as soon as I got the chance. Oh, he was quite willing and eager but between my classes at Carleton University and my part-time job as an operator for Bell Canada near Rideau Shopping Center, I'm an extremely busy woman. I went to the adult video store on Rideau Street and bought a nice strap-on dildo. The chubby chick working behind the counter smiled at me and Wahid as we walked out of the adult video store. Wahid was nervous about entering the adult book store. He'd never been inside a porno shop before. He was browsing the kinky magazines and DVDs while I selected a nice strap-on dildo to fuck his ass later. He didn't see what I purchased, but kind of guessed. As we drove back to my apartment in Vanier, he kept begging to see the dildo I bought. I waved him off. Hey, I'm in charge and I decide when he gets to see the strap-on. Wahid kind of pouted but acquiesced. I smiled. I've got this chubby Arab dude wrapped around my little finger. And who says us Arab women are submissive wenches? 

I sat on the king-sized bed, stroking my strap-on dildo while Wahid knelt before me, completely naked. The chubby Arab dude was kind of hesitant when I ordered him to get naked. Not because he wanted to disobey me, his sexy mistress, but because he was self-conscious about his 250-pound body. I told him he looked good, and he smiled. I wasn't lying when I told him he looked good to me. I like all kinds of guys, as long as they're cute enough to light my fire. They also have to be clean, because I'm very hygienic. I don't do guys who have bad breath, shower less than three times a day, or don't wash their ass or dick regularly. I love to suck dick. I like them long and thick. Average size is okay too, as long as the dick's owner knows what to do with it. I've been with guys with uncircumcised dicks, and I don't mind. I know it's a weird thing for a Muslim chick to say but I kind of like uncut men. They're more sensitive down there. Makes their dicks more fun play with. Like I said, I like all kind of guys. They just have to be nice, neat, and comfortable with the fact that I run the show. That's all.

When I asked Wahid to suck my toes, he obeyed. Hmmm. I just love an obedient Arab guy. Makes my pussy get all tingly and perks my nipples right up. Wahid sucked my toes slowly and tenderly, one at a time. I reached underneath the strap-on dildo and rubbed my hairy pussy. Hot damn. I so wanted to fuck Wahid right now. Still, this was his initial pegging session and his needs came first. I told him to stop and he ceased what he was doing immediately. Like a good puppy. I stood up, and stroked my strap-on dildo. Wahid's eyes followed my every move. I watched his cock harden. Oh, yeah. He was as turned on as I was. I told him to suck my strap. In a flash he fastened his full lips to my plastic cock, sucking it greedily. I smiled and raked my hands through his hair. Hmmm. Wahid's got really nice hair. Velvety smooth. Just like most of the studs of Saudi Arabia. He sucked my dildo really well, like a pro. Kind of makes me wonder if he was lying to me when he said he was new to the whole female domination thing. Anyhow, I would soon find out since I was about to fuck his ass.

After letting Wahid polish my plastic cock with his tongue, I put him on all fours. I admired his ass. Hmm. He's got a really nice ass. Kind of hairy, but he's a man and that's okay. I smacked his ass playfully and he yelped. I laughed and smacked him again. Then I spread his ass cheeks, and took a whiff. Sorry if that sounds nasty but I had to make sure my guy was clean. Thankfully, Wahid did obey my instructions and thoroughly washed his ass. I slipped a gloved finger up his ass and twisted it all the way around. Wahid tensed and groaned, but said nothing. I put a condom on the dildo, and applied lubricant all over Wahid's asshole. Then I pressed the dildo against his asshole. It's seven inches long but not thick at all. Perfect for first-timers. I asked Wahid if he was ready for me. He squealed yes. Laughing, I pushed the dildo into his asshole.

In the online porn videos, guys who are new to the whole pegging thing can take gigantic strap-on dildos up their ass with no problem. That's a load of bullshit. It just doesn't work that way in real life. You've got to break them in gently, and that means you start slow and you start small. I stroked Wahid's cock and balls while sliding my dildo deeper into his asshole. Groaning, he took what I dished out. Hmm. Seems like we've got a tough guy here. I sank the dildo deeper inside of him, and he screamed. I sighed satisfactorily, and asked him if he was okay. Wahid nodded, and I continued fucking him with my strap-on dildo. We changed positions after a little while. He wanted to look into my beautiful face as I banged his ass with my dildo. I obliged him, putting him on his back and sliding the dildo right back into his ass. Wahid stroked his dick, and it seemed the sight of a short, skinny Arab chick banging him with a dildo really turned him on. I was naked save for the hijab, which I never take off unless I'm going to bed. Yes, I'm the kind of Arab chick who wears the hijab ( and only the hijab) while banging an Arab guy with a strap-on dildo. Am I naughty or what?

Wahid and I had our fun, and I pushed the dildo so far up his ass, I almost expected it to get into his guts. He totally loved it. He's got the beginnings of a strap-on addict. I've met a lot of guys like that. The last one was Aden, this Somalian guy I met while visiting the University of Montreal. I fucked him a few dozen times with my strap-on dildo and now he tells me that it's causing trouble with his wife in the bedroom. He can't seem to get aroused unless he's got something up his ass, something his conservative Djibouti wife can't understand. What a predicament for the poor Somali stud. After our wickedly fun session, Wahid had a lot to say. It was his first time, after all. He thanked me for a wonderful time. I told him if he behaved himself we'd hook up in a week or two. I made it clear to him that we weren't dating. We were just having casual fun. He's okay with that. I guess I've found someone to keep me entertained till I get bored again.



Arab Femdom in Saudi Arabia



My name is Karim Abdullah Musawir. I am a proud son of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. I'd like to tell you how I transformed my bitchy bossy Marie Claire Tremblay, a proud French-Canadian woman and feminist icon into my own personal fuck slut. You see, North American men and European men are always wondering how Muslim men from North Africa have managed to keep our women under control for so long. Gentlemen, read on as I explain to you the secret of our success. Keep in mind that all women are alike, and to break them down and control them the same methodology applies everywhere. In this time and throughout time.

I came to the Confederation of Canada at the behest of my King. The old buzzard offered to fund international scholarships for young men selected from the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia's top families. I was fortunate enough to have been chosen. Thus, I found myself living in the City of Montreal, Province of Quebec. The elders of my clan warned me about life in North America. Still, nothing could have prepared me for this. A world that's literally upside down from the viewpoint of a Saudi male such as myself. Women walk around nearly naked in the continent of North America. Also, they act as if they're masters of the world and the men of the western world cower at their feed. What a load of crap. In the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, the world makes sense. Men run things, and women stay in their little corner where they belong. Unfortunately, the men of North America, Europe, Australia and New Zealand are sissies. They've been infected by the malady of feminism. They actually believe the nonsense about gender equality being touted at colleges and universities as well as courtrooms across the land. Such madness! If Allah wanted woman to rule, He would have given her a penis!

I enrolled at Concordia University in the City of Montreal, the most beautiful place in the entire Province of Quebec. Watching women walking around without burkas was kind of distracting for me during the first few months. I also saw some disturbing things. I watched a woman smack her husband during a heated argument inside a restaurant in Montreal-Nord. Wow. If a woman did this in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, her husband would be fully within his rights to physically correct her for her insolence. Sometimes I wonder how come North American and European men don't revolt en masse against the tyranny of women. I knew I would see madness in the world of the Infidels but it exceeded my wildest expectations. Wow. I resolved to earn my degree from Concordia University and return home where the world made sense. Unfortunately, Allah had other plans for me. He put Marie Claire Tremblay on my path. An obstacle, if you will. However, it is my firm belief that Allah never gives man any challenge he cannot handle. Thus, I resolved to handle Marie Claire Tremblay.

Women in the western world are the most spoiled bitches on the planet. They are extremely lazy. They are also such sluts it's not even funny. The men of the western world give them money, power and influence. Yet that's not enough for them. That's never enough. I silently laugh at the plight of western men. They have forgotten that bit of wisdom passed along since the days of cavemen. Women are emotional creatures. Logic is simply beyond them. Letting them be in charge is foolish. Like giving a loaded gun to a monkey. Of course, I kept such opinions to myself. I focused on my business administration courses at the University of Concordia. Three years went by, and I was one semester from graduating when my advisor told me that I needed a special internship in order to meet all of my graduation requirements. Otherwise I wouldn't graduate. Well, that was unexpected but I'm the sort of man who believes in meeting life's challenges. Thus, I went to the campus business office, and applied for an internship. I ended up at the Bank of Montreal, under the direct supervision of a thirty-year-old white bitch named Marie Claire Tremblay. 

According to the standards of the western world, Marie Claire Tremblay is a beautiful woman. Standing five feet eleven inches tall, lean and athletic, with blonde hair and blue eyes. Marie Claire Tremblay was what's considered a Pure Laine, as old-school Quebecers called themselves. Her family has been living in Canada since part of it was called New France. We're talking about centuries here, folks. The Tremblay name carries a lot of power in the Province of Quebec. Marie Claire Tremblay is the daughter of Jean-Richard Tremblay, a Captain with La Surete Du Quebec, as the Quebec provincial police is called. Her mother Beatrice D'Avignon Tremblay hails from the City of Marseille in the Republic of France. She's a former supermodel turned internationally famous actress. She's done movies in France, Canada, the United States of America and the United Kingdom. 

Yeah, Marie Claire Tremblay considers herself Quebec royalty because her parents are wealthy and powerful. The problem for her is that I am a proud Muslim male from the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Where I come from, we believe that women should be seen and not heard. Any woman caught walking the streets without a Burka on or without a male relative as companion will be punished. Any woman caught driving will be arrested. So believe me when I tell you that the arrogant and bitchy women of North America, Europe, Australia and New Zealand don't impress me much. All bitches are the same. And we in Saudi Arabia know how to handle them. Trust me on that one. We sipped the machismo juice down there and avoid the bottle of poison that is western feminism. Marie Claire Tremblay holds an MBA from McGill University but the best job she could get was as an account manager for the Bank of Montreal. Sounds like a gross misuse of both education and money if you ask me. I decided to show this bitch that yes, her shit did stink.

I pointedly refused her handshake when we met. She was shocked by this. I told her that I was a Muslim and that in Islam, we believe that unrelated men and women shouldn't touch. Marie Claire was stunned by this. I shrugged and told her that the world was bigger than Canada. I could tell the bitch wasn't used to being talked to this way. Well, she hadn't seen anything yet. Whenever I had a question, I went to her male assistant rather than her. I also made a point of talking to the hijab-wearing Somali ladies at the office rather than her. I speak the Somali language, and I was polite and friendly to those ladies. I ignored Marie Claire, and thus I began to fascinate her. Tall, blonde and blue-eyed women are used to getting male attention everywhere they go. Well, I ignored Marie Claire. In fact, whenever I spoke to her, I tried to look annoyed. Or bored. I always kept our conversations short, to the point and cold. In time, she became obsessed with me. My plan worked like a charm.

Marie Claire Tremblay set out to seduce me. As if I could be seduced by the likes of her. However, I reeled her in. Here's how she approached me. She told me she was curious about Islam. And I decided to teach her. I explained the basic tenets of my religion to her. I told her that Islam was all about submission. She laughed and told me that as a feminist woman living in Canada, she wasn't supposed to be submissive. I rolled my eyes and told her that in Islam, men and women are considered equal before the Might of Allah. Males and females are supposed to surrender their bodies and minds, their very souls to Allah, the Most High. Anything less was a sign of being an unbeliever. And no infidels or unbelievers would be allowed entry into the Kingdom of Heaven when Allah at last called all men and women into His Presence. I could tell Marie Claire Tremblay was fascinated. Just like a fly in the spider's web. I reeled her in, and she fell for it.

Now, it's simply impossible to transform a feminist woman of Caucasian descent raised in North America into a proper Muslim woman who submits to both Allah and male authority overnight. There's a lot of debunking involved. Fortunately, I had time. I invested time in Marie Claire Tremblay. I took her to her first Mosque. I pretended to be surprised when she asked me to give her a copy of the Koran. Imagine the look on her white female friends faces when she showed up at the Bank of Montreal office wearing a hijab. I looked at her and smiled. Then I told her she was beautiful. Marie Claire Tremblay blushed so much I thought she was going to pass out. When Ramadan came, we fasted together. I also went food shopping with her and explained to her the difference between Halal foods and Haram foods. Bread for example is Halal, as in permissible to eat. Swine is Haram, forbidden to eat if you're a proper Muslim. Marie Claire Tremblay accepted that, and changed both her diet and her lifestyle. I was amazed at the changes in her. Soon she was a regular sight at the Mosque. 

I was making a lot of progress with her. Everything was going according to my design. And one day, Marie Claire Tremblay told me that I showed her the true face of Islam and that it was nothing to fear. Enthusiastically she hugged me. I hugged her gently, then reminded her that unrelated men and women weren't supposed to touch according to the rules of Islam. Marie Claire excused herself. Then she told me she loved me. I pretended to be surprised, then told her I was in love with her. She beamed at me and grinned. Once again she embraced me, and I gently reproached her. I also told her that I couldn't be with a woman who wasn't Muslim. My father would kill me or strip me of my worldly possessions. I looked sad while saying this. With a look of pure unadulterated love in her eyes, Marie Claire promised me that I wouldn't lose everything simply for loving her. I asked her what she meant by that. The tall, blonde-haired and blue-eyed French-Canadian woman told me she would convert to Islam. I smiled and shared a passionate hug with her. Game, set and match!

Thus, Marie Claire Tremblay converted to Islam and we were married in a proper Mosque. Henceforth, she wore the hijab. By marrying her, I gained access to her family's millions and I also gained my Canadian citizenship. A year after our marriage, Marie Claire wore the burka for the first time. And she didn't find it stifling or an affront to her womanhood. She found it wonderfully empowering. She was even becoming fairly fluent in Arabic. Imagine that! I took her to Saudi Arabia to meet my parents. I hail from the City of Buraidah in the Al Qassim Province of Saudi Arabia. As is the custom in Saudi Arabia, Marie Claire wore the burka as we travelled through Saudi Arabia. Soon we were in my father's palace. I introduced her to my father Abdul-Warith Musawir and my mother Dhuha. They were absolutely thrilled to meet her. 

My father congratulated me on transforming one of the blue-eyed and blonde-haired, white-skinned she-devils of the western world into a prim and proper, burka-wearing Muslim woman. As we sat at dinner to eat as a family, my father really laid it thick. He's got a lot of negative views of the west. And he doesn't think much of western women. I could tell he was getting to Marie Claire Tremblay. And I was curious to see how she would take it. Would she lash out as a western woman would? Or take it in stride as any Muslim woman would? Hmm. Finally, my father pushed it too far when he compared western women to maddened she-goats. Marie Claire rose and told him to shut his mouth. My mother and I gasped in shock. My father stared at her indignantly and told me to keep my woman in line. This I did gladly. I had been waiting anxiously for two years to drop the mask. I finally did, in the one place on the planet Earth where I could get away with it with absolutely on consequences. 

I pulled the hood of the burka from Marie Claire Tremblay's face. I looked deep into her beautiful blue eyes and sneered. Then I smacked her hard across the face. My father and mother nodded with satisfaction. Marie stared at me, shocked. I smiled wickedly, then escorted her out of the dining room. I brought her back to our apartments. Then I explained her new situation to her. Her problem is that she doesn't realize that she's left the continent of North America behind. She's in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia now. A place where women can't drive legally, and have only recently been told they can vote. For all the good it will do to them. In front of Marie Claire's amazed eyes, I ripped her Canadian passport. Then I told her that as the wife of a Saudi Arabian nobleman, she was considered the property of her husband. My property. 

The stunned look of pure betrayal on her beautiful face was absolute nectar to me. Finally, she realized the truth. I wish I could have filmed that moment so I could relieve it over and over again. Marie Claire slowly recovered from the shock she felt. Defiantly, she called me a dirty Arab scumbag and told me I would never get away with what I've done. I laughed, and dared her to go back to the Canadian Embassy of Saudi Arabia. And when she did, she found out that as a dual citizen of Saudi Arabia and Canada, she was subject to Saudi law. She couldn't return to Canada without the expressed permission of her Saudi husband. Me. And I would never grant it. Finally, I looked into Marie Claire's eyes and saw defeat. She walked out of the Canadian Embassy wearing a Burka with her head down. Just like any woman in Saudi Arabia. I've won.



Arab Femdom in Somaliland



As-Salamu Alaykum, my brothers and sisters. My name is Jonathan James Korfa. My friends call me J.J. My family hails from the town of Dhamasa in the Gedo region of Somaliland. My father and mother moved to the City of Boston, Massachusetts, where I was born a few years later. I grew up in New England, and lived there for my whole life. One day, my existence changed forever. My family and I received amazing news in the mail. My father Ibrahim's long-lost brother Tabaan Korfa somehow tracked us down all the way in New England, and came over for a visit. He introduced us to his Jamaican-born wife Isabella Winston Korfa and their two twin sons, Mustafa and Ahmed Korfa. Apparently, he'd been living in the Confederation of Canada since the early 1980s and had lost all contact with other members of the family. Wow.

I was fascinated by my newly found uncle Tabaan and his family, to tell you the truth. They were so different from us. Somali-Americans are as different from Somali-Canadians as night and day. My uncle was a practicing Muslim, and his wife was a convert as well. She wore the hijab and everything. Growing up in the City of Boston, I was a really secular kind of guy. My parents didn't put much stock into organized religion, though they followed Somali politics closely. I was finishing my second year at Bay State College in Boston at the time of our family reunification. My uncle told us about his life back in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. The capital region of Canada. I found myself fascinated. 

So much that the following semester, I opted to study for a year at Carleton University in the City of Ottawa, Province of Ontario, rather than to transfer to the University of Massachusetts at Amherst like I previously planned. Since my uncle and his family were citizens of Canada, they filed for me to become a permanent resident so I wouldn't have to pay international fees for the duration of my stay at one of Canada's finest universities. How cool was that? I moved to Ottawa, and stayed with my uncle Tabaan and his family in the town of Barrhaven where they lived. Uncle Tabaan is a Constable with the Ottawa Police Service. Aunt Isabella is a schoolteacher. As for my cousins Ahmed and Mustafa, they were both enrolled at Algonquin College. My uncle and his family had built a nice life for themselves in Canada, I must say.

Anyhow, my Canadian adventure had begun. I met a lot of Somalis in the City of Ottawa, and they changed me. For most of my life, I considered myself African-American. There aren't that many Somali people in the United States of America, and most of them seldom venture outside of the State of Minnesota anyway. By sharp contrast, there were tons of Somali guys and Somali gals in the City of Ottawa. My uncle assured me there were many more in the City of Toronto, the biggest town in all of Canada, and the City of Montreal in the Province of Quebec. I endeavoured to visit those places, and explore my people's long-lost culture. I was in for a surprise or two, ladies and gentlemen.

My father Ibrahim seldom spoke about his family's past. All I know is that my father and his brother Tabaan had a falling out after leaving Somaliland as refugees in the early 1980s. They were just a pair of young men then, and the United Nations was searching for a host country for them. My father was selected to go to America, and his brother was chosen by Canada. They somehow fell out of touch shortly after that. My father embraced the American way. He attended the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, earned his degree in Chemistry and worked for the private sector for many years. These days, my Pops teaches applied chemistry at Emerson College in downtown Boston. My mother Fatima is a Corrections Officer for the Massachusetts Department of Corrections. She works at the Walpole State Prison. 

In the Confederation of Canada I would discover what it meant to be Somalian. The Somali folks of Canada were radically different from the few I encountered in the United States of America. Somali Canadians are really conservative, and fiercely hang onto both their African culture and their Muslim faith. I know a lot about Islam, but I wouldn't consider myself Muslim. I've always been kind of a party guy. I drink my Irish whiskey, I smoke, and I love the ladies. All kinds of ladies. Black women. White women. Asian women. Hispanic women. I didn't discriminate. I love the female form regardless of skin tone, believe that. Also, I don't limit myself to just women. I'm bisexual. That means I'm attracted to both men and women. I've hooked up with guys on occasion, just for fun. And I don't regret it. From what I know of Somali Canadians, they wouldn't be thrilled to hear that. Even though I am certain that there are gays, lesbians and bisexuals among the oh-so conservative Somali people I encounter in Canada. 

My parents know that I'm bisexual, but we don't really discuss it. I tried having the conversation with my mother many times, but she just doesn't want to talk about it. She just tells me to use condoms and stay out of trouble. As for my father, he pretty much tells me the same thing. We discuss my girlfriends but never my boyfriends. Sometimes I wonder if my dad is disappointed in me. I'm his only son. A six-foot-three, 250-pound Black man with medium brown skin, light brown eyes and long black hair braided into neat cornrows. I played football for Hyde Park Community High School in Boston for all four years. I could have won a scholarship to any of the big football schools like Boston College, Georgia Tech, UMass-Amherst, University of Florida or Texas Tech. Unfortunately, some bozo outed me as a bisexual during my senior year and for the some reason, the recruiters from the big football schools quit calling. Luckily, I had an academic scholarship offer from Bay State College so my dreams of higher education didn't end.

Anyhow, that's in the past. I embraced my new life in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. Carleton University was a really interesting place. A lot more racially diverse than I previously thought any Canadian school would be. It's on that lively campus that I met the two people who changed my life forever. Waleed Wasif, a young Saudi Arabian guy I met in my psychology class. And of course, the unforgettable Nashida Rukan Baabur. A six-foot-tall, deliciously curvy and absolutely stunning young Somalian woman who seems like a goddess in every way. And I fell for both of them.

I met Waleed during my first day at Carleton University in September 2011. I was walking through campus, desperately looking for my first class of the day. Psychology. This five-foot-nine, slim young Arab guy with a buzz cut looked at my schedule and told me that he had the same class. He smiled, introduced himself and then escorted me to class. We seemed destined to become buds. Waleed was fascinated by my Boston accent, and he seemed really cool. I have absolutely no gaydar. How was I supposed to know he was into me? That same day, I met Nashida as I stumbled into my Business Law class. I showed up on Black Time, as usual. Damn. 

I plopped down in a seat in the back, got comfortable and someone asked me to watch where I put my elbow. I narrowed my eyes at the interloper, and was in for the shock of a lifetime. A tall, statuesque Somali woman in a red silk shirt and long black silk dress gazed at me imperiously. I smiled weakly at her, and introduced myself. She looked at my hand, didn't shake it and said something in the guttural Somali language. She might as well have spoken Japanese. I shrugged because I didn't understand a word of it. I asked her to speak English, and she rolled her eyes at me. I looked her up and down, grinned appreciatively and at last looked at the teacher, a diminutive White guy with a ponytail. We were off to a nice start, huh? 

After class, I approached the Somali chick who refused to shake my hand earlier. I apologized her and noticed that she was talking to a couple of hijab-wearing Somali chicks. I tapped her on the shoulder to get her attention. The three of them stared at me, stunned. I introduced myself as Jonathan James, formerly of Boston, and presently of lame-ass little Ottawa, Ontario. They nodded at me. The one I remembered from class looked me in the eye and asked me if I was really American. I told her I was born and raised in the States. She introduced herself to me, ( again with no handshake ) welcomed me to Ottawa, then she and her friends walked away. I stood there, puzzled. What is up with these Somali ladies, man? Someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was Waleed. He had been observing my little debacle with the Somali women. Shaking his head, he told me that Muslim women didn't like inter-gender touching much. I nodded, and told him I wasn't Muslim. I wasn't raised in any particular faith, to be honest. Waleed nodded, then offered to show me the campus.

After a brief tour of Carleton University, Waleed introduced me to his friends at the University Center. The guy seemed to know everybody. His best friend Jennifer Williams was a tall, red-haired chick who looked Irish but turned out to be of British descent. He was also friends with Marco DeRosa, a short Hispanic guy from El Salvador and Anthony Kilpatrick, a chubby Black guy who looked Jamaican. Incidentally they were all members of the school's GLBT network. Jennifer was bisexual, and the two guys Waleed introduced me to were card-carrying members of the guys-who-only-like-guys club. I don't know how I didn't pick up on it. I smiled at the whole gang, made small talk for a few minutes and told them I had to go. Waleed clapped me on the shoulder and asked me to join them for lunch. He's the only person on campus who wasn't an asshole to me. How could I say no? They led me to the campus cafeteria. As I spoke to Waleed and his friends, I noticed that a lot of people were looking at us. I shrugged. I'm a big and tall Black man with a loud voice, tattoos and cornrows. I'm used to people staring at me.

As I bit into my burgers and fries, Waleed told me about himself. He came to Carleton University as an international student two years ago. He'd recently become a permanent resident of Canada, and was proudly out of the closet. He told us he would never go back to Saudi Arabia. Jennifer seemed glad to hear that, and told us with disgust that she found most Saudi men sexist because they refused to let Saudi women drive. As I pondered that, we were joined by a short, chubby Black chick. She planted a kiss on Jennifer's lips and sat on her lap. Jennifer proudly introduced us to her girlfriend, Amanda Etienne. A Haitian chick, if you can believe that. Wow. I nodded at that. It seems there are a lot of queers at Carleton University. Hmmm. As I dined with my new friends, I noticed a familiar face. It was the Somali chick from earlier. The look she shot my little group was pure disdain.

Man, I couldn't believe the look she gave me. That's what puzzles me about them Black women, for real. I was trying to holler at her in class and she was not exactly responsive. Now she sees me chilling with other people, who are not Black for the most part, and she shoots me a look of disapproval. What gives? I ignored Miss Pretty and continued chilling with Waleed and my new buddies. Here were a bunch of friendly, racially diverse students who were comfortable with their sexuality. Mine never came into question, though more than once my queer pals shot me a look as I checked out some big-booty chick walking by. Hey, I like a gal with a big butt. I think it's genetic because I don't know any self-respecting Black man who doesn't like a big butt.

My first day at Carleton University went by quick. A lot of people were warming up to me, and the feeling was mutual. I ran into Nashida Baabur again, this time at the gym. She looked really good in a gray sweatshirt, sweatpants and of course her habitual hijab. I smiled and said hello, and she nodded without saying anything. Never one to let myself get easily discouraged, I got on the stair master next to her and began running. Nashida was doing a full run on her machine, and I smiled as I looked at her big butt. Hot damn. Even with sweatpants on, her big butt was sticking out. As she paused to drink some water, I paused as well. I asked her about her major, and she told me she was studying computer science. I scoffed at that. I studied computer and internet management at Bay State College for a year before switching to Criminal Justice. I wish I never studied computers in the first place. My thoughts must have reflected on my face, for Nashida asked me if I disapproved of her choice of study. I smiled and shook my head, telling her that she made a great choice. A real money maker, career in I.T. 

Nashida and I made small talk. Well, I talked. She nodded absentmindedly or smiled blankly for the most part. When some chubby White chick bent over to pick up something and my eyes zeroed in on her fat butt, Nashida rolled her eyes. I smiled and shrugged. Nashida asked me if I was Somali and I told her that I considered myself African-American, though my father and mother emigrated to the U.S. from Somaliland in the 1980s. Apparently, that answer didn't satisfy Nashida. In a terse tone, she told me that I wasn't really Somali. I retorted that I came all the way to Ottawa to learn about my Somali heritage after reuniting with my long-lost uncle. I also asked Nashida if they offered a Somali/English class at Carleton University. She nodded, and told me she'd show me where it was. An hour later, after showering ( separately, unfortunately) Nashida and I walked through campus. The usually reserved Somali gal suddenly got really chatty. She had a lot of questions about what life was like in the States. I proudly told her that among African-Americans, we referred to America as Obama Land. Nashida laughed at that, and told me she was glad that the U.S. President was more of a uniter than a divider, unlike the Kenyans she knew.

That kind of puzzled me. Nashida smiled at me, seemingly mystified. I told her I had nothing against Kenyans. She proceeded to tell me that there were hundreds of thousands of Somali people living in Kenya as refugees from perpetual civil war and the Kenyan government wasn't exactly fond of them. I recalled my father saying something about Kenyan/Somali relations being somewhat tense, but he didn't go too deeply into it. Nashida told me about tribal warfare in Somaliland, and how so many Africans, particularly Kenyans and Ethiopians, considered Somali people fair game for mistreatment. Man, the stuff she told me was crazy. I had no idea so many Africans were killing each other over ethnic nonsense. I looked Nashida in the eyes and told her that where I'm from, all Black folks considered themselves one people. In America, if you're Black or half-Black, then you're Black. Doesn't matter if you're the offspring of a Black father/White mother or Black mother/White father. Your ass is Black. Now and forever. Drink your Kool-Aid. Vote democrat. Support Obama. And always watch out for racist cops. 

When I told her that, Nashida smiled. She told me she wished Black folks in Africa were as united as African-Americans in the States. I smiled. I was about to ask her something else when she told me we had arrived at our destination. I looked at the old brownstone building in east campus. Hmmm. Nashida and I went inside, after she swiped her student card on the reader. And then we were in. We walked down a hallway before stopping at a nondescript door. Nashida knocked on it, and a tall brother with a high forehead (i.e. Somali) answered. He greeted her in Somali, then shot me a puzzled look. I bumped my fist against his hand, and introduced myself as J.J. Nashida smiled at me and we went inside. Immediately, I took in the scene. There were thirty people in the room, ranging from ages eighteen to the mid-twenties. Most of the students were Black, though I counted two Asian chicks, two White guys and one Mexican-looking dude among them. Nineteen gals and eleven guys, not counting myself or Mr. High Forehead. Nashida introduced me as Jonathan James Korfa, of Boston. I smiled at her and waved at my Somali brothers and sisters. I tried the tradition Muslim greeting but it didn't come out right and they all laughed. I laughed too, trying to play it off. I later found out I needn't have bothered. Most of the students in class, even the Somali ones, didn't speak much Somali. How about that?

As it turns out, Nashida was one of the special professors assistants on campus and she taught the Somali/English language class. Mr. High Forehead, whose legal name was Cisman, was one of the few Black professors at Carleton University. He was apparently a big-shot, having been educated at McGill University in the City of Montreal, Quebec. Cisman was the official professor but it became clear to me that Nashida really ran the show. He wasn't very good at public speaking. Or maybe we made him nervous. I ignored him and focused on Nashida. The tall, lovely young Somali woman looked simply radiant as she instructed the class. She was only a year or two older than most of the students, but she was quite mature. It wasn't just that. She had...presence.

One of the White guys grinned nastily as Nashida turned around and wrote on the board, her big butt nearly sashaying in her sweatpants. I shot him a look, and he cocked an eyebrow. Normally, I didn't care when a dude ogled a chick's ass, mainly because I'm often guilty of doing the same, but I kind of respected Nashida. So I told this clown to cut it out. He mumbled something and went back to taking notes. The Somali language was hard to pronounce, man. It kind of hurt my ears. My ancestors had been speaking this for centuries? Damn. I sat through the entire class, though. When Nashida gave us a break, half the class didn't come back. I came back, and sat on the first row. I had my hand up the entire time. For some reason, the guttural Somali language sounded less harsh when Nashida spoke it in her soft, gentle yet firm voice. Hmm. 

After class ended, I told Nashida that I wanted to sign up for it. She handed me the form, and told me to go to a special advisor with a Muslim-sounding name. That advisor would make sure I got the class as an elective. Cool. We walked through the campus and I was all smiles. Nashida seemed more relaxed. She asked me if I was serious about wanting to learn. I told her that growing up in Boston, I had never seen any other Somali people. The Black people I saw in New England came from the Republic of Haiti, Jamaica, Trinidad and Brazil. Or they were the descendants of Africans who'd been forcibly brought to the United States by Europeans centuries ago. Direct immigrants from African countries like Somalia, Eritrea, Ethiopia, Nigeria and Gambia preferred New York or Texas. Multicultural Houston was fast becoming a mecca for immigrants from Africa. Nashida's eyes held a softness I hadn't seen in them before when I told her that I felt like Tarzan among humans while around Somalis in Ottawa. They looked like me, recognized me as one of them but I was clearly different. 

Nashida suddenly stood very close to me. Gently, she touched my arm. Looking me in the eyes, she told me that we must never forget where we came from. She also promised to help me reconnect with our people, and our faith. I nodded at that. Smiling gently, she told me she had never seen anyone like me before. Then she said the words "Allah Afiz" then wished me a good night and walked away. I watched her go. Tall, statuesque, prettier than a goddess and smarter than Einstein. Damn. What a woman. What did I just get myself into? If all Somali women are like that, I'm so frigging converting to Islam. Not for the religion but for the women. Waleed told me that among Muslims living outside North America and Europe, taking multiple wives was considered okay. Wow. Islam is starting to sound really good to me, player.




Arab Femdom in Somaliland



That night, I sat at the dinner table with my uncle Tabaan and my aunt. My cousins were still out. They asked me how my first day went and I couldn't shut up about Nashida. My aunt smiled, and asked me if I liked that gal. I shrugged. I just met the chick. Aunt Isabella grinned, and told me that maybe Nashida thought I was okay since she touched me and all. A bell went off in my head. Hey, she did touch me! While we were talking, right after the Somali language class. Aunt Isabella assured me that women, Somali women included, weren't all touchy with men they didn't like. I smiled at that. Uncle Tabaan rolled his eyes, and asked me how my classes went. I assured him I felt academically confident. I was about to continue when my cousins Ahmed and Mustafa came in. They're identical twins, as I mentioned before. Each one is six-foot-three, broad-shouldered and slender, with dark brown skin, light brown eyes and curly Black hair. Ahmed keeps his hair real short, buzz-cut style. And he always wear military-style outfits with an urban flair. I nicknamed him Rambo G. He doesn't like it. Ahmed is cool, though. He's loud, friendly and easygoing. He plays soccer for Algonquin College and dreams of playing for Manchester United one day. As for his twin brother Mustafa, he's nerdy. He wears glasses, though Ahmed prefers contacts. Mustafa is quiet and moody, always hitting the books. He loves his comic books, his computer and his chess games. He keeps to himself. His only friend in the world seems to be Adrienne Chang, the chubby Chinese chick next door.

I exchanged dap with my cousin Ahmed the moment he came in. He bumped me on the shoulder, calling me J.J. and asking me if I met any hot chicks lately. I told him I was about to get all of Carleton on lockdown. He laughed, and told me I just got here. As for Mustafa, he said a general hello to all of us, kissed Aunt Isabella on the cheek, nodded at Uncle Tabaan and then went to the basement. Damn. Not the most social man in the world. Uncle Tabaan shrugged. He'd long since given up on trying to change who Mustafa was. I ate the delicious Halal chicken which Aunt Isabella prepared, and washed it down with bread and some orange juice. We talked about our day. I felt like telling them about Waleed and my new friends but remembered that they were real conservative and wouldn't understand. Just like my mom and pop. I could discuss my girlfriends at the dinner table but never my boyfriends. Welcome to the life of the tragic Somali-American bisexual. Episode number one million. 

That night, I couldn't sleep. I went online, and checked my Facebook. I had two friend requests. One from Nashida and one from Waleed. I added them both. I browsed through Nashida's profile, and noticed that aside from a few pictures, it was set on private. Waleed's profile was....wide open. He had tons of pictures. Images of him in what I assumed was Saudi Arabia with his family. Shots of him on the beach with a bare-chested muscular Black guy. Okay. Waleed's gayer than a two-dollar bill. Cool. I sent him a brief message. Just hi, along with my cell phone number. I signed up with TELUS because my T-Mobile cell phone from Boston was costing me too much in Ottawa. I sent the same message to Nashida. Then I went to bed. 

The next day, I went to class. I ran into Nashida, and she was a real chatterbox. Gone was the ice queen from the previous day. She seemed to have assigned herself as my go-to gal for all things Somalian. And I must say I really didn't mind. I sent her a text asking her if she wanted to grab a bite at the University Center after class and she said yeah. We went, and were joined by some of the Somali guys and gals from the Language class. Nashida introduced me to Dahir, a stocky Somali guy with a little afro and his girlfriend Aisha, a tall, light-skinned Somali chick who reminded me of Hollywood starlet Nicki Minaj. I also met Mohammed, a tall, dark-skinned Somali guy with a perpetual unlit cigarette on his lips. He wore a Samuel L. Jackson T-shirt and carried himself like a tough guy. Mohammed moved to Ottawa from Mogadishu, the capital of Somaliland, three years ago. He was really afro-centric, always talking about Malcolm X and Dr. King. Nashida teased him endlessly, saying that a real afro-centric brother wouldn't be dating a chubby White chick. That usually shut Mohammed up. Nashida's friend Nadya, a short Somali chick with a nose piercing, also teased Mohammed, even though she was dating Ryan, a nerdy-looking, red-haired White guy from the University of Ottawa. 

Unexpectedly, I became the subject of conversation. The Somali brats of Ottawa had never met a Somali from the States before. They asked me if there was a Somali community in Boston, how often I went to Mosque, and was America really as hostile to Muslims as Canadian newspapers made it out to be. I told them that there were no Somali in Boston other than my family ( as far as I knew) and the last time I went to a Mosque, Bill Clinton was still President. Mohammed shook his head, and told me I had a lot to learn. He also volunteered to teach me. Nashida shot him a look and he backed off. A few moments later, a chubby White chick wearing a Wesley Snipes T-shirt came over to the table. She kissed Mohammed on the lips, and he excused himself from our table. Nashida and some of the gals watched him go. Nashida looked me in the eye and told me the only things I could learn from Mohammed was smoking weed and chasing fat White women. I happily told her I had no interest in any of the above. A slight exaggeration, since I did weed in the past and banged more White chicks in Boston than any brother I knew. However, Nashida is a woman and you got to tell women what they want to hear. She seemed pleased with my answer. As I talked with my Somali friends, I noticed Waleed and his pals sitting a few tables across from us. I smiled at them. Nashida followed my gaze, noticed Waleed and the others looking back, but didn't say anything. I kept my eyes on my plate for the rest of dinner.

The next time I ran into Waleed, he was really cold to me. I was sitting inside the campus library, browsing through Youtube. There were some really cool fan-made action videos featuring Hancock, with Linkin Park music in the background. I'm a big fan of Will Smith so I added these videos to my collection. Waleed plopped down on the seat next to me, and pointedly ignored me as I greeted him. I asked him what his problem was. Waleed told me that he didn't like closet cases. I reminded him that my Facebook account clearly indicated that I was interested in both men and women. I also reminded him that I texted him but he didn't reply to me. Waleed apologized, and then shrugged. He told me he was sorry for being an ass. I smiled and told him he had a nice ass. The Saudi stud laughed. He had a nice smile too. That's what went through my head as I leaned closer and kissed him. Right in the middle of the crowded library. Damn. A chubby Black chick walking by shook her head as she watched Waleed and I smooching. Oh, well. There goes my rep in this school.

Waleed told me he liked me. I told him I thought he was cool, but I wasn't looking for any drama. Or anything serious. I'm not the attachment type. At all. Waleed told me he could roll with that, then he handed me a flyer. Something about a house party on Canter boulevard in Nepean. Then he gave me a half-hug before getting up and walking away. I looked at that flyer. House party, huh? I might be new to Canada but I wasn't born yesterday. House parties with queer men usually turned into orgies. Not my scene. I should text Waleed and tell him I needed a rain check on the house party, but I didn't. A few minutes after Waleed left, guess who sat down on the seat next to me. None other than Nashida. My favorite Somali gal was simply shimmering with happiness. I asked her if everything was okay, and she nodded excitedly. I smiled. Clearly she had important news to deliver. Nashida told me that the Somali Language program at Carleton University was the recipient of a grant from the Toronto Foundation of Multiculturalism or T.M.F. I looked at her. This was good news, I guess. Nashida was so happy that she hugged me. Wow.

I looked at her and smiled. Clearly this was important for her. With unshed tears in her big brown eyes she looked at me, telling me how the Somali Language program struggled to get off the ground at Carleton University. Not too many Somali students were interested. They lucked out in finding a professor willing to teach it, but that was about it. The program lacked sufficient funding, and was slated for termination next year if it couldn't find sufficient financial support, which is an added benefit of student interest. I looked at Nashida, marveling at this amazing young woman who sat before me. She was so passionate, so devoted to her people and her culture. I had never met anyone like her. At all. Ever. Impulsively, I took her beautiful face in my hands...and I kissed her. It just felt like the thing to do.

When we came apart, Nashida stared at me, stunned. I kind of noticed everybody in the vicinity was sort of looking at us. Yeah, I just kissed a conservatively dressed, hijab-wearing Somali gal. Got a problem with that? Nashida smiled at me hesitantly. Like someone who was pleasantly surprised. I smiled at her, and told her I was really happy for her. She grinned, and told me she didn't usually kiss guys she just met. I reminded her that we weren't total strangers, and we did come from the same people. Nashida laughed at that. She told me she had to get certain things ready. She was helping professor Cisman with a lot of forms he had to take care of. I offered to walk her to his office. She acquiesced. Linking her arm with mine, I strode through campus with her. My second day on campus, ladies and gentlemen.

I walked Nashida to professor Cisman's office, and left the two of them to take care of business. I walked back to the library. I had a little time to kill before my next class. It was fall in Ottawa, and the leaves were falling everywhere. The very first Fall that I'm spending away from Boston, to tell you the truth. I've only been outside Massachusetts once while I still lived in the United States. It was a couple of years before my big move to the Province of Ontario. I was visiting my mother's best friend and her husband in the City of Hartford, Connecticut. Fall always makes me think of beginnings and endings. I'm living outside Boston, away from mom and dad for the first time ever. The town of Ottawa isn't what I expected but it's an okay place for the most part. I like Carleton University. I wish they had a football team. They're bringing football back in a year or two. I might not be around to try out when they officially start filling out their roster. I think of the old life I left behind in Bean Town. I miss riding the Red Line train from Ashmont all the way to Alewife, and making fun of eggheads along the way. I miss hanging out with my buddies from Hyde Park on Boston Commons. Ottawa has few places like that. 

I am starting to really like Nashida. As I walk out of the library and head through the quad, I receive a text from her. She tells me that I've got sweet lips for an American roughneck, and she also thinks Saint Laurent Mall is a cool place. Translation? She wants to hang out with me. I text her back, telling her that we can meet tomorrow, grab a bite together and also catch a movie. She tells me she's down with that. I smile, text her a smiley face and tell I got to go. I receive another text, this one from Waleed. He promises me his party's a tame affair to celebrate his best friend Jennifer Williams birthday. Translation? It's a lesbian party, not a gay party. Think lots of chicks walking around, all militant and stuff. Not too many guys on the premises, and only gay ones need enter. Fat chance of it turning into an orgy. Sounds cool. I just got here and I'm not trying to get mixed up in anything. I text Waleed that I'm definitely coming to the party. I zip through a nearby store and buy a copy of Imagine Me And You, a lesbian romantic comedy featuring Lena Headey. The tough chick from The Sarah Connor Chronicles. Sounds like a good birthday present for a queer woman, huh? I thought so.

Smiling wistfully, I go back to campus. I've still got class. And man, I'm getting texts left and right. The first one is from Waleed, and it contains a picture of him in his boxers. He looks surprisingly buff. Cool. He's got a nice body on him. Amazingly, the second text is a picture message from Nashida. I did not know Muslim women went to the beach. From my aunt Isabella I learned that conservative Muslim women wore a shroud-like swimsuit called a Hasema at the beach. It really covered everything. Like an astronaut's suit, almost. Gee. Well, imagine my surprise when I saw a picture of Nashida wearing a head scarf, and a regular swimsuit, showing off her spectacularly hot body. Wow. If you want to know what Nashida looks like, you're going to be stunned. Imagine a Black woman with the face of Alicia Keys, the body of Ashanti, the ass of Serena Williams ( from the old days, when it was bigger) and the grace of Beyonce Knowles. That's Nashida in a nutshell. In other words, perfect. I texted her back that she was a goddess, and nearly gave me a heart attack. LOL was her reply, followed by some sweet words. I stood there, shaking my head. 

What is it about me draws both women and men to me like moths to the proverbial flame? I am attracted to both, but I don't like commitment. I got my heart shattered into a trillion pieces once. I don't ever want to go through that again. The problem is that I care for both Nashida and Waleed. What am I going to do? God, Allah, Yahweh, Buddha, Jehovah...whoever's listening....help this confused brother please! I stood there in the middle of the quad, cell phone in hand while looking heavenward. And the answer came to me. I'm going to get to know both of them really well. Whichever one I fall in love for will be the one I choose. That's the best I can do. The universe can't ask any more of me. Wish me luck, people. I'm about to go through the crucible in this insane thing called love. 



Arab Femdom in Toronto



Another night in this dreadful town. Sometimes I wonder why I came here in the first place. My name is James Bien-Aime. I was born and raised in the town of Newton, Massachusetts. In September 2010, I had the world on a string. I was a freshman at Boston College and life was good. I had everything in the palm of my hand. I was a second-string quarterback on the Boston College football team, and life couldn't be better. My father Louis Bien-Aime used to play football for Boston College, before he went to the Massachusetts State Police Academy. Pops is now a sergeant with the M.S.P.s and I couldn't be prouder of him. Unlike many sons out there, I was happy to follow in my pops footsteps. He raised me by himself, since my mom Alexandra Winston Bien-Aime died giving birth to me. There aren't too many African-Americans on the State Police force and I endeavored to be one of the few. Just like my old man before me. At least, that's what I wanted to do until everything started to go wrong.

After the Boston College football team's devastating loss to those punks of Duke University, I went home and found my sexy Jamaican-American girlfriend Sheila Johnson in bed with my Irish-American roommate Alexander O'Reilly. I cussed them out and chased them off. As I sat alone in my dorm, a whirlwind of anger and despair soared through me. And I did the one thing I shouldn't have done. I had a couple of beers, got in my red convertible ( a graduation gift from my father) and went to chill at my friend Jamal Lester's house in the west side of Brockton. At least, that was the plan. I only had two beers, and with my six-foot-three, 240-pound, rock-solid Black athlete's body, I thought I could handle it. And unfortunately, I couldn't. I got busted by the Massachusetts State Police. The officer who took me in was Troy Henderson, a stocky old Irish cop and my father's best friend. Instead of taking me to jail like he should have done, he brought to my pops. You see, cops in Boston have a code when dealing with each other's brats. They treat each other's brats as if they were their own. It's all part of the brotherly code of the fraternal order of police. My father was far less forgiving than officer Troy Henderson. Let's just say that I caught the beating of a lifetime, and I lost my driver's licence. 

I thought I had walked away scot-free but my father wasn't done punishing me. He basically used his clout to strip me of everything I held dear. Gone was my football scholarship to Boston College, one of the most prestigious schools in the state of Massachusetts. Gone was my chance at earning my bachelor's degree in Criminal Justice while playing NCAA Division One football. At the beginning of the year I was debating whether to go straight to the police academy or at least try to get into the National Football League after graduating from Boston College. Now my options were far simpler. My father felt that the City of Boston was too tempting an environment for an impulsive young African-American male like myself. He banished me to the middle of nowhere, also known as Ottawa, Ontario. A fate worse than death. My father felt that I had it too easy in this life. And in many ways, he was right. I did have it easier than him, though I didn't consider my life to be easy. My father was born and raised in the City of Cap-Haitien, Republic of Haiti. He was a student at College Notre Dame Du Perpetuel Secours, an all-male Catholic high school, when his own parents were gunned down by the Tonton Macoute, the ruthless military men who enforced the will of the infamous Haitian dictator Duvalier. My father was a kid when he lost his father, mother and sister. That was the early 1980s. He became a United Nations refugee, and was eventually granted asylum in the United States of America. He attended Dorchester High School in Boston, Massachusetts, while staying with a host family. Then he won a scholarship to Boston College, where he played football. He graduated from Boston College's Law School eight years later, but opted for a career enforcement rather than becoming a lawyer. The Massachusetts State Police considers him one of their best men.

Now, my father wasn't alone when he left the island of Haiti in the early 1980s. His younger brother Marc-Henri Bien-Aime was also granted asylum and taken in by a U.S. family. My uncle Marc-Henri moved to Canada seven years after he arrived in America. He settled in the region of Ottawa, Ontario, met a lovely Haitian woman, got married and had a son and two daughters, my cousins Jacques, Vanessa and Evelyn. My uncle Marc-Henri is a Constable for the Ontario Provincial Police. It seems law enforcement runs in the family. Anyhow, my father sent me to live with my uncle Marc-Henri in Ontario. In one fell swoop I had not only lost my driver's licence and my scholarship to Boston College, I had also gotten myself thrown out of the United States of America, the country in which I was born. Can you imagine this shit? I can't believe it, and I was there! 

Man, I did not like Canada when I first got there. I tried to get into the University of Ottawa, mainly because it had a football team but they didn't accept me. I had an incomplete for my classes at Boston College. The only other university in the City of Ottawa was Carleton University, derisively called Last Chance University by many folks in proper Canadian society. I guess beggars can't be choosers so I was smiling when I got the acceptance letter from Carleton University in the mail. Now, since I'm American and not Canadian, I had to apply as an international student. That means they charge me twenty one hundred dollars per class, instead of the eight hundred or so dollars they charge Canadian students. Man, I was mad as hell when I found that out. I wasn't eligible for any of the usual scholarships. I had to get a job if I wanted to go to school. Being an American in Canada isn't easy. I learned the hard way that Canadians aren't the nice, friendly people most of the world thinks they are. Canadians are mean as hell but they hide it. And they aren't in love with America. They seem to envy us and resent us, though I don't know. We've never done anything to them, as far as I know. Anyhow, I had to get myself a J.O.B. First I applied for a work permit, and found out the only job I could get was that of a security guard. And even for that lousy job, I had to file security clearance forms and a whole bunch of crap. All for a measly twelve bucks an hour. Nevertheless, a job was a job. I worked for various security companies in the summer of 2011, and saved every penny. When September 2011 came, I was ready to enrol at Carleton University. I had saved enough to pay for two classes. I almost killed myself with overtime shifts at work. Don't ask me how I did it but I got it done.

At Carleton University, I was in for a lot of culture shock. I think it's the most international of all Canadian schools. I mean, I sat in a Criminology class of about a hundred students and all around me there were guys and gals from Africa, Latin America, the Republic of India, the Caribbean, the Arab world and the Republic of China. I was stunned. There were a few American students there as well. They were mostly rich white guys and gals from places like Hartford, in the state of Connecticut and Fairbanks in Alaska. Not my kind of people but whatever. I walked up to them and said hi, and I tried not to roll my eyes as they talked about how much fun they were having in Canada as rich Americans. In my Criminal Psychology class, I met someone I would never forget. Jayanti Lakshmi Kalpana, born and raised in the City of Amravati, in the Maharashtra Province of the Republic of India. She'd been living in the Confederation of Canada since 2001. The first time I saw that gal, I was stunned.

Now, I saw beautiful women all the time. However, something about this six-foot-one, curvaceous young woman with dark brown skin, long Black hair and almond-shaped brown eyes simply took my breath away. Jayanti was simply lovely. When I first saw her, I thought she was Black. I mean, her skin was the same shade as mine. And I was born of a Haitian-American father and Jamaican mother. I'm not mixed with anything, though I consider myself as American as apple pie. With a smile on her lovely face, Jayanti corrected me. She told she was a Tamil from India, and many of her people were as dark-skinned as any person from sub-Saharan Africa. Wow. I was amazed at that. We don't get a lot of Indians in Boston and the ones I knew were usually bronze-skinned, not dark brown. Now that I looked at her, Jayanti's features were a bit different from the average Black person's. Later I noticed that the few Tamil students at Carleton University looked like white folks who were painted dark brown. African-like skin tones but Caucasian-style hair and facial features. What a fascinating people.

Jayanti and I became friends. She told me that she had family in the U.S. and visited them every Christmas, even though she was raised Muslim. Apparently there were lots of Muslims in the Republic of India. When I asked her why she didn't wear the hijab like most of the Muslim women I saw in the town of Ottawa, Jayanti told me that sometimes she wore it and sometimes she didn't. There was a sharpness in her tone as she told me this, so I wisely chose not to press the issue. Still, I did notice that for some reason, the hijab framed Jayanti's features beautifully when she wore it. My buddy Jacob Jackson, a red-haired, chubby white guy from the City of Trenton, New Jersey, congratulated me loudly when he saw me sitting next to Jayanti and chatting her up inside the Carleton University library. The boisterous bozo embarrassed me in front of Jayanti. I smiled weakly and pulled him aside before he could do more damage. Jackson told me he had a thing for Muslim chicks, especially Somali women and Indonesian women, though he was partial to Hindu women as well. Like a lot of white guys, he craves minority women but doesn't care to learn anything about their culture. I exchanged dap with him and wished him luck in his hunt for "Muslim booty" before returning to Jayanti. She laughed and asked me about my chubby buddy. I looked her in the eye and told her Jackson had a drinking problem, by way of explaining his behavior. That wasn't true but whatever. 

Anyhow, Jayanti and I continued to hang out. Day by day I grew more and more fascinated by this young woman. I found her really hot, but she was also smart as a whip. Jayanti spoke like a hundred languages or something. And she made friends with everybody. I did notice that a lot of the Hindu and Chinese people in Ottawa didn't care to associate with folks of African descent. Jayanti wasn't like that. She was friends with many guys and gals of all backgrounds, from Big Abdi, a towering but friendly Somali guy with buck teeth to Jenny Yamamoto, a nerdy Japanese gal who chews tobacco. Yep, Jayanti didn't discriminate. I liked that about her. Sometimes, Hindu guys would shoot me funny looks when they saw me with her. So did a lot of white guys. I found the latter's reaction funny. White guys in Ottawa seem to make interracial dating a sport. They chase Asian women, Black women and Indian women like it's going out of style. They're not that successful with Arab women, or Somali women who are practicing Muslims. 

I think it's mainly because I've yet to see a white man convert to Islam. In my experience, white men don't worship any deity who doesn't look like them. Jesus Christ looked like an Arab, but to make him more palatable to Europeans, he became a blue-eyed blond guy according to the depictions of artists since the middle ages. Ah, white men. They'll never change. Yet they date interracially more than anybody except maybe Black guys in Ottawa, who seem to only date white women. Those same white guys who mainly date minority women frown when they see a white lady with a Black guy. Oh, yeah. You can't walk a thousand feet in Ottawa without seeing a Black guy with a white woman. A lot of the local Black women were starting to chase white guys like their lives depended on it. This is a swirl kind of town. Jayanti and I laughed about that. I was a really unusual Black man. The kind who didn't walk around with a Black woman or a white woman. When Jayanti asked me why I wasn't dating a pretty Black woman or some blonde-haired white chick, I told her that a certain Hindu goddess had stolen my heart. Amazingly, Jayanti blushed when I said that. That's when I gathered my courage, leaned closer and kissed her. And she kissed me back!

When our lips parted and I held Jayanti's beautiful face in my hands, I knew that she was the one for me. Hesitantly, I reached for her hand. Without hesitation, she clasped my hand in hers. Smiling, we walked through campus together. We got funny looks from Hindu guys with Chinese girlfriends, Black women with white boyfriends and just about everyone else. Jayanti and I just smiled and ignored them. It's a rare Hindu woman who will date outside her race or culture. And my Jayanti was even rarer than that. She was a practicing Muslim dating a Haitian-American guy who was raised Roman Catholic. And she didn't care. I found myself falling in love with this beautiful Hindu woman. When I looked into her soulful brown eyes, I saw a kindred spirit. Jayanti changed my world, folks. She helped me see things in a whole new light.

When I first came to Canada, the song "This Place Is A Prison" by this band called The Postal Service was my theme song. Look it up and you'll understand. I hated Canada, especially the dull and boring, bigoted little town of Ottawa, Ontario. I hated this annoying little town full of self-important government workers, and the perpetually half-drunk university students who aspired to become them. I hated the capital of Canada for its pretense of loving acceptance and diversity underneath which I detected an all-powerful and overwhelming xenophobia. With Jayanti by my side, I began to experience a whole new world. Jayanti came to study at Carleton University mainly because she won an academic scholarship there. She's originally from the beautiful City of Toronto, Province of Ontario. During our first weekend away together, Jayanti took me to Toronto. I found myself amazed at this magnificent super-sized City. I thought Boston was big. The City of Toronto was even bigger. More than half of Toronto's five million people came from places like Africa, the Arab world, the Caribbean, China, India and a variety of places. 

Wow. I didn't think there were places like this in Canada. I grew up near the lovely, progressive and racially diverse City of Boston, Massachusetts. Boston, home of Deval Patrick, the first African-American elected Governor of the State of Massachusetts. Boston, where future President Barack Obama went for Law School. Boston, a venerable City I missed dearly. To cheer me up, Jayanti took me to a baseball game. I watched my Boston Red Sox lose to the idiots of the Toronto Blue Jays. I think I was the only guy with a Red Sox T-shirt in the entire stadium. Damn those Boston guys and gals for not grabbing a plane at Logan Airport and getting their sorry asses to Toronto. I was inconsolable after the loss, but as usual Jayanti found a way to cheer me up.

Jayanti and I drove back to Ottawa. Well, she drove. I still don't have a driver's licence. I'm going to try to get one as soon as time allows. Between my classes at Carleton University and my gig as a mall overnight security guard, I was really pressed for time. I was so drawn up into my own problems that I didn't notice the fact that Jayanti wasn't driving back to my place in Saint Laurent. Instead she drove us to the Colonel By area, where Carleton University is located. She asked me to come into her dorm and chill a little bit. I didn't think much of it. Between watching my Boston Red Sox lose to the Toronto Blue Jays and my homesickness, my mind was far away. I sat in Jayanti's living room, looking at a movie playing on the tube. Sarkar Raj, a Hindu movie that was eerily similar to the classic The Godfather, only with edgier acting and much better special effects in my opinion. Anyhow, I heard Jayanti's voice calling me, I looked up...and gasped in shock. 

Standing by the door was Jayanti, wearing her birthday suit. Well, her birthday suit plus the hijab, in any case. The tall, curvy and absolutely lovely Tamil goddess smiled at me. I grinned from ear to ear. Wow. Jayanti was definitely the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. And I've been gawking at women since my hormones kicked in about a decade ago. Jayanti gestured with her finger, beckoning me to come to her. In a stupor I rose from the couch and went to her. Jayanti put her arms around me and kissed me. Taking my hesitant hands in hers, she placed them on her big, round booty. I smiled, and looked into her eyes. Jayanti told me she'd wanted me for a long time. I was happy as a clown but also quite hesitant. I mean, I wanted her but Jayanti is one complicated gal at times. Sometimes she's the most conservatively dressed Muslim gal in town, and other times she's cutting loose with low-cut dresses that would make a stripper blush. Jayanti sensed the hesitation in me, and asked me if I found her beautiful. Of course I said yes. Then we began the kisses again.

Taking me by the hand, she led me into the one place in her dorm I was forbidden to enter. Her bedroom. Jayanti sat on the king-sized bed, and told me to get naked. Hastily I took off my shirt. Jayanti held up her hand, and told me to strip for her. I smiled, and took my time as I removed first my pants then my boxers and socks. I've never performed a strip show for a woman before. This was definitely an interesting experience. Jayanti smiled at me as I got naked. I stood before her, naked as a jay bird. My eight-inch, uncircumcised dick stood at attention. Jayanti gasped when she saw it. I swear I remembered she was Muslim in that moment. The hijab she still had on her head hadn't registered in my lust-addled brain. Jayanti looked at my member and narrowed her eyes. I squared my shoulders. Would she reject me because I'm uncut? I've dated a few chicks who had a problem with it. I'm not ashamed of being uncut. My father wasn't circumcised either, and he assured me my late mother didn't want me to be cut either. My family doesn't believe in altering the human body in the name of religion, or misguided medicine. I asked Jayanti if everything was okay. She looked at me and giggled, saying she'd never seen a dick that was bent while erect before. I laughed at that. Yep, I've got a curved dick.

Impatiently, Jayanti told me to stop posturing and join her. I obeyed my lady. And thus I found myself in bed with her. Gently, we began exploring each other. Jayanti told me that this was her first time. I hesitated when I heard that. Truth be told, I've only been with one gal before. Sheila Johnson. And you guys know how that turned out. I promised Jayanti that I respected her body, and would be gentle with her. And I was. I kissed her and gently rubbed her breasts. Then I suckled on the areolas of her tits. Jayanti was nervous at first, then she relaxed and enjoyed herself. Slowly, I made my way down her body by kissing a path from her breasts to her belly and down to her pelvic area. I moved my hand toward her pussy and Jayanti clamped her legs shut. She looked at me with nervousness in her eyes. I promised her I'd be gentle and make her feel good. And I kept that promise. Gently, I spread her legs. Jayanti's pussy was neatly shaved. She told me she shaved for me. I smiled and told her that she was okay by me no matter what. In the back of my head I realized that this whole event was planned by her. I guess women really do choose the men, and not the other way around. I began to gently lick Jayanti's pussy, and I watched her beautiful face the entire time. I probed her with my fingers and tongue, and watched in delight as she moaned and urged me to continue. Thus I brought my beloved Jayanti her first orgasm, or so she said.




Arab Femdom in Toronto



I loved the taste of Jayanti's pussy, and felt a special thrill knowing that I was the first man she'd ever been with. Gosh, those Muslim women are something else. Now I know why the Muslim guys like them to be all covered up. They're not women, they're goddesses! I continued lapping up my lady's womanhood with my tongue, and delighted in her pleasurable moans. I continued until she told me to stop. I pulled her into my arms and kissed her. Jayanti looked at me, a stunned expression in her beautiful face. I winked at her. Yeah, I got skills. My oral skills are among the best. My ex-girlfriend Sheila Johnson had a policy with me. If I wasn't willing to lick her pussy properly, she wouldn't let me stick my dick inside of her. I lay next to Jayanti, licking my lips and closing my eyes in remembrance of how good she tasted. I was so wrapped up into it that I didn't realize what she was doing before it was too late. Before I could stop her, Jayanti had taken me into her mouth. I gasped as I felt her tongue against my dick head. Damn. 

I think I was more nervous than Jayanti during our first time together at that point, because she'd never gone down on a guy before. And yet she started sucking me and wouldn't stop. I had to carefully tell her to use her tongue and absolutely no teeth. She winked at me and continued what she was doing. Lord, I was nervous but I didn't want her to stop. And amazingly, she made me cum. I shouted a warning to her. The last time I came in a gal's mouth it was an accident, and I got smacked for it. Jayanti briefly paused and told me she wanted to taste me. Then she resumed sucking me. And by God I came. Astonishingly, Jayanti gulped down every last drop of my manly essence. I think I had tears in my eyes. I hadn't felt anything like this in what seems like forever. Grinning, Jayanti wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Then she asked me how did she did. I gave her two thumbs up like Ebert and Roper! Jayanti was eager for the next phase of our activities. She grabbed a condom from under her pillow. I raised an eyebrow. She rolled her eyes and told she selected me to be her first and wanted to be prepared. I smiled at that and put the condom on.

At that point, Jayanti was really nervous. She asked me if it was going to hurt. I nodded, but reassured her that it would soon feel good too. I gently kissed her and laid her on her back. Gently I spread her legs, and rubbed her pussy. Then I pressed my dick against her pussy lips. Looking into her eyes I asked her if she was ready. Jayanti nodded, and I smiled as I pushed my cock inside of her. I felt a brief resistance which I knew to be her hymen and then I was in. Jayanti shrieked as I penetrated her. Gently I began making love to her. I took my sweet time as I went inside of her for the first time. Inch by inch, I went in. Jayanti took a deep breath as I pushed deeper inside of her. She asked me to slow down and I did. Slowly, gently, we established a nice rhythm we were both comfortable with as we made love. Jayanti played with my chest hairs as we made love. Sometimes she cried out either in pain or pleasure. Otherwise she simply lay there, sort of humming gently as I groaned on top of her. I switched things up. Now I was on my back and she climbed on top of me. I told her she could ride me however she wanted. Laughing, Jayanti boldly took my dick in her hand and put it inside of her.

Thus, Jayanti and I made love. I rubbed her breasts together and played with the areolas as she rode me. Jayanti grew more assertive as we continued, and she was basically in control of the lovemaking. As well she should. I worked most of my dick inside of her, and she took it all. For hours we went at it. It was fantastic. I even took her doggy-style and we both loved it. The sight of Jayanti's gorgeous, heart-shaped booty glaring at me as I took her from behind thrilled me like you would not believe. I thrust my dick deep inside of her, loving the feel of her booty against my groin. Her screams of pleasure delighted me. We went at it for hours on end, and didn't stop until we were both exhausted. Our bodies were covered in a fine sheen of sweat. I pulled Jayanti close to me and kissed her. She kissed me back passionately and pinched my nipples playfully. I winced. Hot damn. My gorgeous Muslim goddess is so hot!

And that's how I found the lady whom I now know to be the love of my life. In my next correspondence with my father via Skype, I introduced him to Jayanti. I loved her, you see. My father told me he'd like to see me during Christmas 2011. I told him I'd have to get a rain check on that. I'm enjoying myself here in the Province of Ontario, Canada. I like my school. Carleton University, also known as last chance university, doesn't suck. They're getting a football team together. I'm going to try out for it. Also, I love my new lady. My Jayanti gets along great with my uncle and aunt and my cousins. I also met Jayanti's mother Parvati, a gorgeous older lady who was half Tamil Indian and half Saudi Arabian. Miss Parvati was really nice, if somewhat reserved. Jayanti introduced me as her future husband, ipso facto putting me on the spot. I took her hand in mine and told her mother that she was the love of my life. The woman I'd live for. I would die for her any day of the week. That answer seemed to satisfy Miss Parvati, for she invited me inside for dinner. Jayanti assured me that her mom thought I was okay. Phew. With those reserved, inscrutable older Muslim ladies, you just never know. Guys, I love my life. I love my future wife. I'm glad I live in Canada. It's not America that's for sure, but this place doesn't suck too much if you surround yourself with the right people.



Arab Femdom in Vanier



I don't know why everyone thinks Muslim women are so damn chaste. Seriously. Take Fadheela-Anisah Mohammed for example. I encountered this chubby, matronly Arab woman when I first moved into the Donald section of the town of Vanier, Province of Ontario. There are lots of Arabs in the neighbourhood, along with Somalis. Me? I'm just a big and tall young Black man of Haitian descent who moved there because the rent is cheap, basically. My name is Mathieu Jean Pierre. I was born and raised in the City of Montreal, Province of Quebec. I'm new to the town of Vanier and so far, this place sucks. The only good thing about it is that there's a Haitian restaurant in every corner and it's easy to get Arab pussy because the Arab men are all busy praying.

The first time I saw Fadheela-Anisah, I knew she was good to get the business. And I'm the kind of guy who will give a woman the business. The forty-something, bronze-skinned and dark-eyed, hijab-wearing Arab woman looked at me the way a hungry man looks at fast food. I was just browsing through her store, looking for some chips and eggs. Usually, I get stared at in stores because I'm a Black man and let's face it, Canada is a very racist country. However, there was something different about Fadheela-Anisah's stare. It was lustful rather than hateful. Her husband Hassan didn't seem to notice. He was reading a newspaper where they were talking about Palestine's bid for membership in the United Nations. Arab men love political news, and they love their mosques. Yet they're surprised when sexually adventurous men of other cultures steal all the cute Arab chicks. What a bunch of fools.

Every time I came into the store, Fadheela-Anisah got really flirty with me. Man, I couldn't believe this shit. I am twenty three years old. This woman is at least forty five years old. Yet she was telling me that I had a nice ass. Well, I told her that she had a nice ass too. When she asked me where I lived, I told her I lived down the street. Not far from the Vanier Park. Well, one afternoon she came over for a visit. And we got our freak on, as they say. I sat on my living room couch, my pants around my ankles. Kneeling before me was the lovely Fadheela-Anisah. She was completely nude, save for her hijab. I don't know why but I kind of liked the sight of her, naked but with the hijab on at the same time. Her body was kind of plump but I don't mind. Must be something genetic about Black men. We all seem to crave big women. I've fucked a lot of big Black women and chubby white chicks in the City of Montreal. It's not exactly hard to get a fat chick into bed unless she's so fucking insecure that she can't get down and dirty.

Lucky for me, Fadheela-Anisah didn't fall into that category. She was sucking my nine-inch, uncircumcised Black dick with gusto. I thought she would have a problem with my dick because I'm uncut and she's a Muslim woman. Fadheela-Anisah surprised me by saying that she had always been curious about uncut men. She asked me whether my uncircumcised dick was really more sensitive than a circumcised man's cock. I groaned as she licked my foreskin and I guess she got her answer. Fadheela-Anisah sucked my cock and licked my big hairy balls. Man, she was really good at this. I guess she should be good at it because she's had decades of experience. I've been banging women left and right for a couple of years now. Hey, I'm a young man from a deeply conservative Haitian household. It's not easy to get busy when your damn parents are church leaders and they watch your Black ass like hawks.

Anyway, Fadheela-Anisah sucked me so good that I just had to return the favour. Hey, I'm not the kind of guy who can be considered a selfish lover by any definition of the term. I laid Fadheela-Anisah on the couch, knelt before her and inhaled the scent of her womanhood. Okay, now. She didn't smell bad but just between you and me, she could have used some feminine deodorant. Hey, I'm just being honest here. Women of all races are always accusing men of having bad hygiene. The filthiest homeless man in the city still smells better than some well-dressed and gainfully employed women's pussies when they haven't showered in a few hours. I'm speaking from experience, my friends. Anyhow, I gave Fadheela-Anisah's pussy a thorough licking. I fingered her pussy and had her moaning my name in Arabic and English like there was no tomorrow. I guess I was doing a good job. With women, you just never know. Bitches fake it so damn much. Not that I care. 

After licking Fadheela-Anisah's hairy pussy, I put on a condom and shoved my dick inside her gentle folds. Hey, pussy licking is all good and fun but I need to stick my cock inside in order to feel good. The Arab slut began moaning as I drilled my cock into her snatch. Her pussy was kind of loose but I guess that's a natural occurrence when you're female and getting older. I put her on all fours and fucked her in this position instead. Sometimes I like to look into a woman's face while fucking her. Most times I don't feel like that at all. I don't know why. I admired Fadheela-Anisah's big round ass as I fucked her from behind. A lot of Arab women got really nice asses. I smacked her big ass and she yelped and laughed as I fucked her hard. I loved watching the mature Arab slut's big booty bounce under the force of my thrusts. I asked her if she was okay with some Greek action and she said yeah. Thrilled, I made good use of the lotion I kept handy.

For a mature Arab woman with such a loose pussy, Fadheela-Anisah certainly had a tight asshole. I greased her up and slid my dick inside of her. The Arab woman's tight backdoor gripped my cock like a damn vice. Hard and fast I pumped my cock into her asshole, fucking it real good. She yelped as I fucked her, though I could tell she had done this before. I kind of thought anal sex went against the rules of the Koran. Yet Fadheela-Anisah seemed to be really enjoying herself. So much that she was begging me to really stuff her asshole with my thick Black cock. I gave it to her real good. Until I came, and took some time to recover before beginning again. We spent a good hour fucking and sucking, then she showered and left my apartment. A good time was had by all. The next time I saw my friendly neighbourhood big-booty mature Arab slut, she kind of walked funny. I smiled at that. A solid ass fucking will do that to you.



Arab Femdom is Amazing



I practiced for hours before finally calling them. Mohammed Hassan and Yousef Adbirahman. The two men I love the most. Mohammed is six feet three inches tall and slender, with light brown skin, curly black hair and pale brown eyes. He was born in the town of Mogadishu in the nation of Somaliland. He's been living in the town of Ottawa, Province of Ontario, for the past ten years. Like me, he's a student at Carleton University. As for Yousef, he's around five-foot-eight, somewhat chubby, with dark brown skin and a smooth, shaved head. Yousef was born and raised in Toronto, Ontario. He barely speaks the Somali language. They're both bisexual, and I'm seeing them both.

In case you're wondering who this is, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Khadija Al-Jafar. I was born and raised in the City of Ottawa in the Capital region of Canada. My father Paolo Anderson is of Italian and Irish descent. My mother Fatima Al-Jafar is of Somali and Ethiopian descent. They met in Toronto during the 1980s and had little old me. They both live in the town of Brampton, Province of Ontario. My parents don't approve of my fascination for Black guys. Especially Black guys from the Somali community. My mother was abused by her male relatives in Somaliland before she moved to the Province of Ontario. She tried her best to make me believe all Somali men are control freaks who abuse their women. Oh, please! Race has nothing to do with domestic violence in relationships! I've known many white men who abuse women. Of course, you can't tell that to my mother. She doesn't think much of her own race. She thinks white folks are gods. Lucky for me, I didn't let her brainwashing isolate me from my own people. I am a Black woman of Somali descent and I am proud of it!

Anyhow, where was I? Oh, yes. I was telling you about my preparations for my first threesome. I made sure I had the place neat, and bought condoms, lubricant and assorted sex toys. People have trouble believing me when I tell them that I'm a dominatrix. I stand five feet six inches tall, skinny, with light brown skin, long black hair and pale green eyes. I sometimes wish I were one hundred percent African but I'm not. I lack a curvy figure, big boobs and a big round butt. All those things that Black females worldwide are famous for. Well, I accept myself. I'm a skinny mixed chick living in Canada. I am forthrightly bisexual, with a penchant for dabbling into bondage, domination, submission and all that jazz. I even have a website where I appear, masked of course. You can see pictures and even short videos of me dominating masked men and women. I spank them, whip them, berate them and sometimes I fuck them with my strap-on dildo.

My friends at Carleton University have no idea that I'm into this. I'm one of the top students in the civil engineering program at school. I'm also a devoted member of a certain Mosque in the town of Vanier, Ontario. Like I said, I just don't seem freaky. People see me as a nice, quiet and even mousy gal. Whoever said looks can deceive was definitely talking about me, ladies and gentlemen. Anyhow, I met Mohammed inside the University Center at Carleton University in September 2010 and I fell in love with him. The guy was tall, sexy and fine as hell. I spotted him walking around with a tall, blonde-haired white chick. My heart winced when I saw them together. Later, I learned that Mohammed and that white chick, Muriel Henderson, had broken up when he caught her in bed with a Mexican guy. I guess white chicks in Canada are sampling the sexual prowess of minority guys across the board! These bitches are greedy, man. Anyhow, I was there to comfort Mohammed in his time of need. That's how I seduced him.

Mohammed and I had been dating for a while when I discovered something kind of awkward about him. You see, the gorgeous Mohammed was bisexual. Homosexuality is not acceptable in the Muslim world, and Somali folks are really conservative. The weird thing is that in Muslim communities, guys and gals spend a lot of time apart. As a result, a lot of guys fuck guys because there are no women available. Waiting for marriage can be a bitch. And lots of Muslim women also have sex with other women either because they're curious or because there are no men around. The prevalence of male bisexuality and female bisexuality in Muslim communities is simply mind-boggling. Yet just like the Arabs, the Somali people continue to keep silent about the rampant same-sex sensual experimentation going on at all levels of our society. I find that ridiculous. I am bisexual and proud. I just happen to be discreet in who I tell. I confronted Mohammed about his bisexual tendencies, and the macho stud nearly panicked...until I silenced his desperate pleas with a kiss and told him that I accepted him the way he is.

This was the beginning of much better times for my sexy Somali boyfriend and I. Our sex life was awesome. I love doing dirty things with Mohammed. I love to suck his thick Black cock and lick his balls while fingering his pussy. I also love to fuck him in the ass with my strap-on dildo. We do that stuff a lot because Mohammed really likes strap-on dildos. He's got a collection of female domination DVDs that is simply impressive. I love riding him, though. Just climb on top of my man and fill my pussy with his cock while he holds me by my hips and thrusts into me. Sometimes, I let Mohammed fuck me in the ass. It's not something I want to do every day but I do enjoy the feel of his big Somali dick in my tight asshole. It can feel really good when I'm properly lubricated and Mohammed is both hard and patient. We decided to spice things up by adding a third party to our fun and games. Mohammed and I searched online for the right stud. Facebook works wonders. And amazingly, we found a bi-curious guy of Somali descent right here at Carleton University. Yousef Abdirahman.

We met, and the three of us were smitten with each other. We wanted to get busy, but I firmly believe in caution. We went to the Sexual Health Center in downtown Ottawa together and took a test for S.T.I. The three of us were blissfully healthy, and free of any sexual disease. We couldn't wait to get it on. I was sitting on my bed, clad in a black bra and matching panties when I heard the bell ring. It was Mohammed, flanked by Yousef. I smiled at them and welcomed them inside. The three of us got naked, then got busy. Like the dominatrix that I happen to be, I directed the action. Yousef sucked Mohammed's cock while I slid a slim green dildo inside Yousef's tight asshole. Then I sucked Yousef's cock and balls while Mohammed fucked him in the ass. Yousef was a real screamer as he got fucked in the ass by my sexy boyfriend. A few moments later, we switched things up. I put a condom on my strap-on dildo and made Mohammed suck it while Yousef fucked him in the ass. Watching the chubby Somali guy sliding his cock into Mohammed's ass really turned me on. Mohammed liked it too, I could tell. He loves anything ass related. 

Much later, it was my turn to get fucked. I was sandwiched between Mohammed and Yousef and ordered them to fill my holes. I lay on top of Yousef who hammered my pussy with powerful thrusts of his big cock while Mohammed spread my ass cheeks wide open, lubricated me with lotion before sliding his dick inside of me. Oh, man. I'm finally experiencing double penetration. Something I yearned for but had never had the courage to try. Mohammed and Yousef were gentle with me. Their mistake. I quickly corrected them. I told them to fuck me hard, otherwise there would be hell to pay. Yes, I am a bossy woman at all times. They heeded my orders and fucked me real good, slamming their dicks into my holes like there was no tomorrow. It was absolutely fucking fantastic. When they pulled out of me, I slumped between their sweaty, masculine bodies. I had a big grin on my face. Oh, yeah. This was definitely a night to remember!

Ladies and gentlemen, please don't believe the stereotypes about us Muslims. The men and women of our faith have sexual needs and desires just like those of you who are Catholic, Baptist, Jewish, Agnostic, Buddhists, Pagans, Shinto, Episcopalian, Voodoo followers, Seventh-Day Adventists or whatever. We are people, first and foremost. I am the gal you see walking down the street in a black leather miniskirt and black leather jacket on a Friday night. Did you know that I also never miss an important ceremony at my Mosque? When you see me walking through campus wearing a long-sleeved silk shirt, long black dress and a hijab, don't dismiss me as a sexually repressed woman. I'm a dominatrix and a Muslim woman. I also happen to be a feminist. A firm believer in women's rights. Sounds complicated, eh? It's not. I just make it work for me. Welcome to my life.



Arab Femdom Really Rocks!



Lying on his back with his legs in the air and drool dripping down his mouth, Prince Ahmed Hassan was exactly where he knew he should be. The six-foot-three, beefy young Saudi Arabian Prince stroked his eight-inch cock as his wife Princess Dhakirah Dahab worked the strap-on dildo deep into his asshole. Smiling gleefully, the plump Arab woman teased and taunted her husband as she sodomized him with her six-inch dildo. Licking her lips, she thoroughly enjoyed the power that she had over him. Hard to believe that mere weeks ago, theirs was a frigid marriage. Fortunately, Allah be praised, things had changed.

When her father, the legendary Prince Mohammed Dahir told her that he had chosen Ahmed Hassan as her future husband, Princess Dhakirah was less than impressed. She remembered Ahmed from the many interactions their two families had had over the years. Born into wealth and power, both clans were scions of Saudi Arabian society. He was big and clumsy, and exceptionally dull. He got on her nerves with his constant talk of science fiction and his fascination with the American comic book icon Wonder Woman. She hadn't seen him in years. Her father sent her to study at the University of Ottawa in Ontario, the Capital Region of the Confederation of Canada. She returned at the age of twenty three with a master's degree in business administration. Prince Ahmed had gone overseas to learn as well. He held a Law degree from Harvard University in Boston, Massachusetts.

Yet Prince Ahmed was still the boring sod that she remembered. Still, Princess Dhakirah had to admit that Prince Ahmed looked good these days. He reminded her of the Hollywood actor Antonio Banderas, only he was built like the Rock, that wrestler whose exploits she used to watch during Monday Night Wrestling. Yeah, Dhakirah wasn't impressed by her future hubby. Especially since he was still nerdy as hell and seemed nervous in her presence. Still, she knew her father could have chosen one of the stern older Princes as her future husband. Thank Allah he had chosen Ahmed instead. The fool proved easier to manage than any of the older, cruel lords of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. The older Princes followed the old ways and truly believed themselves superior to women. By sharp contrast, Ahmed still carried his Wonder Woman and Xena Warrior Princess comic books. He had a fascination with dominant women, and seemed in awe of his new wife's bossy personality.

On their wedding night, Prince Ahmed performed a perfunctory coupling with his new wife Dhakirah. He was well-endowed, and patient, good things in any man. What really amazed Princess Dhakirah about her new husband was how patient he was. He also followed her instructions to the letter after asking her what she wanted him to do to her. He seemed in awe of her body. He tenderly licked her breasts while fingering her pussy. Then he turned around and gently kissed her big, heart-shaped ass before sliding his cock into her pussy. Princess Dhakirah wrapped her arms around her husband as he began thrusting into her. Soon they were both screaming in pleasure. And so their wedding night had gone. 

What really surprised her was that even had they first had sex, Princess Ahmed continued to be in awe of her. Men from time immemorial were fascinated by women, but only before and during sex. Afterwards, they lost interest. Not Prince Ahmed. He referred to his wife Dhakirah as Allah's Finest Creation. This amused the Princess. She knew that as a five-foot-eleven, curvy Persian woman with dark bronze skin, shiny black hair and sparkling golden brown eyes, she seemed intimidating to many Arab men. Her international education and her family wealth also made her a formidable force in the changing world of Saudi Arabian society. The women of the Saudi Arabian Kingdom looked up to Princess Dhakirah. For she was not just another Saudi Princess. She was the first Persian woman to play on the women's hockey team of the University of Ottawa. She had picture all over the web, and on magazine covers from Sports Illustrated to the Ottawa Sun and many others. Princess Dhakirah was a legend in her own right.

Prince Ahmed was a man with a dilemma. His time in the United States of America had changed him. He met so many lively, tough and simply wild women in that country. He grew fond of the bold women he met in the country that his father referred to as the land of infidels. A night in a particularly brazen brothel changed him. For that night, a wicked woman sodomized him with a strap-on dildo for the first time. That experience changed the sexually native Arabian Prince. Ever since that night, he grew fascinated with the world of fetish, and female domination. He scoured the web for images of women using strap-on dildos on men. Such women were definitely not to be found in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. At least, not as far as he knew. When he returned home, he found himself lamenting the loss of his life in America. He was a submissive man at heart. And he yearned for a dominant woman in a conservative Muslim world where all women seemed content to be submissive. A dilemma only an Arab man could have!

When he married Princess Dhakirah, he found himself profoundly attracted to her. With her loud voice, mocking laughter and feisty attitude, she seemed so similar to the wild women he knew in the United States of America. Still, she was of the Saudi world just like him. Would she understand if he were to reveal to her his secret desires? One night, he gathered his courage and told his wife what had been plaguing him. Princess Dhakirah had been sitting in one of the living rooms of the palace they shared, and watched the movie Hancock. One of his favourite movies. He liked the actor Will Smith. Of course, he liked that blonde actress from South Africa even more. He sat beside his wife, took her hand and bared his soul. When he finished what he had to say, he looked at Princess Dhakirah. How would she react? Would she mock him? If she revealed this to anyone, he'd surely be put to death. Sexual deviants weren't tolerated in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. 

Princess Dhakirah stared at her husband Prince Ahmed. Stunned by his revelations. Still, she kind of suspected he had some submissive inclinations. Mainly because he did everything she told him without question. Smiling, she nodded. He looked like he was about to cry. Grinning, she planted a kiss on his lips and hugged him. He let himself go in her arms. Sobs escaped his sweet lips. He thanked her profusely for not thinking him a freak. Princess Dhakirah grinned, and told her husband that she embraced him for who he was and she was willing to make his dream come true. And that night, she made good on her promise. Thus Prince Ahmed found himself naked, kneeling before his wife. Gently, he kissed her toes. Lovingly he sucked her toes, then her fingers. When she asked him to bend over he did. And when she began spanking his butt with a thick wooden paddle, he didn't mind. As his body experienced the sweet pain, his mind cried out with joy. When his wife Dhakirah began fingering his asshole while twisting his cock and bringing him even more pain, he moaned openly and let go.

Princess Dhakirah shook her head as she dominated her husband Ahmed. He was almost like putty in her firm hands. She fetched her strap-on dildo, a memento from her sexual adventures with kinky men and even kinkier women at the University of Ottawa. She smiled as Ahmed watched her strap it on. She ordered him to suck her dildo and he did. A bit too eagerly. Then she lubricated his asshole and fucked him. Not from behind. Since this was their first time playing these games together, she wanted him to look into her imperious face. The face of the woman who dominated him. Prince Ahmed cried out as his wife Dhakirah sank the dildo deep inside of him. She was gentle at first then fucked him hard. He screamed in pain mixed with sweet pleasure. Emboldened by his submission and the power she had over him, Princess Dhakirah slammed the dildo deep inside Prince Ahmed. His screams were music to her ears. Afterwards, she pulled out of him. He just lay there, panting. There were tears in his eyes. Gently she leaned over and kissed him. Prince Ahmed looked into his wife's eyes and asked her if what he did with her made him less of a man in her eyes. Shaking her head vigorously, Dhakirah told him he was the best man she knew. One who truly loved his wife and gave of himself like no other man. And she meant it. Then she kissed him passionately, telling him she loved him. Breathlessly, Prince Ahmed told her he loved her as well.

Much later, Prince Ahmed fell asleep. His wife Princess Dhakirah lay awake, gently running her hands over his hairy chest. Her husband looked so beautiful and wonderfully vulnerable while asleep. What strange creatures men were. Around his male friends, Prince Ahmed acted like a macho man. Yet as soon as they were in private, he couldn't wait to kneel before his dear wife. Seriously. Ahmed liked kneeling a bit too much, even for Dhakirah's liking. Still, she did enjoy dominating him in the bedroom and enjoyed the complete trust he put in her. For she had come to love him. She wondered how many other women were in position. Married to a woman who literally worshiped the ground they walked on. Probably not many. Especially in this part of the world. Dhakirah kissed Ahmed, then fell asleep at last. Her trusty strap-on dildo was still firmly strapped around her hips. For she planned on surprising her husband first thing in the morning.



Arab Femdom Rocks!



My name is Abdul Mohammed Akbar. I am a young man living in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. I was born into a wealthy family, though I am by no means Arabic royalty. My family was fortunate enough to send me to study overseas. I hold a bachelor's degree in sociology from Emerson College in the City of Boston, Massachusetts, and an MBA from Ottawa University in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. When I returned to Saudi Arabia, my world was changed. I was no longer satisfied with the life of a wealthy member of prim and proper Saudi society. Especially since I had acquired some desires which weren't exactly compatible with the society in which I lived.

Folks, I have a thing for dominant women. While living and attending school in the continent of North America, I developed a fascination for fetish sites. Most specifically the ones featuring dominant women using strap-on dildos on submissive men. If my father or my uncles were to find out I had such inclinations, they would mock me ceaselessly and I would see my chances of one day inheriting our family's oil refinery go up in smoke. I live in the City of Tabuk, one of the finest towns in all of Saudi Arabia. My chances of meeting a dominatrix in such a place are slim to none. Watching internet porn consumed most of my free time when I returned home from America and Canada in the summer of 2011 after five and a half years spent living abroad.

Like many wealthy Arabic men from good families, I soon found myself pressured into an arranged marriage. My father, the esteemed Sheik Abdullah Akbar wanted very much to solidify an alliance with the legendary Sheik Yousef, his one-time rival in the Court of the King of Saudi Arabia. Everybody in the western world thinks Arabs are concerned with religion and politics. They're wrong. We in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia are chiefly concerned with business and profits. Trust me on that one. Anyhow, I found myself pressured to marry this young lady whom I didn't even know. An arranged marriage in the twenty-first century. They still happen, believe it or not.

The young lady's name was Fatima. The daughter of Sheik Yousef, one of the wealthiest men in Saudi Arabian society today. From outside the Royal Family of course. I found myself quite puzzled by the lovely Fatima. Apparently, like me she had the benefit of a foreign education. The wealthy families of Saudi Arabia hesitate to send their daughters to study in Europe, America or Canada. Why? Mainly because they believe Western culture has a corruptive influence on the minds of young Arab women. If only they knew the influence that Western society and culture has had on some of the young Arab men I knew. My buddy Farouk experimented with homosexuality while attending Northeastern University in the City of Boston, Massachusetts. He lived with his African-American boyfriend Niles in an apartment on the Back Bay neighbourhood of Boston. And when he returned to Saudi Arabia, he married a young lady named Amina and continued with his homosexual affairs on the sly. 

Yeah, and that's just one example of the corruptive influence that the West has had on some of the wealthiest young men in Saudi Arabian society today. The very young men expected to lead the country someday and hold off the shackles of Western cultural contamination are the ones most influenced by the West. I mean, I've got two hundred DVDs featuring women spanking men, women using strap-on dildos on men and women cruelly dominating men in every way you can think of. It's in the basement of my palace. Yet people consider me one of the more conservative young men among the wealthy upper class of Saudi Arabia. Wow. If they only knew that practically every night, I jerked off while watching videos of women sliding dildos into men's asses. And sometimes I stick a dildo up my ass while watching these videos. Some shiny example of Saudi Arabian conservatism I turned out to be, eh?

Anyhow, I got married to Amina and settled into a quiet, boring life. The life of a prim and proper married man in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Amina is around five-foot-nine, plump and big-bottomed, with black hair, bronze skin and black eyes. Her mother comes from Algeria I think. She's not one hundred percent Saudi. That doesn't matter to me in the least. I have no interest in her. However, I wasn't cruel. I gave her all the money she wanted and the freedom to do whatever she desired, as long as she was discreet. Both men and women have affairs in Saudi Arabian society just like everywhere else on Allah's green Earth. However, here the consequences for adultery can be dire. So both sexes have to be supremely discreet when doing their dirty deeds. All I wanted was to prove myself to my father and my uncles and be allowed to go to North America again. The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia was supremely boring to me after living in fantastic places like the United States of America and the Confederation of Canada. I missed the night clubs, the sluts, the dirty girls, and the dominatrix types. I missed the hard-drinking and hard-partying guys. I didn't want to be stuck at the office or at the mosque like most Arab guys. I wanted more out of life.

Fortunately for me, something quite strange happened. My wife began following me around as I discreetly looked for certain fun in the City. Frankly I found this puzzling. I didn't want to control Fatima. I didn't care if she was into women or men. I didn't care how she spent the thousands of dollars I gave her monthly as her allowance. All I wanted was to be left alone. I'm not seeing other women. There are no other women to see. This is the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. If a man is caught with a woman other than his wife, both of them will be put to death. Doesn't matter if he's wealthy, or whatever. The law is the law. One day I finally had it with Fatima following me around. I confronted the intrusive plumper. And got the surprise of a lifetime.

My not so darling wife glared at me angrily, demanding to know why I hadn't touched her since our wedding night. I shrugged. There are arranged marriages every day in Saudi Arabia. Most married Arab women would be content with a generous husband who doesn't bother them and stays away from home most of the time. Not my Fatima. Apparently, she was in love with me! When those words left her mouth, I was really surprised. Then she kissed me. And I kissed her back. Truth be told, I wasn't attracted to her but I hadn't had sex in ages and a hole is a hole. I took Fatima home and bedded her. I spread her plump thighs and licked her pussy. Then I stuck my eight-inch dick in her. The whole time she was moaning and I was quite bored. Sticking my dick inside a woman's juicy pussy is okay, but I'd much rather have her stick something up my ass. Like a dildo. As if reading my mind, Fatima said she knew my secret.

I stared at her, stunned. Grinning, my darling Arabic wife told me that she knew what I watched online as far as porn. And she was kind of mad that I hadn't come to her with my unusual interest. I was really surprised at that. Arab women are so...conservative. So different from the bossy white ladies of North America and Europe. I found them boring. Fatima smacked the hell out of me when I said that. I rubbed my hand over my cheek. It stung. Fatima's eyes widened and she apologized for hurting me. She said I wounded her pride. Here she was, a lovely Arabic lady in love with her wayward husband and I was speaking ill of the ladies of our nation. I nodded as she spoke. Truth be told, I was kind of turned on by the slap. And I told her as much.

Fatima grinned, and told me she was a really mean lady when she wanted to be. Then she unleashed hell on me. Folks, I never knew Arabic women could be so dominant! Fatima made me get on my knees and suck her toes. Then she repeatedly smacked my face, spat on me and then she turned me around and spanked me. First she spanked my ass with her hands then she used a wooden paddle. Afterwards she fingered my asshole and lubricated it before sliding a strap-on dildo inside of me. I grunted and stroked my cock as my bossy Arabic wife thrust the dildo deep inside of me. I couldn't believe this stuff. Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought my Fatima capable of being so bossy. She fucked me until I came, then made me spurt my cum all over her big breasts. I kissed her passionately and thanked her for being mine. Fatima grinned, and told me that all women had it in them to dominate men. Arabic women could and did dominate Arabic men, in and out of the bedroom.

Folks, my life changed since that day. I rarely leave the house, mainly because I am addicted to my wife Fatima's brand of domination. I have grown to love her, especially since she requires me to lick her pussy daily and she fucks my ass with her dildos several times a day. Who says Arabic women can't be dominant in the bedroom? Not this happy Arab husband. My Fatima and I order sex toys online, and they are discreetly shipped to our palace. We love each other. Sometimes I piss her off just because I want her to slap me because it turns me so much when she's bossy. And she does it lovingly and happily. Fatima wants to break my ass with her dildo one of these days and I can't wait for her to do it. I love her! Arab women are the best! Allah be praised! 



Arab Femdom: So High Above Me



Man, every time I ran into her, the song "She's So High Above Me" starts in my head. I hope I'm not going crazy or anything. My name is Jalil Akbar. For most of my life, I've seen myself as the son of two worlds. My father Mohammed Abdul Akbar was born and raised in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. And my mother Aisha Tabaan hails from the great nation of Somaliland. They met while studying at the University of Montreal in the Quebec region of Canada. One fine day in March of 1984. They got married shortly after graduation and had little old me. I am as Canadian as maple syrup, and forever proud of my Somali and Saudi heritage. I'm half Black and half Arab, and embrace both. It hasn't always been easy, though. However, a wise man once said nothing worthwhile is ever easy. Welcome to my life.

These days, I study business administration at Carleton University in the City of Ottawa, Province of Ontario. And I am madly in love with a young woman named Cleopatra Johnson. C.J. to her friends. Cleopatra and I met during orientation day at Carleton University. I've never met anyone like her before, or since. I mean, how many six-foot-tall, blonde-haired and green-eyed American women named Cleopatra do you know? Folks, I'm madly in love with my Cleopatra. And I recently asked her to marry me. For her, I have converted to Christianity, forever alienating myself from my family and friends. There are many Muslims in the Confederation of Canada, hailing from places like Saudi Arabia, Lebanon, Egypt, Libya, Somaliland, Ethiopia, Eritrea, Senegal and Tunisia. And Ottawa has a particularly high concentration of them. My father Mohammed is a successful real estate mogul and the Imam of the largest Mosque in the metropolis of Montreal. He's far from thrilled with my conversion to Christianity.

If only my parents could see in Cleopatra what I see. Now, I know a lot of Black guys in North America simply go crazy for White women. I'm not one of those guys. For most of my life, I mainly dated Black women and the occasional Persian woman. I didn't really like dating Muslim women because they're not very easy to deal with. I know this might seem surprising from the son of an Imam, but it's true. I don't like living my life according to rigid religious rules based on self-denial. For all of their claims of parallel vision and destination, Christians and Muslims are exactly the same in my eyes. Both believe that restraint from one's true passions lead to enlightenment. Well, it's not a viewpoint I happen to share. I just want to live my life. Why can't people understand? 

My father has never approved of my life for as long as I can remember. He doesn't like the fact that my best friend Joseph, a Haitian guy I met in Montreal-Nord, happens to be gay and a staunch atheist. I don't have a problem with Joseph's gayness or his views on organized religion. To me, he's simply my best friend. The guy I've known for most of my life. My father hates gay people, especially the ones from the minority communities. He feels that Canada is too tolerant toward immigrants, even though he's an immigrant himself. Yeah, my pops is a weird guy at times. As for my mother, although I hate to admit it, she's the quintessential Muslim wife. Never questioning her husband's God-given authority. She never backs me up in any argument I have with my father. For that reason and many others, I've always been self-reliant. As far as I can remember, my only backup is me. Way to foster an independent streak in a young man, eh?

When I met Cleopatra Johnson, I was smitten with her. The tall, decidedly Teutonic-looking American woman simply took my breath away. After mustering the courage to approach her, I grew even more fascinated. It's not every day that you meet a tall, beautiful young woman with looks a model or Hollywood starlet would envy, the kind of booty that a video vixen would kill for, and the brains of an Einstein. Yeah, she was all that and then some. Cleopatra was the daughter of Clifford Johnson, a multimillionaire businessman from the City of Boston, Massachusetts. He was one of the new managers of the Sienna Corporation which bought up part of Nortel, the biggest corporation in Canadian history. Cleopatra used to attend the University of Massachusetts in Boston. As it happens, my aunt Aamina Tabaan lived in Boston with her husband, a Jamaican guy named Theodore Jenkins. My mother doesn't get along with her sister because Aunt Aamina married a guy who wasn't Muslim. And she stopped practicing the Islamic religion after moving to the United States to be with the guy she loved. I visited Aunt Aamina and Uncle Theodore last summer. I was smitten with them and the beautiful City of Boston. It's so lively and lovely. Americans are really something else.

To hear my father talk you would believe all Americans were mean and ruthless, that they hated Muslim folk and walked the streets of their cities and towns nearly naked. Bostonians weren't anything like that. From knowing and befriending Cleopatra Johnson, I learned a lot about Americans and about myself as well. Cleopatra was so open and friendly. And she seemed genuinely interested in respectfully learning about other cultures. I've known many Muslims who were very intolerant in their views of Christians whom they labeled infidels. By sharp contrast, Cleopatra was a very liberal-minded young woman who respected those different from her regardless of color, gender, religion or sexual orientation. Man, I was starting to honestly fall for her. I loved her Boston accent. It's so damn charming. It's amazing how having a woman in your life can change you, man. Before long, much of my free time revolved around hanging out with Cleopatra Johnson.

Cleopatra taught me much about the world, and about myself. When she asked me to visit her new Church in Vanier, I happily went. The Church was mostly Black, yet this White chick from Boston felt more comfortable in it than me, and I'm half Black and half Persian. The Church housed about three hundred people. Among them there were a few Hispanic people, and some Asians. As far as I knew, I was the only Persian, or half-Persian, in the audience. The preacher was a short, stocky Black guy in his early fifties. I'd never been in a Christian Church before, at least not to attend an actual service. It was certainly intriguing. I had my reservations, as you can imagine. However, Cleopatra encouraged me to relax and enjoy the show. I watched these animated, friendly people. And the service enraptured me. Service inside a mosque is nothing like service inside a Black Church. Black Churches are...animated. Wow. There was something really contagious about their sheer joy because by the time the service ended, I was singing alongside them. And I never sing! After the service, Cleopatra introduced me to the preacher as well as scores of other people. It was touching to see so many people of different nationalities under one roof. Mosques in Ottawa are an isolationist affair. The Arabs don't always get along with the Black Muslims from Somalia. Unfortunately. 

I found myself back in Church with Cleopatra Johnson he following weekend. I guess I was starting to like the place. And eventually, she introduced me to her parents. Her father was White, but her mother was Black. I was stunned. Cleopatra told me that her birth mother, Brigid O'Neill, was Irish. She died giving birth to Cleopatra. Her father married Janelle Thompson, a Black woman from the City of Detroit, Michigan. It was amazing. The woman whom Cleopatra called 'mum' was Black. Wow. Cleopatra's parents were really nice. They didn't seem surprised to see her hanging out with a young Black man. Apparently, Cleopatra liked her chocolate. What a world we live in! Cleopatra and I began officially dating shortly after that. And I fell in love with her. Enough to walk away from the Muslim faith and convert to Christianity. Me, a lifelong Muslim. Converting to Christianity because of the woman I loved. Wow. 

All I cared about was spending my life with the woman I had come to love. Unfortunately, my parents didn't see it that way. Especially my father. As the Imam of the largest Muslim community in metropolitan Montreal, he considered it an affront that his only son was converting to Christianity after being bewitched by an 'infidel' woman. To say that he vehemently opposed our union would be an understatement. Nevertheless, Cleopatra and I continued with our relationship. The first time we made love was an experience I would never forget. We were hanging out in her dormitory, watching the Hancock DVD while eating chips and chocolate bars. That's when she gave me the look, and told me that she was ready for me.

Gently, I took Cleopatra's face in my hands. I kissed her tenderly, and then we began undressing each other. I kissed her lips, her neck and her breasts. At the same time, she caressed my face and played with my chest hairs. Off came my T-shirt and her bra, followed by her panties and my boxers. I laid Cleopatra on the bed, and licked a path from her breasts to her belly, and finally to her thighs. Gently I spread them, exposing her cunt. I inhaled the scent of her womanhood, and began licking her gently. I've only had about five female lovers but I'd like to think I learned something from each and every last of them. I licked and probed Cleopatra's pussy and she moaned under my touch. I did what she liked, asking her at almost every turn. And I pleasured my lady's sweet pussy like there was no tomorrow.

Next, Cleopatra explored my body. I'm six-foot-two and weigh two hundred and fifty pounds. Not all of it is muscle, if you catch my drift. I'm somewhat self-conscious at times. However, the way Cleopatra looked at me immediately put me at ease. Clearly she liked what she was seeing. She licked my hairy chest and played with my nipples. Then she made her way down to my groin. Without hesitation, she grabbed my eight-inch dick in her hand. Gently she began sucking on my dick while playing with my hairy balls. I watched her beautiful blonde head bob up and down on my lap as she went down on me. Gosh, she was so damn good. Cleopatra continued until I came, and amazingly she drank my masculine seed. Wow. Afterwards, I put on a condom and we got to more serious business. Lying back on the bed, Cleopatra spreads her sexy legs invitingly. I took that as my cue, and rubbed my dick against her pussy. Looking into her lovely eyes, I asked her if she was ready for me. She nodded. Gently, I eased my cock inside her womanhood. Gently, passionately, we made love. And by Allah, that woman nearly killed me. She exhausted my body that night, as she would for many more nights to come.

The next time I saw my parents in the City of Montreal, Quebec, I introduced them to Cleopatra Johnson. The woman I decided to marry. As you can imagine, they weren't happy. My father basically disowned me right then and there. As for my mother, she simply stood there weeping. Cleopatra had a sad look on her face, but I shook my head. We walked away, hand in hand. In June 2012, I graduated from Carleton University with my bachelor's degree in business administration. I moved to the City of Boston, Massachusetts, to be with Cleopatra. We're getting married after her graduation from U-Mass Boston, which will take place later in the year. I'm converting to Christianity not just because I love my Cleopatra but because I felt more welcome inside a Black Church as a mixed-race Muslim guy than I ever did inside a Mosque, where my skin colour got me funny looks from many. God willing, I made the correct choice. For my faith. For my future wife. For my life.