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The Hijab Hunter

By: Samuelx



What's up, player? My name is Stephen. The Hijab Hunter. That's all I can tell you and as you read this story, you'll come to know why. I live in the Province of Ontario, Canada. I'm a young Black man of Haitian descent who led a pretty mundane life...until I became aware of a certain change deep within myself. My parents are staunch Catholics but I am a firm believer in the Church of the Pragmatic. I believe in being real, in doing my own thing, and in having fun. I'm a college-educated guy who's done contract work in electronics across Canada, from Ontario to Quebec and even Alberta. Not bad for a 24-year-old Black guy from northern Haiti, eh?

A lot of people are fussing over the idea of religion these days. To me, religion is bullshit. Doesn't matter if you're Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, Shinto, or whatever. Religion is a tool of wicked men to control the masses. Pastors, Imams, Rabbis, Ministers and Priests, they all do the same shit. They make you feel guilty about your natural urges, they make you feel ashamed of your body's natural inclinations, and they control you that way. All religions oppress and control people to varying degrees, and none do this more than Islam. Amazingly, lots of people, especially White chicks, are joining that faith. I find that fascinating. I always thought White women were dull in the brain but this just takes the cake.

I guess people who have never been inside a cage want to know what it's like to be confined. White women have never had their rights or their freedom threatened. They've always been protected and insulated from harm by the power of White men. Now they're falling all over themselves for the lies told by Arab men who want to destroy western society. Go figure. Yeah, I think all religions are bullshit. If there is a God, then He must be supremely disappointed with mankind. Seriously. More people have died because of religious conflicts than due to disputes over territory, race, ethnicity, or politics. Trust me on that one. Now, given what I've just stated, you might wonder why a guy like me has a particular interest. 

This isn't easy for me to say so I am just going to come out and say it. Here goes nothing. Guys, I am turned on by hijab-wearing chicks. I don't know why. When I see a hot chick wearing a hijab, it gives me a raging boner. I honestly don't know why. I am not Muslim and have no intention of becoming Muslim. If I wanted to join a religion, I'd join Catholicism because in this faith, you can do whatever you want and as long as you confess your sins to God, you're automatically forgiven and then free to sin again. That would work just fine for someone like me. Okay. So where was I? Oh, yeah. I was telling you about my craving for hijab-wearing chicks. I want to bang one so bad. Now, this is easier said than done. Muslim women tend to be all traditional and shit, saving their virginity until marriage. They take it very seriously and so do their families. Muslim men will kill their own daughters for having some fun with a random guy of their choosing. Women are like property for these guys, man. Yet the women of their faith always defend them. I don't know how these bastards brainwash these ladies but I envy their technique. Wish I had it like that, sheesh. 

For my first target, I selected what I thought would be an easy prey. Fatima Al-Anwar. This dark-skinned, chubby Black chick who always wore tight pants and long-sleeved dark shirts with the same drab hijab all day and every day. I first saw her in the school library. Or should I say I saw her ass. Fatima Al-Anwar is biracial, born to a Jordanian father and Somali mother. I was fixing the computer system for a certain college in the capital region and the job was pretty good. Twenty dollars per hour for doing what came easy to me. I'm glad I went to a technical school to get my bachelor's degree in technology instead of a traditional university. I see lots of university graduates with degrees from schools like Concordia, Carleton and McGill working at Tim Horton's. College in Canada prepares you for the world of work. University teaches you the theoretical stuff and college gives you the cold hard facts. Employers in Canada bypass university graduates for college graduates all the time. 

Anyhow, I was at work when I noticed this fine-looking Somali sister with a big ass. I have a thing for big women with big butts. Most Black men feel the same way I do. Although I am technically mixed, my mother is of Hispanic descent, Dominican if you want to get really specific, and my father is Haitian, I consider myself one hundred percent Black. I couldn't help myself, man. I felt hypnotized by Fatima Al-Anwar's big ole butt. And I wanted some of that. I noticed her looking at me, and I wasn't surprised. Bitches are always looking at me because I'm a good-looking brother. I'm the same skin tone as the rapper T.I. but I have greenish eyes, and I'm built like the Hollywood actor Michael Clarke Duncan. Yeah, I'm a big guy. And I don't apologize for it at all.

Now, I wondered how to get into Fatima Al-Anwar's panties. From what I know of Muslim women, they like to sit and wait for Muslim men to make up their minds and talk to their daddies to ask for their hand in marriage. In the meantime, they go to school, they wear the hijab everywhere they go, they read the Koran and they avoid doing anything cool like smoking, clubbing, drinking, and of course having sex. They still believe the self-serving Koranic bull about Muslim men being allowed to marry women of any faith while Muslim women can only marry Muslim men. When will these broads wake up? Life goes by pretty fast, sisters. Wake up and smell the roses. If Ahmed and Mohammed can fuck Stacy, Rosa and Lilandra, then Aisha and Fatima ought to be able to fuck Henderson and Christopher without fear of reprisal. After all, we are all People of the Book, right? 

I approached Fatima once I saw that her myriad girlfriends weren't hanging around. I decided to play it all cool and slick, but I ended up getting surprised by her. Fatima was all smiles when I approached her. I introduced myself, and began flirting with her. I wanted to get her number, take her to a movie or something and see what happens. Dude, she didn't want to do any of the above. What she wanted to do was suck my cock. Man, I was shocked. I guess it showed on my face because Fatima laughed, and then looked me dead serious and told me to meet her in the stairwell. The stairwell connecting the second and third floors of the university library are barred due to construction. They are renovating the library of this quaint little university in the capital region of Canada. I went there, and waited. After about five minutes, I felt pretty foolish. I figured Fatima was kidding, or she was playing a prank on me. Chicks do that sometimes.

Imagine my surprise when Fatima actually showed up. She looked me up and down. I smiled coyly, still trying to be cool. Fatima glared at me, and there was a dangerous light in her brown eyes. She grabbed me, then shoved me against the wall. The big gal was quite strong, too, so I actually felt it. Then I felt her hands feeling me up, and she went straight for my zipper. The Somali chick freed my cock from the confines of my pants. Out sprang my eight inches of thick, uncircumcised Haitian dick. Along with my big hairy balls. Sorry, I never wear underwear. Not since a certain Seinfeld episode where I learned that wearing tight underwear can be detrimental to a man's sperm count. Sheesh. Fatima stared at my cock, as if hypnotized. I guessed that since she's Muslim and all, she doesn't see uncut dicks all that often. I grinned at her, told her to quit staring and show my Jimmy some love. I mean, that's what we were there for, right?

Fatima winked at me, then she began sucking my cock. Every woman has a different way of sucking a man's cock. Dick sucking techniques are as unique as fingerprints. Fatima managed to surprise me yet again by taking most of my dick in her mouth on the first try. Hot damn. And here I thought those hijab-wearing Somali chicks were all dull and repressed. Fatima proved me how wrong I was by sucking my dick and fondling my balls like a pro. I leaned against the wall for support as this sexy Muslim chick from the Horn of Africa made my knees buckle. I didn't think she could do this. I mean, she was supposed to be a Koran-reading, shy and self-effacing, meek and sexless Somali broad, not an expert cock sucker who made a twisted buck like me marvel at her skills.

Man, even though I tried to withhold it, I could feel it coming. Fatima basically deep-throated me, man. She drew the sperm out of my balls and into the tube that is my cock. I shouted out in pleasure as I came. Dude, I came all over Fatima's face. And the hijab-wearing Somali chick didn't seem to mind at all. She smiled wickedly and began licking the cum droplets from my cock. I ran my hand over her head, and she slapped it away. Ignoring me completely, she wiped her mouth. Then she took a small mirror from her purse and checked her reflection on it. Smiling, she cleaned herself up, reapplied her lipstick, and then exited. I zipped my pants, still stunned about what happened. What the fuck? I did not know that Muslim women got down like that. And I can't tell you how awesome it was to shoot my cum all over a hijab-wearing Muslim woman's face. I can't wait to do it again. Yes, I am addicted! 

The Hijab Hunter Ch. 02



Oh, man. I can't believe this shit. This bitch didn't wash her pussy today and I'm forced to proceed with the licking because she told me that if I can't lick her, then I can't stick her. In case you're wondering who this is, my name is Stephen. Big and tall young Black man of Haitian descent living in the region of Ontario, Canada. University dropout turned College graduate, contract technician for anything electrical, mechanical or electronic. And now I can add first-rate sexual adventurer to my list of my accomplishments. I'm your one and only sexual conquistador, The Hijab Hunter, ladies and gentlemen. And right now, I'm going down on a fine piece of Lebanese womanhood known as Khadija Wahid. 

My latest victim, um, I mean lover, is something else, man. The lovely Khadija Wahid. She's from the town of Baalbek in the Republic of Lebanon and has been in the town of Ottawa, Province of Ontario, for the past fifteen months. Like many ladies around the world, Arab women included, our dear friend Khadija is curious about the sexual powers of Black men. Since I'm one of the best that Team Chocolate has to offer, I did the honors. Khadija Wahid got herself a hairy, wet pussy that tastes really wonderful but doesn't smell too sweet. Look, I'm not one to bad-mouth anyone. Especially when I've got my mouth on your pussy. However, I do prefer a clean pussy to lick. It's just my preference, that's all.

I was walking around the Saint Laurent Mall when I spotted a fine-looking Arab chick with an ass like whoa, as they say in the hood. You should have seen her, man. She was tall and thick, with quite the body on her. I have a thing for curvy women with big butts, which is a genetic attraction thing for Black men. I don't know any Black guys who don't like big butts. If you see a brother who doesn't like a woman with a big ass, he's probably not into women at all or he's a white dude in disguise. Word up. Anyway, I spotted Khadija sitting alone on a bench inside the usually crowded mall. It's one of the busiest shopping centers in the Canadian capital. I had to holler at her, man. First I had to make sure the coast was clear. Muslims might be a little crazier than the rest of us secular-minded people but they got sexual needs like everybody else. And everything about that thick Arab chick was oozing sensuality, though she wore a long flowery dress and a stylish silvery hijab. 

Now, from my experiences as The Hijab Hunter, I can honestly tell you that Muslim women are first-rate freaks, they are just more discrete about it than other women. It's a matter of life and death for them. Muslim men are the biggest hypocrites on God's green Earth. They disapprove of homosexuality, lesbianism and gay marriage. Yet it's a rare Muslim men who hasn't fucked another guy or gotten fucked by another guy. Why? Simply because in Muslim societies, men and women spend a lot of time apart because of Arab male insecurity and the fact that the governments of North African and Middle Eastern countries are led by religious freaks without a sense of humor. 

That creates a lot of what I call situational bisexuality. What do I mean by that? Men who are totally straight might let another guy suck their dicks if they're going to spend a long time in an all-male environment. Likewise, women who are totally heterosexual might let another woman lick their pussy ( and more) if they're in a place without men for long periods of time. Situational bisexuality occurs all the time. Anyhow, where was I? Sorry, I get distracted sometimes. It's one of my weaknesses and I am working on correcting it. I get lost in the details and lose sight of the big picture. That can be a fatal flaw in a man and it's something I am working on fixing within myself. Onward with the tale, people.

To put it bluntly, I approached the lovely Khadija Wahid because I wanted some. The Lebanese Muslim beauty from Baalbek looked at me with those smoldering golden brown eyes of hers and I knew she wanted me. Oh, yeah. She looked me up and down, and liked what she saw. I smiled, and we began talking. I learned a bit about her. Khadija Wahid was new to Canada. She recently married this Lebanese guy named Mohammed, and he was apparently a wealthy banker born in the region of Mount Liban, Republic of Lebanon, but raised in the town of Toronto, Ontario. Her husband was rich but he neglected her because he's a high-ranking executive with the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce. Rich man too busy to spend time with his darling wife and take care of her womanly needs. This looks like a job for me, The Hijab Hunter. Khadija told me she felt neglected by her guy. His lack of attention made her feel unwanted. She was even questioning her own looks. Oh, man. This was too easy. I told Khadija Wahid that she was beautiful and that any man who didn't notice her must be blind or stupid. Would you believe that was all it took to get her to come home with me?

And that's how we ended up here. I had Khadija Wahid lying on my bed, nearly naked save her for bra and panties. She wanted to take off her hijab but I told her she looked beautiful with it. She smiled at that. It always amazes me how so many Muslim women have no idea that atheist men, Christian men and Jewish guys are turned on by sexy ladies in hijabs. I scour the web looking for pictures and videos of hijab-wearing nude chicks having sex with guys and with other women. Hijab porn is the shit, man. I was licking Khadija's pussy like there was no tomorrow. I fingered her pussy, licked her clit and worked my magic. Haitian men like myself love eating pussy. If eating pussy was a sport, Haitian guys would be the defending champions time after time. Only lesbians could compete with us. Word up.

I made Khadija Wahid squeal and moan as I did my thing. Dude, you won't believe this but she came. Hell yeah. The sexy hijab-wearing Lebanese Muslim chick from Baalbek squirted hot girly cum all over my face. And I loved it. I held her in my arms and watched as she squealed, in sheer orgasmic delight. I smiled at her. Yeah, sexy lady. I got it like that. Next, I put on a condom and slid my cock into my very first piece of Muslim pussy. Khadija wrapped her arms around me as I drilled my dick into her snatch. Man, I took my sweet time as I fucked her. I had been dreaming of this for ages. Fucking a fine piece of Muslim pussy with my Infidel/former Christian cock. It's so deliciously haram, as the Arabs say. Oh, come on. Don't look at me like that. Arab/Muslim guys fuck Christian chicks, Jewish chicks and Atheist chicks all the time. Isn't it about time some of us Infidel men fucked some of their women? Turnabout is fair play, after all. I didn't tell Khadija any of this, of course. We just 'made love' for hours, until we got off who knows how many times and lay exhausted on my king-sized bed, wet and spent.

Khadija Wahid got up, giving me a spectacular view of her big round Arab ass. The only women in the world who might be able to compete with Black women in the posterior department are Arab women and Brazilian women. Word up. Khadija showered, then got dressed and left my apartment. I wished her a good day, and offered to put her in a cab but she declined. The Lebanese beauty told me that most cab drivers in the City of Ottawa and across the Province of Ontario were either Somali guys or Arab men. Muslim guys talked more than the chicks on that show Gossip Girl. Word might spread about her, so she went to the bus stop and waited for OC Transpo. I felt bad about putting this sultry Muslim beauty on the bus but hey, I understood her logic. Damn, I need a car for real. Anyhow, until next time. The Hijab Hunter wishes you a good day, and don't drink and drive. Actually, don't masturbate while driving either. It put one of my buddies in the hospital. Peace. 



The Hijab Hunter Ch. 03



By now, I trust that I require no introduction. Just in case you're new to reading about my exploits, I shall give you the rundown. The name is Stephen. Big and tall young Black man living in the Province of Ontario, Canada. My fans know me as The Hijab Hunter. Let me tell you about my latest victim, uh, encounter, I mean. I've had the pleasure of hooking up with a lovely curvaceous Somali sister and a Lebanese Muslim beauty recently. My latest conquest is this fine-looking if somewhat meek Saudi gal that I encountered at the bus stop a week ago. The prospect of seducing a Saudi woman appealed to me immensely, especially given what I knew of Saudi culture. 

For those of you who don't know, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia is the heartland of Islam. A place where women have zero rights. Even in the deeply conservative Islamic Republic of Iran, women can drive and even work as prison guards, albeit only in female prisons. In the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, women cannot drive, and they can be jailed for even attempting it. Also, Saudi women cannot leave the house without a male chaperone, and they require the permission of their husband, father or brother to move about. Oh, and they have to wear a full-body cloak known as the Burka by law. It's not a tradition down there, it's a requirement. That's just how things work down there. Wow. It's the most conservative nation on God's green Earth. To say that women are oppressed down there is the understatement of the century. Saudi males are the most sexist and oppressive jerks in human history. They hate freedom and they hate womankind. Yet amazingly, western powers don't realize this about them. Why? Simply because Saudi men are slick. They act all friendly while stabbing you in the back. Iranians, Syrians and Egyptians are hot-headed loudmouths whom you can see coming a mile away. Saudis are smarter than that.

Anyhow, we were in late June 2012 and the weather in the Capital region of Canada was extremely hot and wet. Ha, hot and wet. That's a good one. Anyhow, I was walking around the Vanier area of Ottawa when all of a sudden, it started to rain. Shit. Just what I needed. I was walking around looking all cool with my red silk shirt and Black silk pants. I wanted to go see the movie Prometheus with my buddies David and Armand, a couple of Haitian guys from Montreal, Quebec, who recently moved to Ottawa, Ontario. Knowing how boring Ottawa was, I wanted to show my buddies a good time. I spend most of my free time in Toronto because at least over there, well, you can find stuff to do. Ottawa is a supremely boring town and damn proud of it. Don't know what possessed these bozos to leave lively Montreal for dull little Ottawa. Oh, well. Not my problem. So, um, it started raining and that got annoying real quick. I went to the nearest bus shelter, and I wasn't alone. There was someone else there. A round Arab lady of average height with a meek expression on her face. I quickly looked her up and down. Curvy body, nice ass, big tits. All carefully hidden under an overflowing summer dress and hijab. Okay, I'm interested. 

I smiled at the Arab lady, and asked her when the next bus was coming by. She looked at me meekly, then checked the time on her watch. I am almost always surprised to see people wearing watches these days. Seriously. Doesn't everybody and their grandma have a cellphone these days? I'm just saying. The Arab lady told me it was 1 : 17 P.M. Cool. That's my favorite time of day, actually. On November 17, 2009, I won two thousand dollars playing the lottery in Buffalo, New York. On December 17, 2011, my ex-girlfriend Lashondra Jones, a big-booty slut from the island of Jamaica, let me nut in her face for old time's sake. How about that? 117 has got to be my lucky number. I looked at the Arab lady, looked at the rain outside and told her that I wished I had headgear like her. Kind of weak, I know, referring to her hijab as protection for the head against the rain. What surprised me was that she fell for it. The Arab lady smiled, and told me that hijabs had practical applications. Hmmm. I always thought they were imposed on women by insecure Muslim guys who feel the need to control women's bodies and minds out of gynophobia. I didn't tell her that, of course.

I looked at the Arab lady and asked her if she was Lebanese. There are lot of Lebanese people in the Vanier sector of Ottawa. There is a Lebanese Christian church and a mosque in the area. I have a thing for Lebanese women. They're very beautiful. The Arab lady snorted, and told me that she was Saudi, not Lebanese. I nodded at that. Smiling coyly, she asked me if I knew where her country was located. I grinned and said middle east. Either that or north Africa. The lady smiled, and told me she missed home. She smiled wistfully when she said that. I sensed a story there and pressed her. I told her that I missed my homeland too. I told her I came from the island of Haiti. Upon hearing the word Haiti, the Saudi woman told me how sorry she was about the Haiti earthquake. 

A lot of people in Canada and elsewhere only became aware of the Haitian nation because of the greatest disaster in human history. Before that, we didn't exist in their minds. They have this fake, almost knee-jerk sympathy when Haiti is mentioned. The Arab lady didn't seem to fall into that category of fakers, though. Honestly, she seemed sincere. I thanked her, and told her that by the Grace of God, Haiti was doing alright. Oil was recently found in Haiti, if you can believe that. The Arab lady smiled at that. She told me that oil could be both a blessing and a curse for a nation. With wealth came political turmoil and unrest. She cited the middle east and northern Africa as examples, and I couldn't disagree. The Arabs were rich thanks to the oil but they led crappy, violent and largely miserable lives due to their political and social troubles. 

I didn't know much about Arab politics other than the fact that the Arabs hated the Jews of Israel and many of these supposedly conservative Arabs in Muslim countries despised western society while enjoying our television shows, our technology, our beer and our porn. I did know that the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia was one nation I did not hear mentioned during the Arab Spring mess. I mentioned that to the Arab lady. When I said that, her pretty face contorted. Her eyes darkened. She spat on the floor, and cursed the name of King Abdullah, leader of Saudi Arabia. I flinched at that. Dude, why she got to spit for? It's so, um, yuck! The little around Arab lady's whole body trembled, and she began sobbing. Honestly, I worried that she might pass out. I froze, wondering what to do. Muslim women, especially those who wear the hijab and dress conservatively, shun male contact. However, my sense of chivalry told me to help any woman in need. Doesn't matter her race, her religion or whatever. 

I took a deep breath, and gently laid my hand on her arm. I told her that I was sorry for causing her pain. The Arab lady looked into my eyes. Yeah, I touched her. Sorry, but chivalry always trumps political correctness. I stood there, waiting for her to start shrinking from me or cursing me for breaking the gender-biased taboos of Islam. I'm the atheist son of a Christian family from the island of Haiti. Sue me. Instead of lashing out, the Arab lady smiled. Gently she touched my hand, and thanked me. I nodded, and slowly let out my breath. That's when the bus came. The door opened, and the driver, an Arab-looking dude with a beard, shot us a look. Oh, shit. Just what I needed. Bad enough that Ottawa police rough up women and minorities left and right and have gotten sued for it. I don't feel safe walking around the Canadian capital as a Black male. Now I might have to worry about the crazy, wicked Arab guys because one of them spotted me getting friendly with one of their women. I looked at the bearded Arab dude. What the fuck was he looking at?

I was all set for telling the bus driver to quit staring at my Black ass but the Arab lady shot him a wuthering look. He sighed, and shook his head as we came in. once inside, I headed to the middle of the bus like I always did but something stopped me. The still-unnamed Arab lady asked me to sit with her. I hesitated. Me? Sitting down on the crowded number eighteen bus heading to downtown Ottawa by the Rideau Center with a hijab-wearing Arab lady from the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia of all places? Sure, sounds like fun! I sat next to her. She introduced herself as Shada Salman. Cool. I introduced myself as Stephen, and automatically offered my hand for her to shake. Immediately I regretted it because I just remembered. Muslim women and their social and cultural shenanigans. Massive sigh. Shada Salman hesitated, then smiled and shook my hand. I smiled and nodded. Okay, that was awkward but could have been worse. 

Yeah, during the bus ride, Shada and I talked. I learned that she was new to Ottawa, and didn't have any family in town. The gal was only twenty three, though she dressed and carried herself more like a matron than a young woman. I tried my best to be sympathetic. I know what it's like. My relatives consider me a Sociopath and won't have anything to do with me. All because of my Trickster talents and the fact that they lack a sense of humor. They always made fun of me but the one time I pranked their collective asses, they got mad. Go figure. Anyhow, that Shada chick was talkative, eh? She told me that she first visited Ottawa, Ontario, three years ago. She came here with her husband Mohammed. They had a dispute and she chose to stay behind. She didn't want to go back to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. She wanted to leave her husband, and stay in Canada. Her case was pending with the Canadian Immigration and Refugee Board. Damn. 

How do I get myself in these situations? I thought long and hard about Shada Salman's situation. Wow. I knew about Saudi Arabia's divorce laws. They're the most pro-male laws in the cosmos. The male keeps the offspring in cases of divorce, and the female gets nothing. The female is the property of her father, then that of her husband. She is bartered and traded like that along lines of succession. That's life for women in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. That's the life so many White women in North America and Europe are choosing for themselves. Good riddance to these brain-dead silly White bitches. Western society will do just fine without them. Listening to Shada Salman telling me about the physical abuse and constant barrage of verbal mistreatment she received from her husband Mohammed irked me, man. I don't think anyone has the right to abuse anyone. Living in Canada, I know all about violent women who abuse men and get away with it due to the extreme political correctness in the system. I know that domestic abuse isn't just an issue of men beating on women. However, in a place like the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, where women got no rights, I was inclined to believe Shada Salman's story about an abusive husband. Just because. 

The bus ride went by quick, and before we knew it, we had arrived at the Rideau Shopping Center in downtown Ottawa. Before we got off, Shada Salman took out her cell phone. I thought the cute Saudi gal was going to ask me for my number but she asked for my Facebook contact information. I gave her the information, and she sent me a friend request on the spot. Taking out my cell phone, I logged onto Facebook and added her. Shada Salman shook my hand, told me she was glad to meet me, then left. I watched her walk away. The Arab guys on the bus, including the bus driver, shot me murderous looks. I shrugged. I don't care. I'm glad I met Shada Salman of Saudi Arabia. I want to get to know her better. And although I think all religions are bullshit, I know that some are worse than others. If God or Jesus Christ are listening, please allow this brave young woman to stay in Canada and escape from the nightmare of domestic abuse and gender-based repression which she endured in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Amen. Signed, an atheist with agnostic tendencies. Peace.



The Hijab Hunter Ch. 04



Another day, another dollar. Isn't that what they say? Stephen here. A big and tall young Black man of Haitian descent living in the region of Ontario, Canada. You may address me by my proper title. For I am The Hijab Hunter. It's Friday morning and I just called the Royal Bank of Canada's automated information system to find out how much I've got. Thirteen hundred and eighty six dollars, plus seventy five cents. My net pay. That's only eleven hundred and seventy eight dollars after taxes. Two weeks worth of pay for a techie working in the City of Ottawa, Province of Ontario. It's not much but fuck it, it's Friday afternoon and I'm going to have me some fun. I'm almost done with my payments for the September 2012 semester at the local University. Yeah, I decided to go back to school to get my Master's degree in Business Administration. Doing contract work as a technician was fine and good, but I want more out of life. 

I've gone through a lot lately, no lie. The kind of things that make a man look at his own life and wonder what the fuck he's doing, you know? Now, for the past few months, I've been scouring the province of Ontario, looking for the hardest kind of pussy for a player to get. Muslim pussy. As an atheist man who grew up in a Christian household, they're unavailable to me. And for that reason, they fascinate me. So far I've had some dirty fun with a big-booty Somali chick and a Muslim lady from the Republic of Lebanon. Had I known that Lebanese women were that fine, I would have tried one a long time ago. Yeah, I'm having fun. A lot of guys who aren't Muslim are secretly fascinated with conservatively dressed Muslim ladies because they seem untouchable to us. Muslim men are bored with them so they date hot western chicks in short skirts with loose morals because they want to get their freak on. 

Just like a lot of Black females now date men of other races because they're tired of seeing Black guys having fun with White women, a lot of Muslim women are starting to date men who aren't Muslim. And I honestly can't blame them. Still, I never set out to date a Muslim chick, though. For real. It doesn't matter what kind of woman you're dating, her religion, her race or whatever. Women are trouble, man. However, as men, we are drawn to them. We can't help it. How else would you explain a player of my caliber risking my life by getting attached to a Saudi chick named Shada Salman. I met her a couple of weeks ago at this bus stop in the Vanier sector of metropolitan Ottawa on a rainy day. She's something else, man. Fine-looking, yes, but also quite....I don't know. I'm not a poet or anything along those lines. Shada Salman is quite a lady, let me put it this way. When I met her, neither of us were having the best of days. And now, we're, um, sort of seeing each other.

Right now, I'm sitting inside the Blair Shopping Center's food court, and it's four thirty in the afternoon. It's a really hot day in the City of Ottawa today. They even opened Mooney's Bay beach. I'm not worried about the summer heat, though. I stay in the Saint Laurent area, and it's not far from Blair. Just two stops away. I showered, brushed my teeth, and splashed on enough Cologne to drown in. I put on a bright blue silk shirt, Black silk pants and Black Timberland shoes. In my pocket I've got my Blackberry, a small portable charger, and a stack of gum. Going to meet a lady, you know, so got to have fresh breath. You never know what might happen. I'm sitting in the food court, watching people go by. Tall White guy with a short, very dark-skinned Black chick. Chubby Asian woman with a short, red-haired White guy. Tall, muscular and tattooed Black man walking with tall blonde-haired White chick. They look like a couple of bikers. Arab guy walking around with short brown-haired White chick. Hmmm. You don't see Arab guys with brunettes too often. They seem to almost universally prefer blondes, when they're dating western women. Go figure. 

The City of Ottawa is quite diverse, with a lot of people from Africa, Latin America and Asia mingling with the Caucasian population. I take a look around, and sip on my Pepsi. Where is the lovely Miss Shada Salman? I check the time on my cell phone. It's four thirty seven. Hmmm. I feel like calling her but stop myself. I already called her around four and she told me she was on her way. Shada Salman lives in the Kanata area of Ottawa, Ontario. It's a country type of place, lots of fields and woods. Lots of White folks. The West end of Ottawa, which includes Kanata, is the Whitest part of the Canadian capital. I live in the East end, surrounded by Haitians, Somalis, Arabs, Hispanics, Jamaicans, and of course Chinese people because they are everywhere. Minority Town, that's the East end of Ottawa. Why did Shada have to go live all the way in frigging Kanata? Because she's a classy lady and it's her kind of place. Man, she and I are so different. I'm still blown away by the fact that we're chilling together.

Shada Salman first came to the town of Ottawa, Ontario, a while ago with her husband Mohammed. They're natives of Riyadh City in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Mohammed is an abusive prick who smacks her around a lot. To the point that she risked her life and everything meaningful to her by throwing herself at the mercy of the Canadian Immigration and Refugee Board. She asked them for asylum. Saudi men aren't well-known for respecting women of any race or religion because they just don't like the idea of treating them right. I'm not saying they're all like that but the average Saudi male thinks women's rights is a joke and that all women should be slaves in a global caliphate. These guys are so conservative that they make the leaders of the Islamic Republic of Iran seem like party boys in Las Vegas. And they want to impose their will upon the rest of the world, with Muslims everywhere as their pawns. Hmmm. Not going to let that happen.

I am honestly starting to care for Shada, and I pray ( yes, this atheist actually went to church and prayed, if only for ten minutes ) that she's allowed to stay in Canada. All kinds of immigrants and refugees come to Canada with bogus stories about being persecuted in their homelands. Shada Salman's story is real. She's truly fleeing from a terrible situation. She's from a country where women are the slaves of humorless religious pricks who don't let them drive or leave the house without male permission. She's escaped from hell and I have no intention of letting her go back. And I mean it. I sigh, and take another look around the Blair Shopping Center. Mad people walking around. Guys and girls. Guys and guys. Girls and girls. All races. All orientations. It's Friday night. Date night. And my Black ass is alone. Great. 

A chubby Black chick with a skinny blond-haired White guy sit at a table ten feet from me. The White guy doesn't notice me but the Black chick shoots me a look. I know that look. Black women with White boyfriends like to show them off to Black men. As if White men are something special. Many White women certainly don't seem to think so, that's why they're chasing Black men, Hispanic dudes and Arab guys left and right. I roll my eyes and look away. Where in hell is Shada Salman? I hope nothing happened to my favorite Saudi princess. I sigh for the umpteenth time. I just hope I don't get a call or text from her saying that she's got to cancel. Shit. That would suck. Big-time. Oh, well. It's my life. 

Suddenly, I feel soft but firm hands clamp over my eyes. I can't see anything. I almost bolt. What the fuck? I hear giggling, and feel lips brush against my ear. Shada Salma whispers that she's got me pretty good. I laugh. She pulls the chair in front of me and I look at her. She looks absolutely mesmerizing. Shada is looking really hot in a full-length blue and silvery robe, and a stylish white hijab. I smile as I look her up and down. She is absolutely stunning. My Arabian goddess. My Persian princess. My middle-eastern queen. Hot damn. I grin and tell her that she looks awesome. Shada Salman smiles that shy, self-effacing smile of hers and tells me that all praise is due to Allah, for He made her. Hmmm. Somebody tell Allah to make more like her and send them to brothers like me. Hot damn. Uh, I barely stop myself from saying that. 

I ask Shada Salman how she's doing. She smiles, and wipes a bead of sweat from her brown. The bronze-skinned, golden brown-eyed Saudi gal licks her lips, and tells me about her day. She is beaming with happiness because she received her social insurance card in the mail today. A while back she got her work permit from the Canadian government. While she's waiting for the decision of the Canadian Immigration Bureau on whether or not they will grant her refugee status, the Canadian government gives her the means of working and becoming self-sustaining. And she couldn't be prouder by the look of her. I am so happy for her. Shada gently touches my hand, and thanks me for believing in her. I smile and nod. I'm smitten with this woman and her marvelous smile, folks. She could say two plus two equals five and I'd say hell yeah. We look at each other like that for a long moment. Usually, I'm pretty bold with women but with Shada Salman, it's different. She's special to me, you know?

Shada tells me about all the jobs she's applied for. She applied at HMV at the Rideau Shopping Center, she also looked into a cook position at a certain Ethiopian restaurant in downtown Ottawa, and as a cashier at the Dollar Store. I smile because I am happy for her. Not for the first time I find myself wishing I were a wealthy guy who could give her everything she wanted. But I'm not. I'm just an average Canadian guy born in the island of Haiti and raised in Ontario. I have a bachelor's degree in technology, I work as a techie for various companies, and I make okay money. I'm not a rich man. Maybe after I get my MBA and start working for a corporation I'll be rich. Who knows? For now, I'm just an average Joe. I gently squeeze Shada Salman's hand, and tell her that she's going to be just fine. She smiles and nods. I check my Blackberry. It's four fifty three. We are going to see the movie Abraham Lincoln : Vampire Hunter. It's supposed to be really good. And it starts at five oh five this afternoon at the Blair Cineplex in Ottawa, a five minute walk from the Blair Shopping Center.

I stand up, and gallantly hold out my hand. Grinning, Shada Salman takes it and I pull her to her feet. We walk over to the Subway restaurant and buy ourselves a pair of sandwiches and two cans of Pepsi. I want to pay for the whole thing but she insists on paying for the drinks. And in her lovely golden brown eyes I saw some decidedly Saudi feminine pride. Shada Salman may have walked away from a privileged life as the wife of a wealthy Saudi Arabian nobleman but she's still a classy woman. She oozes power and determination. Arm in arm we make our way to the movie theater. When I'm walking with her, I feel like I'm on Cloud Nine. She's beautiful, educated and classy. She used to attend the King Abdullah University of Science and Technology, the only western-style, coeducational and secular school in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. I encourage her to continue with her studies here. She's thinking of applying to Carleton University. And I intend to help her every step of the way. I think I'm falling for her, you see. Isn't that a kick in the butt? 



The Hijab Hunter: Cleaning Lady



Another fine day in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. I got my tired Haitian ass off the bus and walked to the university campus. While in the student center I got myself some coffee and sandwiches, and stopped to chit chat with the light-skinned tomboy working behind the Tim Horton’s counter. I walked to the library and took the elevator to the third floor, and guess what I saw when I came out of it. 

A pair of hijab-wearing, somewhat matronly Somali ladies…with big round butts. Hello sister Jabirah, I said to the six-foot-tall, pretty-face plump woman. Hi Stefan, Jabirah Muhammad said with a smile, her round face brightening up. I held the door for her as she worked the cart she was pushing into the elevator. Thank you very much Stefan, Jabirah said. I nodded at her respectfully. Have a blessed day my sister, I said as the elevator doors closed and she went down.

I went to my favorite spot in the back of the library and logged on the computer. I thought about the day’s events. I went to my church, and ran into a racist jerk. Now, my church is very multicultural, I just want to put that out there. The preacher, a good friend of mine, is a black man. He’s married to an Asian lady. There are lots of people from places like the Caribbean, Latin America, Africa and southeast Asia in the congregation. Yet this middle-aged white dude shot me a negative look when I went into the church’s study area to speak to my Jamaican buddy Craig. 

The bearded middle-aged white guy stood at the entrance like he was guarding it. My pal Craig’s wife, a tall sister in a summer dress, asked the white dude if he was the study area’s bouncer. When he heard what she said, he relented somewhat in his attitude toward me. I walked past him and shook my buddy Craig’s hand. We chatted for a couple of minutes then I went on my way. I thought about the dude’s behavior as I caught the bus to campus. There are a lot of racists in Ottawa, but the most dangerous ones are the smiling ones who act fake-nice around us so-called minorities but deep down inside, they hate us.

Ontario, Canada’s Capital region, is a complex place. I’ve known that ever since I moved here from my hometown of Boston, Massachusetts. I attend a university in the Ottawa area, and for the most part, I am guarded in my interactions with the locals. I’ve met plenty of nice people of all shades, but I’ve also met my share of bigots and creeps. Caution guides my interactions with the Canadians. This isn’t progressive New England, where Deval Patrick got elected Governor and no one batted an eyelash. 

The incident at my church surprised me because I considered the people within the congregation my sisters and brothers in Jesus Christ. Never occurred to me that there might be wolves amongst the sheep. Sometimes the most bigoted person you know isn’t the fool telling crude jokes in all-white company but the fake-smiling creep at a gathering full of ethnic people. Lesson learned. Got to keep my eyes on that creep from now on. In Boston, you know your friends and you know your enemies. The bigots walk up to you talking trash, and your pals back you up. That’s how we do it. It’s simpler that way. The subtlety and backstabbing ways of Canadians irk me. Give me an honest creep any day.

It’s not just white Canadians who have issues with the growing number of immigrants from non-European backgrounds multiplying across the country. Quite often different minority groups have issues with each other. A lot of the local Haitians had a problem with Somalis, for example. Not me. Coming into Canada from Massachusetts, I didn’t see the Somalis as outsiders. I saw them as my sisters and brothers from Africa. I befriended quite a few, and learned about their faith and culture. I was brought up Christian, you understand, so there were some tense moments between my new Muslim friends and myself but for the most part, my interactions with Somalis, Arabs and Lebanese have been overwhelmingly positive.

I’ve met the big, scary Muslims you hear about on the web and on television and they’re among the nicest people you’ll ever meet. I befriended Ali, a young Somali guy in the criminology program at my new university. Through him I met a few others, like a young Djibouti gal named Amina and a young Saudi guy named Ibrahim. See? I make friends wherever I go. I’m twenty eight years old and although I’m in graduate school, I still think I’ve got a lot to learn. 

I went to Web CT and worked on my assignment, and after two hours of ceaselessly typing, I was bored as can be. I went downstairs to clear my head. While sitting in a corner of the building I saw a very familiar silhouette moving about and talking animatedly in a language I did not know. Isn’t that…oh yes it is Jabirah, the kindly Somali lady I sometimes talk to. She stopped talking on the phone and leaned against the building wall, sniffing loudly. I’d seen enough. I walked up to her and asked her if she was alright. 

Jabirah looked at me, smiled sadly and shook her head. My world is crashing down my brother, the Somali lady said in a sad tone. Talk to me, I said, gently laying my hand on her shoulder. Jabirah looked at me and at my hand. I briskly apologized, for Muslim women don’t like to be touched by men they don’t know. Come to think, all women feel that way. Don’t apologize my friend, Jabirah said, and her fingers brushed against mine. Then she told me her tale of woe. I am thirty five years and useless because I’m barren, Jabirah said. She told me how Suleiman, the man she’d hoped to marry recently dumped her. The wedding she’d spent a year working to pay was off. I am useless, she said, shaking her head, tears streaming down her face. You are not useless, I told her. 

What happened next surprised us both. One moment I was gently holding Jabirah in my arms to comfort her, and the next we were kissing. Yup, I’m a big and tall, cross-wearing Haitian-American catholic, and I made out with a hot-looking, hijab-wearing, pleasantly plump and rather tall Somali cleaning lady. And her lips were the sweetest I’d ever kissed. I shouldn’t have done that, I said to Jabirah. Smiling, she shook her head. Me neither, she giggled. I am fond of you milady, I said in a mock English accent. Jabirah laughed, and we began the kisses again.

That’s how it began, ladies and gentlemen. My romance with a woman from another ethnicity, another culture and another faith. We embarked on a secret, passionate relationship. Dating a Somali woman changed my life. There was so much about African culture I didn’t know. My parents Pauline and Jean-Francois Casimir are Haitian immigrants who moved to Massachusetts from the Caribbean. Until I came to Canada, my knowledge of black culture was limited to my interactions with folks from the Caribbean and America. Somalis are something else altogether. Jabirah was surprisingly open-minded, considering we’re from very different faiths and walks of life. Muslim women typically avoid dating men from other religions. When I asked her why she took a chance on me, Jabirah laughed. Every Muslim guy I’ve ever been with treated me like shit and the only man who was ever kind to me is a Christian, she said with a knowing smile. Good answer Miss B, I said as I gave her a peck on the lips.

Jabirah and I have a lot of fun together, and I treasure every moment of our relationship. I love taking her to the movies. The Silver City movie theater is our favorite spot, followed by East Side Mario’s restaurant. I love taking her ballroom dancing, and this tall, pleasantly plump sister is surprisingly light on her feet. We’d been seeing each other for six months before consummating our relationship. We were hanging out at my place in Vanier, watching a rerun of the old television series Highlander on my laptop.

Lying on the couch together, with her body pressed against mine, I felt super comfortable with Jabirah and hoped she felt comfortable with me. Indeed she did for she let out a loud fart out of the blue. Damn baby, I said, mock-coughing for effect. My farts don’t smell, Jabirah laughed. I gave her big round ass a hard smack. Playfully we wrestled, jockeying for position. I’m six-foot-four but kind of spry at two hundred and ten pounds. Jabirah outweighed me by a good fifty pounds. Jabirah looked at me, and I looked at her, and next thing I knew we were wrestling on the floor. Um, she kind of pinned me.

I looked up at Jabirah. Gosh she was beautiful. You want me, she said, licking her lips. It wasn’t a question. Indeed I do, I said. Smiling, Jabirah began removing her clothes. First came her dark blue long-sleeved T-shirt, followed by her bra. The only things that remained were her hijab and long skirt. Got no panties under there, she whispered into my ear. My eyes widened as I saw her breasts. They were big and round, and totally natural. Gently I cupped them in my hands. Squeeze them, Jabirah said lustily. I did just that. I took her left breast into my mouth and gently sucked on it, much to Jabirah’s delight, for she moaned in pleasure. Sweetie I’m going to rock your world, I promised.

A little while later, I had Jabirah on her back, her skirt up and her legs spread. I had my face buried in that hairy snatch of hers and I was eating her out like my life depended on it. Lick it good, Jabirah moaned, licking her lips. I licked that sweet pussy of hers, sticking my tongue inside and teasing her clitoris. Drove her absolutely nuts, and I loved every minute of it. I’ve gone down on a few women and Jabirah was different, to say the least. You see, in Somali culture, they ‘modify’ women in the name of chastity and purity. Jabirah told me what to expect, and I was ready. I will pleasure you like no one before, I told her. And I definitely kept my word, for I licked, probed and teased that hot pussy of hers for hours.

Are you ready for more? I asked a breathless Jabirah after polishing her sweet cunt with my tongue. I want you to fuck me silly you freaky Haitian man, she said sexily. I aim to please, I said as I raised her thick, sexy legs in the air and rolled a condom on my dick. Looking into Jabirah’s eyes, I gently eased my hard dick into her pussy. Finally, we were one. At last, she said, wrapping her arms around me. I smiled and began making love to her, thrusting my dick deep inside of her. We made love like this for hours, going at it until all of our urges were sated. Oh, we did in a myriad ways. At one point I put Jabirah on all fours and spanked her big butt while slamming my dick into her from behind. That was my sweetest experience in a long night of passion. What can I say? I love my lady’s thick Somali booty.

After making love, Jabirah and I lay side by side on my bed. I live in a modest apartment in Vanier, the east end of Ottawa. A one-bedroom affair with a small kitchen, living room and washroom. Yet when I first brought her for a visit Jabirah acted like she was being given a grand tour of some palace and told me she liked my place. Your place is cozy, she told me reassuringly as I watched her poke her nose around. I looked at my Somali sweetheart as she slept. I’m really fond of this woman and I honestly want to ask her to move in with me. Of course we’ll have to find a bigger place but that’s alright. I’m going to ask her in the morning. Maybe. Wish me luck, eh? 



The Hijab Hunter: Confessions



Every time I see a hot chick walking by wearing a Hijab I get an instant boner, I said sheepishly, confessing one of my deepest, darkest secrets to Dr. Nafisah Mahmoud, my psychiatrist. The forty-something Saudi Arabian lady raised an eyebrow, and stared at me as if I were a Martian. I'm sorry, I said with a shrug. And I truly am. For I didn't mean to offend the good doctor. If she hadn't agreed to take me on as a patient I would be in the slammer. Still, if you're not honest with your shrink, who can you be honest with? My name is Gabriel Guerrier and by my own admittance I'm a very disturbed individual.

How did I end up in a shrink's office? Long story, folks. It began when I met this hot Jamaican chick named Sabrina Thompson while walking around downtown Ottawa. There are many attractive women of all hues in the province of Ontario but this dame stood out. Five foot ten, curvy and sexy, with big tits and a heart-shaped ass that just won't quit. A caramel-skinned Nubian goddess who needs to be worshipped properly. I figured I better holler at her before someone else does, you know?

I approached her, and even though she acted coy I could tell that she was feeling me. I've got that Montreal Haitian charm, you know? The lady was hesitant for all of ten seconds, then we began to chat. She just transferred to Carleton University from York University in Toronto. How about that? I transferred to Carleton from the University of Montreal. I got into some trouble with some punks in la belle province and my parents sent me to stay at my aunty and uncle's spot in Ottawa to chill. Sort of a Fresh Prince deal, I guess. I got a job as a computer repairman in the east end of Ottawa. I make seventeen dollars an hour and since I live with my uncle and aunt, I don't pay rent but I do chip in for groceries and cable. 

Sabrina smiled when I shared that with her, and told me I'm slick. If she only knew. I'm as slick as they come. When I asked her for her digits, Sabrina took mine instead. Damn. When a female takes your digits instead of giving you hers, you can pretty much forget about it. Why? Women take forever to make up their minds about calling a brother. I'm only nineteen years old but I know this much is true. I thought I'd never hear from Sabrina but got the surprise of a lifetime when she texted me the next day. How about that? I called her and we ended up speaking on the phone for sixty seven minutes. Typically I don't spend a long time hollering at women on the phone. I like to show them what I can do instead of talking about it, if you catch my drift. 

With Sabrina Thompson I kind of made an exception, and it turned out to be worth it. I invited her to catch a movie with me at the Blair Cinema. We saw The Colony, a science fiction featuring Laurence Fishburne, an actor I like. He's one of the giants of Black Hollywood, it's too bad his daughter Montana Fishburne is a dumb slut who decided to become a porn star. I shouldn't talk shit about her, I guess. Why is that, you may ask? Simple. I own all of her porn DVDs by the way. She's got a really nice ass. I like them light-skinned honeys and they like me. I'm a six-foot-one, somewhat chubby but still good-looking, chocolate-skinned brother. The women who find me the most attractive tend to be white chicks or light-skinned black women. The union of opposites, I guess. 

After the movie, Sabrina and I walked through Parliament Hill and then went to the National Gallery to check out some artwork. I'm just getting to know this chick so I wanted to appear cultured and sophisticated. We were on our sixth date when she dropped the fact that she was engaged...to a white dude. Um, what the fuck? If she's engaged to some white bozo, why is she walking around with a brother? When I asked her this, Sabrina smiled sheepishly and told me that she just wanted to be friends. Man, I'm not the type of dude to smack a female but if I were, Sabrina would get smacked like the bitch she is. We were dining inside East Side Mario's restaurant when she dropped that bomb on me. Vexed beyond belief, I got up, paid and left.

The next time I ran into Sabrina was at Mansion, this night club in downtown Ottawa. She was there with a chubby, ugly red-haired white dude. Her fiancé Sean something or other. Sean and I had words, and I kind of knocked him out. I got into it with the bouncers when they tried to separate us. I was taken first to jail then to a psychiatric hospital because apparently I was foaming at the mouth and speaking in tongues. If I could I would have told them that I wasn't speaking in tongues, I was just irate and drunk off my ass. 

I spent the next thirteen days at the Ottawa General Hospital in the lunatic wing, and once the doctors deemed me competent, I was released. I'm happy to say that no criminal charges were brought against me, though I've got a lifetime ban from the night club. As a condition of my release, the Crown Prosecutor's Office said I needed to attend anger management classes and also undergo psychiatric treatment. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I ended up at the office of Dr. Nafisah Mahmoud, one of metropolitan Ottawa's finest shrinks...in every sense of the word.

The good doctor asked me what I found so attractive about Hijab-wearing women. I think my fascination with them began when I met Ayaan, one of the Somali nurses at the hospital. She was cute, petite and big-bottomed, and wore the Hijab. Out of the entire staff, Ayaan is the only person who was nice to me. The Hershey-colored twenty-something Somali lady was a life saver, man. She's the only person at the hospital who treated me like a human being. The white nurses acted all nervous and shit whenever they had to give me my medication. The hospital security guards loved wrestling me to the ground and grabbing me so much that I honestly think they're more than a little bit on the fruity side. Honestly, I got nothing against queers, let them marry each other if they want, but I don't like dudes grabbing me or hugging me. That's not Kosher. 

All this I told to the good doctor. Smiling, Dr. Nafisah Mahmoud took notes, smiled, and asked me what I thought of Muslims, especially Muslim women. I told her that I was raised Catholic but checked out fine-looking women of all races and religions. I don't care if a woman wears a Hijab or a bikini. If she's got a cute face and a nice ass, I will check her out. I'm a man. Alright? When I said that, Dr. Mahmoud smiled and asked me some personal questions. Has there been a woman in my life since the fiasco with Sabrina Thompson? I kind of blushed when I told the good doctor that I've been sexless for the past month. Seriously. My balls are bluer than the morning sky. Dr. Mahmoud laughed when I said that, and then our hour together concluded. 

I went home after work that night, and thought about the lovely Ayaan, of her curvy body, fantastically rounded Somali ass and full lips. That fearless smile and those almond-shaped brown eyes of hers haunted my dreams. I lay there on my bed, somewhere between dreamland and wakefulness, completely naked, stroking my average-sized, uncircumcised dick. I pumped my dick hard and fast, visualizing Ayaan's hot booty, and of course her Hijab-covered head. I don't know why but chicks in Hijabs turn me on. I found a website that features porn actresses wearing Hijabs while engaging in sex acts with men and other women. It's called Beurette Tour and I honestly can't get enough of it. I imagined Ayaan bending over for me while I smacked her ass and eased my dick inside of her. Hot damn, this caused my dick to harden like steel. Just before I came, the image of Ayaan vanished from my erotic fantasy, replaced by someone else...guess who? Dr. Nafisah Mahmoud.

What the fuck? Where did that come from? I have been in Dr. Nafisah Mahmoud's presence numerous times. The tall, curvy, raven-haired and bronze-skinned Saudi-Canadian shrink is lovely but doesn't light my fire. I mean, she's hot, but...before I could stop myself, my twisted mind was conjuring an image of her, leaning against her oak desk, stylish pantsuit off, wearing nothing but a bra and panties...and her Hijab of course. I walked up to the good doctor in my birthday suit, and she reached for my ebony cock, stroking it before kneeling before me and taking me into her mouth. 

Dr. Nafisah Mahmoud sucked me good, licking my balls and lathering my cock with her mouth and tongue. When I came, she guzzled up every last drop of my cum. I looked at her, and I must say the sight of my cum on her face thrilled me. I'd gotten a few drops on her Hijab as well...I'm so naughty. Next, I laid her on the desk, and spread her legs. I kissed her full and deep, and suckled at her tits for a bit while slipping my fingers into her panties. I slid first one finger then two inside her cunt, causing her to moan. I kissed a path from her tits to her belly, and made my way to her pelvic area. I inhaled the scent of her pussy, smiled then went to work. I love eating pussy, folks, and no two women smell or taste alike.

Dr. Nafisah Mahmoud moaned softly and urged me to lick her pussy real good, and like the gentleman that I am, I did as the lady asked. I thrust two fingers into her cunt and teased her clitoris with my tongue. Her screams of delight filled the office. I didn't relent until she begged me too. Next, I slid my cock into her pussy and we began fucking. The good doctor wrapped her arms around me, and I buried my face between her tits while slamming my cock into her. Her pussy gripped my dick nice and tight, and I gave her all that I got, man. It wasn't long before I came, flooding her twat with my manly spunk. My eyes snapped open as cum oozed out of my erect penis, and I looked around, wondering where I was. Slowly it all came back to me. I was in my uncle and aunt's place in Orleans. In my room. Safe and sound. And alone. It was all a dream. Some dream, dammit!

A few days later, I went to Dr. Nafisah Mahmoud's office in Alta Vista. I noticed something different about her. She wore a long-sleeved flowery greenish T-shirt, black silk pants and a Hijab. This immediately caught my attention. I'd never seen her in Hijab before. She looked...lovely. The good doctor caught me staring, smiled and asked me if I was alright. I nodded, and asked her how she was doing. With a disarming smile the doc told me she was excited about the upcoming Ramadan. I nodded understandingly. Fasting is always a good thing, I told Dr. Nafisah, patting my belly. She smiled bashfully and told me not to fret, that I still looked good. I looked at the Hijab which framed her face so beautifully, and felt a stir down below. I crossed my legs to conceal my growing erection. Had a good night? The good doctor asked me. I smiled. Had an awesome night, I said, as we began the session. 



The Hijab Hunter: Conversion



Lying next to me after a night of passionate lovemaking, my wife Ayanna Abdikarim-Chandelier sighs in her sleep. The sight of her never ceases to thrill me. We first met while working as security guards at this museum in downtown Ottawa, Ontario. The tall, curvy Somali gal with the shy smile and lively eyes has haunted me from the get-go. You see, where I come from, we don't have people who look like her. I was born in the City of Amarillo, Texas, to a Haitian immigrant father and Mexican-American mother. My parents, Eustache Chandelier ( yes, I've heard all the jokes ) and Miranda Castillo produced a fine, strapping lad if I do say so. 

Guess who attracts second and even third glances from the ladies wherever he goes? Yours truly, Solomon Chandelier. I'm six-foot-three, somewhat chubby but still handsome, with caramel skin, light brown eyes and curly Black hair. People say that I look like the late Hollywood superstar Lee Thompson Young, only a bit beefier. I take that as a compliment. I love being the center of attention and I love the ladies. My fondness for women has recently gotten me into trouble. 

What happened? I won't go into too many details because I signed an agreement. Please try to understand. Suffice to say that a cheerleader broad whose advances I rebuffed decided to make my life hell and used the University of Texas campus administration to do it. Think false allegation of misconduct, if you will. After getting kicked out of the University of Texas over an alleged harassment incident at a fraternity event, it was decided that I would be sent to stay with my paternal uncle Samuel and my aunt Samantha Chandelier in the Canadian capital.

When I first got to the City of Ottawa, I hated the place. For a capital, this town seemed small, uptight and boring. I enrolled at Carleton University to continue my studies, and got a job as a security guard to make ends meet. I got nothing but love for my uncle and aunt but I needed my own place. I used my first paycheck, eight hundred dollars, to pay for a one-bedroom apartment in the Vanier sector of Ottawa. I found the apartment while browsing through the website Kijiji. It's a great place to find cheap deals. My apartment was basically the size of a shoe box but it's my shoe box. I liked it because it was mine. I lived alone, with nobody to bug me or boss me around. Vive la liberte, as my Haitian people would say!

Anyhow, the security company for which I worked sent me to this museum in downtown Ottawa. It's where I met Ayanna Abdikarim, a gorgeous young Somali woman destined to change my life forever. Growing up in the American Midwest, I was used to racial diversity. We've got African-Americans, Latinos, Chinese folks and lots of other minority groups in Texas. It's not just Cowboy Bill and his wife Sue. Still, when I came to Ottawa, I was stunned by the diversity of its population. On the same bus I saw gothic White brats, hijab-wearing Muslim girls from places like Somalia, Turkey, Lebanon and sari-clad Hindu women. Wow, this place was something else. The women from Somalia fascinated me the most. 

I've never seen such a uniquely beautiful ethnic group, and I know a thing or two about racial and ethnic diversity. As a half Haitian, half Mexican guy born and raised in Texas, I'm multiethnic my damn self. Yeah, I became fascinated with Somali ladies and would often approach and befriend them. They were a bit reserved in their dealings with me because they're Muslim and as Muslim women they have strict rules to follow in their interactions with the opposite sex. Instead of rebuffing me, this arms-length method them Somali women had of dealing with men drew me in even more. 

This fascination for all things related to Somali women only intensified once I met the lovely Ayanna Abdikarim. The lady was tall, curvy, big-bottomed and absolutely beautiful...and she was my supervisor. The museum employed thirty five security guards, who watched the site 24/7. Some of us were in the camera room, others were on patrol, looking after the museum's exhibits and all that jazz. The team was split into day, evening, overnight and weekend divisions. Ayanna Abdikarim was the day shift supervisor. 

The first time I laid eyes on that woman, I knew I had to have her. I love a sister with a curvy body and a thick, round booty. And when said sister also happens to wear the hijab, hot damn, I get turned on just looking at her. That's why I set out to seduce Ayanna Abdikarim. Never mind that she's a devout Muslim who takes breaks during the workday to pray and I'm a lapsed Christian who lusts after her every chance I get. Never mind that we're from completely different worlds. I wanted that woman as badly as I wanted my next breath. Ayanna shall be mine if it's the last thing I do, I vowed to myself.

As you can imagine, I was headed for trouble. I relentlessly pursued the lovely Muslim gal who was the object of my affections. Basically I flirted, hollered, and stalked her. In no uncertain terms she let me know that she was not interested. I can only be with a Muslim man and a non-creepy one at that, Ayanna told me loudly one afternoon at work. Alright, I said, and watched as she walked away, sashaying that thick Somali booty from side to side. How do I get up in that? The solution to my problem came unexpectedly. You see, I've always been the bold, assertive type, for good and for ill.

The neighborhood where I live is filled with religious institutions. There's a Haitian Baptist church, a Lebanese Christian church, a Methodist Assembly, a Greek Orthodox church, a Jewish Temple and a mosque. Late one night, while walking around, I saw some punks trying to set fire to the mosque. I rushed into the mosque's courtyard and confronted the bozos. There were three of them. I punched one dude's lights out but his buddies had knives and they got me good, man. They stuck me like a pig. I fell to the ground, basically a goner. When I woke up, three days later, I was in a room at the Ottawa General Hospital.

I had more people visiting me and talking to me that day than in all the previous months I spent in Canada. My aunt and uncle came by to visit, thanking God that I was still alive. My parents had flown in from Texas and we exchanged hugs and tears as we were reunited. The pretty Arab female doctor told me that I was lucky to be alive. It was touch and go for a while young man, Dr. Alexandra Shiraz told me. I know it doc, I said with a smile. My last visitor for the day turned out to be none other than Ayanna Abdikarim. I have been praying to Allah for you, she said, with tears in her eyes.

Man, I was stunned. Usually, whenever Ayanna and I spoke, I would flirt with her and she would tell me to go fuck myself. I'd say something clever like I'd rather do her instead, and she'd threaten to file a harassment complaint about me. Yeah, I may have overplayed my ability to charm the female of the species. Basically women find me annoying and obnoxious and can't stand to have me around. You can imagine how surprised I was to see Ayanna actually happy to see me. My father Ali is the Imam of the mosque you saved and he has ordered a day of prayer for your health, Ayanna said happily. I didn't know what an Imam was but I smiled and nodded. I couldn't stand by and let them burn a house dedicated to the God we all love and worship, I said, trying to sound deep.

Man, my voice sounded weak even to my ears but apparently, Ayanna liked what she heard. You are a good man Solomon and I'm sorry it took me so long to realize it, Ayanna said, gently touching my hand. I looked at her hand on mine and smiled. Thank you my sister, I said, meaning it. Ayanna smiled and then gave me a hug. Sleep well, she said, gently kissing me on the cheek. Then she walked out of the room. I lay there, wishing I could get up to jump up and down. I was on cloud nine, dude! It took me three months of intense physiotherapy to get back on my feet....the stabbing that almost ended my life nearly crippled me.

My family was there for me every step of the way, and so was Ayanna. It turns out that my hijab-clad ex-supervisor was also a former athlete. Ayanna Abdikarim once played rugby for the University of Calgary in Alberta, so she knew a thing or two about physical fitness. That's awesome because I'm a couch potato. In those trying days, we actually bonded. I learned much about this young Somali Muslim woman I found myself falling for. Her mother Samira died giving birth to her and her father Ali was a fairly laidback kind of guy, considering he was the leader of the local Islamic community. He raised his only daughter to be a strong and ambitious gal. Ayanna had a bachelor's degree in Criminal Justice from the University of Calgary and hoped to get into Law School someday but harsh circumstances forced her to put that dream on hold. That's why she was working security in Ottawa.

You'll accomplish your dreams someday my sweet sister, I told Ayanna one night, as we walked out of the Silver City movie theater. Thank you for believing in me, Ayanna said. I looked at her, and she looked so beautiful in her long-sleeved blue T-shirt, long Black skirt and stylish dark gray hijab. Impulsively I took her face in my hands and kissed her. For a moment Ayanna froze, and I thought I'd done the wrong thing. I'm extremely bad at reading women. I always misread the cues. In the back of my mind I readied myself to apologize for what I'd done. Then something surprising happened. Ayanna put her arms around me and kissed me back with a passion which surprised us both. You've got sweet lips Mister Texas, Ayanna said, smiling, when we came up for air.

I smiled at Ayanna, feeling happy and relieved. You are amazing, I said. Hand in hand we left the Silver City theater and then made our way back downtown. That night, I told my parents how I felt about Ayanna, and they gave me their blessing. My Somali sweetheart and I began officially dating, and I embraced her, and her culture, and her faith. A year later, I took my Shahada at the very mosque where I almost died. I was reborn as a Muslim, taking the name Suleiman. It's the Arabic name of the Biblical King Solomon, who is respected in the Quran and the Torah. Ayanna and I got married, her father Ali officiated at our wedding, and we now have a son, Omar Joseph Chandelier. At long last, I found peace, love and happiness. I thank the Most High for His blessings. Peace be upon you. 



The Hijab Hunter: Femdom



Hello, everybody. My name is Fatima Al-Anwar and I'm a young Black woman of Somali descent living in the City of Ottawa, Province of Ontario. I was raised in the Capital region of Canada. We Somalis are well-known to be conservative, and we've been staunchly Muslim since shortly after the days of the Prophet Muhammad himself. Before the Arabian Peninsula and the Persian world became involved in Islam, Somalis knew the faith. It's all we've ever known, really. No one remembers what came before. Maybe in ancient times, Somalis worshipped pagan deities just like many African nations did before the arrival of Christianity and Islam. Today, a few Somalis are turning to Christianity and this has led to clashes and unrest in Somaliland. Anyways, I am not here for a history or cultural lesson. I am here to remind people that Somali men and Somali women are people just like everybody else and we have needs and desires. 

People seem to forget that hijab-wearing, conservatively dressed Somali gals like me have sexual needs just like all other women. Westerners are so dumb. The other day I went inside this porno shop on Rideau Street in downtown Ottawa, not far from the Rideau Shopping Center. The chubby White chick working behind the counter seemed really shocked to see a pair of hijab-wearing Somali ladies checking out the porn DVDs and other articles in there. We have sexual needs too. We're just more private about it. That's all. Anyhow, a while back I hooked up with this big and tall Black guy named Stephen. He's Haitian and thinks he's tough shit like they all do. I like to use men for my sexual pleasure while letting them think I have the upper hand. That's why I sucked Stephen's cock in the stairwell of the campus library and then dismissed him before going back to my schoolwork as if nothing had happened. You should have seen the look on his face. Priceless. 

Anyhow, I am slick and wicked like that. And I have my fun with anyone I damn well please. What would surprise most people about me is the fact that I'm not just sexually adventurous, I'm also an amateur dominatrix. Yes, I am a hijab-wearing, pious Somali gal who cracks the whip and wields a strap-on dildo with which I dominate unwary men and the occasional woman. Like my very willing sex slave Tyrone Howard here. Tyrone is a big Black guy from the outskirts of Calgary, Province of Alberta. He's mixed but considers himself Black. His father is White and his mother is Jamaican. Like a lot of guys worldwide, he's got a thing for big-booty hijab-wearing gals like me. When he first approached me, I was hanging out at Billings Bridge Mall with my friends. Dude thought he was slick, trying to get my number. I gave him my number. Just to let him think he had the upper hand. It was all too easy for me to ensnare him and have my way with him. The big dude is like putty in my hands, for real. He does everything I tell him. I like that in a man. Obedience to female authority is a quality all males worldwide should cultivate.

I like to dominate men and women of all races. I've spanked hot Arab women from places like the Islamic Republic of Iran and the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. I have also fucked macho Somali guys and tall, rugged Ethiopian men up their asses with my strap-on dildo. I have dominated White guys and a handful of White chicks too. My preference is for Black men. They're so sure of themselves. It makes them more fun to dominate. Big guys like Tyrone Howard appeal to me. I like to break them down. That's why I've got him tied up and gagged in my basement apartment right now. I spread his hairy ass cheeks wide open and lubricate his anus before poking him with my gloved fingers. I always inspect the terrain before going in with my dildos. A lot of guys aren't very clean down there and I would have to have a mess on my hands. To be honest, I've fucked some women whose assholes weren't very clean either. My anal inspection before penetration policy is not gender biased. Not in the least.

After inspecting Tyrone Howard's ass and properly lubricating him, I donned my favorite strap-on dildo and put a condom on it. I always use condoms for everything. Taking out my cell phone, I silently took a snapshot of Tyrone lying there, hands and feet bound, with his Black ass spread, ready for my strap-on dildo. I love the sight of a big Black man looking so vulnerable like that. Gets my pussy wet as hell. I pushed my dildo into Tyrone's asshole, and grabbed his hips. Don't want him going anywhere as I start fucking him in his ass with my strap-on dildo. Sometimes some guys and a handful of girls who seem quite willing to take my dildo up their asses get jitters when the moment of truth comes. I frigging hate it when they do that shit, for real. I held Tyrone's hips tightly and began fucking his ass. I sank my dildo deep inside of him but not too deep. I wanted him to get used to it. Oh, it is definitely not his first time getting fucked in the ass by my strap-on dildo but he still has the asshole of a novice. Don't worry, I will bring him up to speed. Mister Calgary here faces a sharp learning curve but Ontario's favorite Somali Dominatrix will show him the ropes. Perhaps literally. 

Tyrone moaned deeply as I drilled my strap-on dildo into his asshole. I bet you the macho and cocky Jamaican stud never thought he'd have the time of his life getting sexually dominated by a hijab-wearing Somali gal. this shows you how much they ( westerners ) don't know about us. In public, Somali women are quiet and peaceful while Somali men are loud and boisterous. In private, Somali women are strong and bossy while Somali men are stunned into obedience like the bitches that they are. It's the best kept secret in the Muslim world. It's women who really run the show. With a song in my heart, I happily sodomized Tyrone until the big Black dude begged for mercy. I fucked him with my strap-on dildo until he cried. I'm serious. Dude cried real tears and everything. After that, I made him suck my strap-on dildo just like the bitch he is. What? You think that's too dirty, especially after I just fucked his ass with it? Don't worry. I took off the dirty condom and let Tyrone lick my dildo, which stayed clean the entire time. Is that better?



The Hijab Hunter: Happiness



I love my job, I thought sarcastically as I made my way out of the Bayshore Mall in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. Ah, the life of a cashier or adventures in retail. The hell that I endure for eight hours for a measly twelve bucks an hour. As bad as things are around here, they're way better than they were in Quebec City where I was born. Being the only daughter of a Somali female immigrant who married an Italian-Canadian Muslim convert wasn't easy, especially since we lived in a lily-white French Canadian town where xenophobia is the order of the day. 

My name is Zahrah Ibrahim-Napolitano. How I came into the world is a rather unique story, or so I've been told. My mother, Halima Ibrahim moved to the City of Montreal, Quebec, from the town of Barawa, Somalia, in the summer of 1989. While studying accounting at the University of Montreal she met Luciano Napolitano, a handsome young Italian-Canadian civil engineering student. The two of them fell in love, and my father ended up converting to Islam and marrying my future mother. I came into the world a couple of years later, and for some reason my parents felt the need to leave racially diverse, progressive Montreal for the urban wilderness of xenophobic and openly racist Quebec City. Bad move if you ask me. 

I used to hear the N-word along with "Muslim cunt" and "terrorist bitch" tossed my way in the hallways of my high school. Not easy being a mixed woman wearing a Hijab down there. That's why I left Quebec City a couple of years ago, never to return. Seriously. An angel armed with a flaming sword couldn't compel me to return to that town full of creeps. As far as I'm concerned, Quebec City can go the way of Sodom and Gomorrah. Burn it to the fucking ground for all I care. I know that since I'm a minority woman and a Muslim at that these words could come back to haunt me but I don't give a flying fuck. I mean every damn word.

The City of Ottawa proved to be somewhat better than what I left behind. It's livable, I guess. I'm taking two courses at Carleton University this summer and since the Ontario provincial government decided that my parents made too much money for me to qualify for financial aid, I'm basically on my own. I'm five credits away from earning my bachelor's degree in Criminal Justice, man. I'm so close I can almost taste it. Once I'm done I'll take the LSAT and try to get into a good law school. The University of Ottawa is one of the best in Ontario, along with the University of Toronto and a couple of others. I'm twenty one years old and about to finish university, how cool is that? I can't wait to get out there in the real world.

Here I am, living life and feeling free in our nation's capital, trying my best to make my way in a world both thrilling and hostile at times. I live with my boyfriend Toussaint Chevalier, a tall and handsome brother originally from the island of Haiti. He recently graduated from the University of Ottawa with a Master's degree in Business Administration but he can't seem to find work in his field. As much as it saddens me to say it, I am not surprised. The City of Ottawa is dull, boring and bigoted. And they're almost pathologically afraid of highly educated people of color who possess a single gram of ambition. Since he's tall, good-looking and has a Canadian university education, my poor Toussaint terrifies them.

Even though almost half the population of metropolitan Ottawa hails from places like continental Africa, Latin America, southeast Asia, the Caribbean and the Arab world, the local white people insist on treating us as if we're second-class citizens. That's the thing about Ottawa people. They're the most polite racists in the world. Sometimes I almost miss the brutal honesty of the Quebecers. With them you always know where you stand, you know? They're brutally honest in their dislike of we who are called visible minorities. Toussaint has been hitting company after company, mailing his resume to place after place. So far nada. 

My boo refuses to get discouraged but I can tell that his fruitless search is starting to get to him. I feel bad for him, I really do. All I can do is try to be supportive. A lot of recent college and university graduates across Canada find themselves unemployed but it's even worse for us who come from immigrant backgrounds. Education is supposed to be the great equalizer but in the real world it doesn't work like that. Even though white people in America, Canada and Europe will soon be outnumbered by folks from Africa, Asia and the Arab world on their own turf, white privilege is here to stay. Anyhow, I'll stop whining about the politics and boring details. I want to become an advocate for civil rights and social justice when I get my law degree. Bring balance to a universe that's dangerously askew. Can you tell?

Anyhow, I got a story to share with you folks today. You see, while my parents are quite liberal, we haven't always seen eye to eye when it comes to my relationship with Toussaint Chevalier. He's a Christian and I'm a Muslim woman. We're not supposed to be together according to the rules of my faith. It's something that I've always found unfair and have consistently rebelled against. A Muslim man may marry a woman of any faith or background but a Muslim woman can only marry a man from the same faith. For the most part I've dated guys from other faiths. I find them livelier, funnier and a whole nicer. Before I met Toussaint I went out with a Jewish guy named Emmanuel Finkelstein. This didn't sit right with my parents either but I've always followed my passions.

Toussaint and I care for each other a great deal and we do have a passionate relationship but lately things have been less than ideal between us. That's why I decided to try to spice things up a little. Lately all we seem to do is argue. We used to go to the movies at least twice a week, and we'd go to a nice restaurant every two weeks. We used to go away to places like Montreal, Toronto and Calgary on long weekends, just to keep the fire going in our relationship. I know what's going on. My boo is frustrated, and he's been taking it out on me emotionally without realizing it. I try to be supportive and patient but sometimes I get fed up. Something's got to give or we're heading for breakup territory. Can't have that, so I decided to bring the spark back in our relationship...

When Toussaint came home that afternoon from his endless string of job interviews, he looked tired and beat. However, the moment he set foot inside our apartment in Alta Vista, he smiled. For he found...me. Naked as the day I was born. All five feet ten inches and one hundred and seventy two pounds of me. I'm tall and curvy, with wide hips, thick thighs and a big, round ass. And I've got breasts and legs of life. I caressed my caramel skin, feeling wild and free now that I was naked. Well, nearly naked. I still wore my Hijab. For some reason Toussaint likes when I wear it in the bedroom. It makes you look naughty and sexy, he once told me, admiring me as I applied my makeup in front of the bedroom mirror, clad in my bra and panties. Since then, we've incorporated it into our lovemaking. Many Muslims would say it's haram but I say what goes on in the bedroom of a man and woman is nobody's business but the two of them.

Upon seeing me lying on the couch, looking sexy and provocative, Toussaint smiled. Damn woman now you got me hard, he said, stroking the bulge in his pants. I got something for you, I said, pulling something from behind a large pillow and holding it for him to see. I swear Toussaint went pale when he saw what it was. Last week you got to fuck my ass so tonight I get yours, I said as I donned the strap-on dildo. Are you ready for me? I asked Toussaint while stroking the shiny ebony dildo. Toussaint gulped, and I smiled wickedly, ordering him to get naked and on his knees. Promptly Toussaint did as he was told.

I walked up to Toussaint, and ordered him to suck my dildo. He hesitated, and for that I smacked him upside the head. Toussaint rubbed his head plaintively, then puckered his lips before he started sucking on my dildo. I smiled with satisfaction as he went down on me. Last week was his birthday and he had me in the same exact position. Suck my dick, he kept saying, pulling my hair and smirking as I went down on him. I nearly gagged on his eight-inch, uncircumcised dick since he's so damn thick all around. I was as gentle with him as he'd been with me, which meant not at all. I made him suck my plastic cock and when he finished, I pressed a special button on the dildo, spewing hot artificial girly cum all over Toussaint shocked face. I got the power and you're my bitch, I said matter-of-factly.

Once Toussaint finished polishing my dildo with his tongue, I put him on all fours and told him to open his hairy ass cheeks. Without further ado I smeared lubricant all over his hole. I pressed the dildo against his ass, and gently pushed it inside. Gripping Toussaint hips, I slowly worked the dildo into his ass. He groaned and I asked him if he was okay. He nodded, and continued moaning as I pumped the dildo up his bum hole. While fucking him, I noticed his dick was half-erect. Reaching underneath him I grabbed his dick. Toussaint gasped as I began stroking his rapidly hardening cock, and I eagerly masturbated him while working his ass. It wasn't all soft and romantic, either. I like hardcore female domination, not happy fucking. So I grabbed Toussaint own belt from his police pants which lay nearby and began whipping his back, his ass and his legs. I was careful not to hit his face because the man is too damn cute and works in an office, you know?

As I sodomized him with the dildo, Toussaint moans turned into screams which turned into squeals. I smacked his ass and berated him while filling his ass with my brand-new toy. Face down and ass up, Toussaint took all that I had to give him, and then some. When he came, it was rather spectacular, with hot manly cum smeared all over his stomach. I took some of it and smeared it across his handsome face, letting him taste himself. See? I'm not all bad. I thought about Toussaint as we tried anal sex for the first time last week. Dude was all smug as he bent me over, spread my ass and then stuffed me like a thanksgiving turkey with lotion or butter as lubricant. Ever since then, I've wanted revenge on him. I got it at last. 

I pulled the dildo out of Toussaint ass and told him to remain on his knees. Toussaint stared at me with frightened eyes. I spread my thighs, and allowed Toussaint to sample my womanly aroma. A lot of women use vaginal deodorant down there. Me? I use soap and water. And I don't shave below my arm pits. Yes, you read right. Tentatively Toussaint leaned forward, and then buried his face between my thighs. Are you having fun? I asked him. Toussaint nodded. Thank you for making my fantasies come true sweetie, he said. I smiled. Good answer, I said with a smile as I ground his face against my crotch. I tossed the strap-on dildo away and leaned back to enjoy having my pussy licked. Get to work, my man! Wordlessly Toussaint began licking my pussy like there was no tomorrow. 

I always feel a bit horny after a good pegging, so I climbed on top of Toussaint and straddled him. Fuck me like you're paying for it, I said through gritted teeth as I put my hands on his shoulders. I felt his dick harden underneath me, and rubbed my pussy against his groin. With an upward thrust of his hips Toussaint slid his dick inside of me. And just like that, we started making love. Once more the dominant man I know and love, Toussaint smacked my big ass and buried his face between my tits as he slammed his dick into my cunt like there was no tomorrow. Whose ass is this? Toussaint growled sexily. My ass belongs to you my king, I squealed as I rode him. Happily I began to scream and moan. My man is so hot! And now he's fucking me silly just like mother nature herself intended. 

Much later, Toussaint and I are side by side, with my boo smiling at me as I lay there, my jaw slack and my eyes wide after receiving the fuck of the century. Thank you babe I needed that, I said with a smile on my face, wiping some sweat from my brow. Toussaint took my hand in his and kissed it. You're welcome sweetie, he said with a wink. In a serious tone he shared with me some most welcome news. I got hired by RBC as an account manager, Toussaint said, smiling broadly. My heart skipped a beat. This is wonderful news, I said, climbing on top of him and kissing his lips. Toussaint grabbed my ass and told me to get ready for round two and I purred happily. I think we've got the spice back in our relationship, don't you? 



The Hijab Hunter: Jizz In My Pants



The name is Antonio Calderon. I was born in the Dominican Republic, to a Haitian mother, Anne Etienne, and a Hispanic father, Jose Calderon. I have an older sister named Nadine. In the summer of 2009 my parents moved from Haina, one of the Dominican Republic's biggest towns, to the City of Ottawa, Ontario. I missed the DR terribly but had to adjust to my new digs. Ottawa was to be our new home. I got myself a job working as a security guard, and I also enrolled at Carleton University. My sister Nadine went to the University of Ottawa to study medicine. Life is alright these days, if a little slow. 

The only exciting places in the vastness of Canada are the metropolitan areas of Toronto, Montreal, Vancouver and Calgary, in that order. The rest of the country is pretty much all woodland and small towns and to me, that's strictly fly-over, trust me. Since I'm a person of color in the Great White North, I'm allergic to small towns. Don't go there if you're not white. Trust me, they're cold and hostile to us "invasive immigrants". They're going to stare at you as if you're a unicorn and make snide comments. The place where I live, a midsized city which happens to be the national Capital, is somewhat better. As a resident of Ottawa, I'm in the no fun zone. That's okay because I know how to make my own fun.

Don't ever judge a book by its cover. Truer words were never spoken, fam. How else could you explain the big-booty black Muslim chick, wearing Hijab no less, who sucked and fucked me in the engineering building washroom the other day? I met Hakima Mustapha in one of my classes and the tall, curvy Somali chick with the pretty face with a big ass caught my attention. Like a lot of mixed brothers, I've got a thing for dark-skinned chicks. I noticed Hakima but figured I wouldn't bother because Hijab-wearing Muslim chicks to me are in the category of sexless, dull and boring. I mean, I didn't think chicks like that can date, or have fun, or do anything other than go to school or pray. That's all I see them do. 

Yeah, I figured Hakima Mustapha was out of my league. I'm half black and half Hispanic. I'm not Muslim or anything of the sort. Just an average Joe of the Christian persuasion. Catholic if you want to be specific. Living in sin in Canada's Capital region. I'd banged a few chicks since enrolling at Carleton University and considered myself alright in that area. Still, how many non-Muslim men can honestly say they bagged themselves a Hijab-wearing Muslim chick? I'm happy to say that I'm a member of that exquisite club. How did that happen? Let me tell you all about it ladies and gentlemen. 

So there I was in the school library, doing some homework, checking my Facebook messages and all that jazz. I was also checking out my favorite porn sites, Hood Hunter and Real Black Anal, because quality black porn is getting increasingly hard to find, you know? I was watching my favorite actor Wesley Pipes as he smashed a big-booty dark-skinned sister named Jasmine Sky and got thoroughly engrossed in what I was seeing. I didn't notice the Hijab-wearing Somali chick sit at the computer next to mine. Hello brother, chimed Hakima Mustapha in a pleasant voice. It's never fun when females catch you watching porn, man. Um, something happened when Hakima interrupted my viewing of aforementioned pornographic material. I jazzed in my pants! Yeah, man. It happened right then and there.

Hakima Mustapha looked at me and smiled, then asked me what I was looking at. Frantically, I tried to do three things at once. Click out of the WMV movie trailer from the porno site, cross my legs so she doesn't notice my erection and try not cry out because I just frigging exploded in my pants. I failed miserably at all three, man. Instead of clicking out of the video, I accidentally blew it all, so it appeared as a full screen on my computer. Yup, and she saw the whole thing. Hakima's eyes went wide as she watched Wesley Pipes slam his dick up Jasmine Sky's asshole. That's what you look at while you're supposed to be doing homework, Hakima said, shaking her head. I'm sorry, I said weakly, and muttered under my breath. Damn. I haven't felt this embarrassed since I got caught jerking off in the cellar by one of my sister Nadine's friends. Shit!

All kinds of unpleasant scenarios rushed through my head. I looked at Hakima hesitantly. What was going on through her head? Was she shocked? Disgusted? This chick's a Hijab-wearing Muslim. They're all, um, holy and shit. I sure as hell hoped she wouldn't tell the library people on me. I was doing research, I told her. Hakima shook her head. The look in her eyes said "bullshit". You like porn, she said. It wasn't a question. I nodded hesitantly. I'm a single guy, I said, and shrugged. Hakima considered that. Then she looked at my crotch, where my erection was still bulging in my pants. I stay hard even after I cum. I don't know why. No girlfriend, I said wistfully. Without warning, Hakima laid her hand on my crotch. I jerked in surprise. You got one now, she said firmly, locking eyes with me. Her tone brooked no reply. I nodded and smiled nervously. Yes ma'am, I said sheepishly. 

Hakima and I exchanged numbers and added each other on Facebook that night. I called her as soon as I got home, and I guess I was hoping ( or fearing ) that she changed her mind. Instead we ended up having phone sex for like an hour. Hakima was freakier than I thought she'd be, man. The following Tuesday, we grabbed a bite together at school and then went to the movies. I took her to see 2 Guns because I'm a big fan of Denzel Washington and Marky Mark isn't bad either. 

We had fun, then grabbed a bite at the Saint Laurent Mall's Chinese restaurant. We had a good time, I guess. For she seemed to want to see more of me. I was honestly starting to feel that chick, man. Little Miss Somalia wasn't what I expected. She was smart, sexy and funny. And oh so freaky. I thought all Muslim females who wore the Hijab were the most boring creatures on God's green Earth. I guess I've been proven wrong. I've never met anyone like Hakima, for real.

I was surprised as hell when, while we were studying in the big ole civil engineering building ( their cafeteria is off the hook, better than the others at school ), she told me she wanted to see my dick. I smiled and told her I'd show her when we got home. She told me she couldn't wait. That's why we ended up in the washroom in the basement. I slipped the "closed for cleaning" sign on the door to make sure we had some privacy, then locked the door. Once inside, Hakima showed me what she was working with, as they say.

I sat Hakima on the washroom counter, and took a good look at her. Truth be told, something about a Hijab-wearing Muslim chick in a long skirt, dressed all religious and proper and yet showing her freaky side absolutely appealed to me. I told this to Hakima, who laughed and told me she knew lots of non-Muslim guys had a fetish for Muslim girls. Then she hiked up her skirt, revealing that she had no panties underneath. Hot damn. Her hairy pussy's puffy lips stared at me invitingly. I got hard instantly, and got on my knees. I had to lick some of that tasty Muslim pussy. I inhaled the hot, womanly scent of Hakima's pussy. Nice. I began licking her pussy, sliding my tongue and fingers in there. Hakima moaned softly and urged me to be gentle. I nodded and continued, tasting her pussy on my tongue and feeling her flesh quiver around my fingers. I worked my magic on her, causing her to moan loudly. 

Hakima told me she was ready for more. We continued with our fun. I put on a condom then rubbed my hard dick against Hakima's lips, and then...shit. I went soft. I tried to get hard again, but couldn't. Hakima took my dick in her hand, and stroked it. And just like magic, I got hard again. Smiling, Hakima guided my dick inside of her. I pressed my dick against her pussy, and went inside with a swift, smooth thrust. Hakima wrapped her arms around me and urged me to fuck her. Who am I to go against the lady's wishes? I did just that, going deep inside of her. Gently I kissed her lips and we held each other tenderly as we made love. And in those passionate, impromptu moments, we weren't a Somali and a half-Haitian, a Muslim and an Infidel. We were simply a man and a woman, our bodies joined and our souls connecting.

When we finally stopped, our bodies covered in a fine sheen of sweat, I breathlessly told Hakima that I loved her. She smiled and told me that it's just the sex talking. I shook my head. Nah I mean what I say, I said, kissing her again. You're one crazy man but I love you back, she said, and kissed me back passionately. When we emerged from the washroom, it was close to midnight, and security had already locked the building. You should have seen the look on the cleaning lady's face when she saw us exiting the place, disheveled and happy, oozing sex in every pore. Hand in hand, Hakima and I walked off campus, but not before waving at the cleaning lady. Guess she'll have a story to share with her pals tonight. Take care, folks.



The Hijab Hunter: Kidnapped!



I simply cannot resist "mature" Somali women I see walking around Vanier, Ontario, with their long skirts and hijabs. The name is Alexander "Ali" Montrose and I'm a young man with a steamy tale to share with you. I am twenty six years old, and sexual adventurism has always been the name of my game. I was born in the City of Toronto, Ontario, to a Jamaican father and white mother. My folks, Tyson Montrose and Elisabeth Shay-Montrose still live there, along with my sister Hannah and my younger brother Joseph. I came to the City of Ottawa seeking adventure. I wanted to explore life outside metropolitan Toronto, and man did I get a handful.

When I'm not studying for my MBA or working out at Carleton University, I'm exploring the environs of Ottawa and chasing new pussy. I've developed a craving for Somali pussy these days. Simply put, I can't get enough of it. The funny thing is that I am not particularly fond of Muslims. I think there's way too many of them in Canada and their refusal to adapt to western society is making all of us immigrant types look bad. I'm one of a few visible minority people in Canada who support the Quebec Charter on secularism, which would ban hijabs and burkas from public life.

Yeah, I wasn't fond of the Muslims and I didn't mind letting people know it. Yet, in spite of myself, I found myself fantasizing about Muslim women sexually. So I learned to play nice with them in order to lure them to my bed. I became addicted to them. Muslim pussy rocks, dude! I guess that's what led me to become fixated with Sara Ibrahim, this thirty-something Somali lady living on Donnelly street near the big grocery store in the east end of Vanier. She lives in a nice apartment overlooking the park. How do I know this? I swear it was by accident. I was shooting hoops in the park and saw her. The moment I saw that mesmerizing ass, I knew I had to have it.

Sara Ibrahim was quite different from the other Somali ladies I knew, meaning that she was quite open-minded. I'd been keeping an eye on the lady for a while, waiting for the right time to make my move. I swear I just wanted to smash that. I've already banged three Somali chicks, and those that appeal to me are always the conservatively dressed ones that wear the hijab. Nothing turns me on like a hijab-wearing female, folks. I'll swear to whoever you want me to swear to. Anyhow, it's been said that a man's weakness is a woman. One night, while following Sara Ibrahim around, I slipped and fell. I banged my head against something, and passed out.

When I woke up, I was in a dark basement somewhere, stark naked, with my arms and legs tied up. Holy shit, I got captured by some psycho! Just like in the movies. That was my first thought. Then the light came on in the basement, and I found myself staring at a very familiar face. Sara Ibrahim. The sexy Somali MILF I'd been fascinated with. Except that when I saw her in that basement, I went from fascinated to terrified. For the woman held a butcher knife in her hand. Why are you following me? she asked, in a beautiful, almost melodious voice rendered all the more eerie because of its calm.

I don't know what you're talking about, I said weakly. Even to my ears my voice sounded unconvincing. You lie, Sara Ibrahim said, spitting on the floor for emphasis. With anger in her eyes, the tall and beautiful Somali woman walked up to me, knife in hand. She aimed the blade at my crotch. Tell me why you follow me or I will cut your dick off, Sara said angrily. At this point, I went from terrified to full-on scared shitless. I didn't mean to stalk you I just think you're beautiful, I blurted, and before I knew it, I had tears in my eyes. Sara looked at me, and amazingly enough, she smiled. You like Muslim women, eh? she asked, grinning wickedly. I nodded. Muslim women wearing hijab fascinated me and I don't know why, I admitted.

I might have some use for you, Sara Ibrahim said, stroking her chin. Please let me go, I pleaded. Man up or else, she said, glaring at me fiercely. Yes ma'am, I gulped. From now on you are my slave, Sara Ibrahim said. I nodded. I looked at this tall, curvy and absolutely stunning Somali woman who just threatened to cut my dick off. And amazingly, I got hard. Sara's eyes widened when she saw my dick harden. You've got to be kidding, she said, laughing incredulously. I worship Somali women and I can't help myself, I said, shrugging. Sara looked at me. You'd die for a taste of Somali woman flesh, she said. It wasn't a question. Yes ma'am, I replied softly, staring at her. Sara grabbed my dick with her left hand and pressed her knife against my belly button. Don't try anything, she warned. Was she kidding? I wouldn't do anything to piss off a woman holding a blade so close to my manhood. This is where male bravado fails. I didn't want to sing soprano for the rest of my days. So you'd better believe I would do anything the lady asked.

You have a beautiful dick, Sara Ibrahim said, stroking my still-hard Johnson. I nodded silently. My eyes widened in shock as the sexy Somali MILF got on her knees and began sucking my cock. The sight of this lovely woman taking my dick into her mouth thrilled me like you would not believe. My knees weakened, and soon I came. Amazingly, Sara didn't seem to mind. She sucked every last drop of my cum. You taste wonderful, Sara said, smiling as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Thank you ma'am, I said, almost breathlessly. I'm going to have a lot of fun with you, she said wickedly. Looking into Sara Ibrahim's eyes, I saw the promise of hell as well as sweet torment. Thank you ma'am, I said with a grin. Sara suddenly pressed her blade against my ball sack. Shit, I said, panicking. If you disappoint me I'll destroy you, Sara promised. No worries ma'am, I said rather quickly. Good slave, Sara laughed.

Thus began my captivity at the hands of Sara Ibrahim, the Muslim woman who kidnapped me and turned me into her slave. All in all, she treated me fairly. I was allowed to shower, and she did feed me and allow me to use the washroom when I needed. In exchange, I was expected to do certain things for her. I've read your posts on your Facebook and your hatred of Muslims is repugnant, Sara Ibrahim said. I am sorry, I said sheepishly. I will teach you about my religion even if it kills you, she said, glaring at me menacingly. Yes ma'am, I nodded. Sara read the Koran to me, and told me about how the archangel Gabriel appeared in the desert to Mohammed and told him about God and His message for mankind. She told me about the pillars of Islam, and the true lives of modern Muslims. Stereotypes state that Muslim women are submissive, Sara Ibrahim spat. Staring at me she asked me if she looked submissive to me. No ma'am, I admitted.

The gorgeous, sadistic Muslim lady known as Sara Ibrahim taught me about Islam, and I also learned a bit about her. Our conversations lasted hours every day. In her dark basement, I couldn't tell day from night. I lost track of time. All that mattered to me was what she taught me, and the pleasures and torments she visited upon me. Sometimes she would fellate me with her mouth for no apparent reason, and suck my cock while fingering my butt hole. At first I objected because I thought only queers let anything up their butts but I kind of liked it when this sexy Muslim woman played with my ass. Sara Ibrahim picked up on that, and soon began using toys on me. The first time she used a strap-on dildo on me, I resisted and pleaded with her not to do it. Yet it felt so good and I liked it so much. Now I can't get enough of it. You love submitting to a strong Muslim woman like me my sweet Infidel stud, Sara teased me. Yes, I said, admitting the truth.

Our sessions were a mix of the spiritual and the sexual. If I memorized certain important passages of her holy book, Sara Ibrahim would reward me by letting me lick her pussy or she'd suck my dick until I came like ten times or something. As you can imagine, I was motivated to learn about what she called the world's best religion. I'd been in her basement for a long time and we learned much about each other. Sara Ibrahim told me that she was divorced. Her former husband Aden abandoned her when he found out she couldn't bear offspring. 

A barren woman is useless to a man born and raised in Islam, Sara Ibrahim said, a sad look upon her face. You are strong and so beautiful you aren't useless, I said, looking at her. You only say that because you want to go free, Sara said. No I mean it, I said. I looked into her eyes, and saw the vulnerable woman hiding beneath the cold and angry super-bitch she'd become. And I kissed her. After a brief hesitation Sara kissed me, and wrapped her arms around me. When we stopped for air, I looked into her eyes and she looked into mine. She was about to say something when the words "police freeze" interrupted us. I looked behind Sara, to see men in police uniforms surging into the basement.

Sara looked at them, then at me. Her beautiful golden brown eyes filled with sadness. I'm sorry, she said. Gently she kissed me on the lips, ignoring the policemen's orders to drop her blade. Turning around, she surged toward them. No, I screamed. I struggled in my bonds but to no avail. I watched helplessly as Sara Ibrahim went down in a haze of bullets. A policewoman freed me from my bonds, and I shoved my way past her. I rushed to Sara Ibrahim's side. I am so sorry, she said, gently touching my face. Then she closed her eyes. Please don't die, I screamed. The policemen took me away.

The news hit canada's airways and the world, and people were amazed at the story. A pious Muslim woman kidnapping a young Christian university student, and tormenting him in her basement for months before the police finally discovered them and put an end to her reign of terror. The media branded Sara Ibrahim a radical Islamist, a terrorist and a monster. I alone knew better. My parents told me I had Stockholm Syndrome. I disagree with their assessment and the media's. Sara was troubled, but she was no monster. I went to visit her family in Montreal, Quebec. I wanted to know the answers to certain questions I had. When I went to the Ibrahim household in Laval, Sara's last address before moving to Ottawa, a surprise awaited me. When I knocked on the door, the person who opened it was a dead ringer for Sara. It was her twin sister Yasmina Ibrahim. I am sorry for what my sister did to you, she blurted out, upon seeing me. Let's talk, I said, my heart thundering in my chest.

After a brief hesitation, Yasmina Ibrahim welcomed me into the house. I saw a brat there, one only five winters old, and Yasmina introduced me to her son Amir. Sara told me she was barren, I said. Yasmina nodded, and told me how Sara's pelvic and uterine regions got damaged during a horse riding accident, and the devastating prognosis the doctors revealed to her and her family afterwards. From that moment on she was never the same, Yasmina said, her eyes brimming with tears. I looked at her. The resemblance between Sara and Yasmina was uncanny. I loved your sister, I said. Even after all she did to you? Yasmina asked, incredulous. I nodded. Taking her face into my hands, I kissed her. Yasmina gently pushed me away, and told me that we shouldn't cross those lines. Before Sara died I took my Shahada before her and my Muslim name is Ali, I told Yasmina proudly. You're truly a convert, Yasmina said, shock in her voice. I nodded. Allah works in mysterious ways but I think He wants you and I to be together, I said. Yasmina looked at me, and smiled. Then she kissed me.

Three months later, Yasmina and I were lawfully wedded at the Sal Al Din Masjid of southern Montreal, Quebec. It was a beautiful wintry day, unseasonably warm. Before both of our families, I took Yasmina as my wife and Aden as my son. My family was slow to accept my conversion to Islam and my newly chosen path but they were happy to see me give up womanizing and drinking for wedded bliss, fatherhood, responsibility and holy matrimony. I am proud of you, my father said at last. Yasmina and I honeymooned in Barbados, then returned to Canada. I transferred to McGill University, where I finished my MBA. I now work for the Bank of Montreal. Hold up, don't leave yet. I've got even more joyous news. A year after we got married Yasmina gave birth to twin sons, Omar and Hassan, and a daughter, whom we named Sara. A fitting way of honoring the woman without whom our little family wouldn't exist. Life is good. I thank the Creator for His blessings. Thanks for reading my tale and have a good day, Insha'Allah.



The Hijab Hunter: Moroccan Beauty



Life is full of surprises, isn't it? I certainly think so. How else would you explain how a biracial switch-hitter like me ended up converting to Islam and marrying a sexy and beautiful, Hijab-wearing Muslim gal from Djibouti? To say that my beloved wife Choukri and I come from different worlds would be the understatement of the century. The name is Sebastian "Saif" Morrison. I was born in the City of Ottawa, Ontario, to a Jamaican father and French Canadian mother. Anyone who looks upon my person would see a six-foot-tall, slim and fit brother with caramel skin, curly black hair and light brown eyes. At the time that my wife and I met I was going through all kinds of turmoil. It's not easy being black and male and Canada and when you add bisexual to the mix, you've got a recipe for hardship, if not outright disaster. 

At the age of eighteen my father, Reverend Theodore Morrison of the Fervent Hope Baptist Church of Nepean kicked me out of the house when he caught me getting busy with Liam Lloyd, a white dude who lived next door. He chased Liam out of the house and then beat me within an inch of my life. What pops didn't know is that Lloyd and I have been fuck buddies since our high school days. We were on the wrestling team at Saint Augustine High School. I was the captain and he was my best pal...and more. After dad kicked me out, with my mother's support by the way ( Eileen Tremblay-Morrison, First Lady of the Fervent Hope Baptist Church of Nepean isn't anyone's mommy dearest ), I began making my way into the world as best I can. The only one among my relatives to help me out was my cousin Ricky. He let me stay in his basement for a bit.

I moved to the City of Toronto, since I'd gotten fed up with Ottawa and felt like there was nothing down there for me. While in Toronto, I did odd jobs to make ends meet. Somehow, I ended up working as an escort. There are lots of rich, married guys in Toronto who have sex with men on the side. Such men don't want their wives and families to find out about their secret lust for men and are willing to pay the big bucks to satisfy their manly cravings. That's where I come in. I'm tall, light-skinned and fit, and lots of older gay and bisexual white guys seemed to have a craving for me. 

Now, I'm not stupid. I honestly know about what's out there. I wasn't trying to catch AIDs or anything. That's why I always used condoms for every sex act, and on a good week I'd make about a thousand dollars. Female escorts in Ontario typically advertise their services on the back pages of newspapers and online. They typically charge a hundred and twenty bucks for half an hour and two hundred for the hour. Male escorts make more. Much more. A handsome young man who is willing to sell his ass for money is in greater demand than a young woman who does the same thing. Closeted married men with money pass their male lovers around like the peace pipe among their like-minded friends. And they really liked the way I look. A lot of gay guys and some bisexual men tend to look effeminate and those guys aren't what the closeted married men are looking for. As a tall, manly light-skinned young black man, I was their fantasy guy. 

The summer after I graduated high school I made seven thousand dollars working as an escort. Since I lived in a one-bedroom apartment with a roommate, I only paid four hundred a month in rent plus an additional hundred in groceries. I saved every penny. That's why, when September came, I enrolled at the University of Toronto as a business major. Even though I was the same age as my classmates, I felt older than them. They were so innocent, talking about their graduation memories and even corny shit like Prom. I didn't go to my Prom because my last girlfriend, Hannah June Anderson dumped me three weeks before the big event. 

Hannah June Anderson was my first real girlfriend. I met her at the Silver City movie theater in Ottawa. The tall, dark-skinned sister with the big boobs and huge round ass definitely stood out waiting in line for movie tickets. They were showing The Dictator and I wanted to go see it with Liam, but he opted to go on a date with his Haitian girlfriend Helene Charles instead. I've always felt attracted to both guys and girls but haven't had much luck with women. According to stereotypes and what television shows like Will & Grace would have you believe, women get along great with guys who aren't straight. That's not true at all! 

Case in point? Take me for instance. Back at my old high school, the girls didn't like me. I hung out with other guys for the most part, and straight ones at that. I didn't associate with anyone who "looked" gay. In fact, one of the things I liked about my best friend/fuck buddy/wrestling teammate Liam was how manly he looked. He's six-foot-three, broad-shouldered and strongly built. A square-jawed guy with brown hair, alabaster skin and green eyes. He was on the wrestling team our senior year and used to be on the football team. He went on to play football for the University of Guelph. Hmmm, enough about Liam. I sometimes miss the dude but what's done is done. At the time that I met Hannah, I was feeling kind of down about myself. I was in my last semester at Saint Augustine and was still a virgin. Liam and I sucked each other off and kissed but we never went all the way. Crossing that line would make us fags, he said when I asked. 

When I saw Hannah standing in line wearing a red tank top and bright blue biker shorts, I felt a stir of desire. I gulped when she turned around, looked at me and smiled. With a boldness that was totally out of the ordinary for me, I asked her what movie she was seeing. The one with the guy from Borat, she said with a smile. Although I was mostly into men, when I think about women sexually I typically fantasized about dark-skinned chicks with big butts. Hannah was totally my type. The question is, would she be like the others? As the mixed-race son of a Jamaican dad and white mother, I've been called "too black" and "too white" my whole life. Would it surprise you to know that the white students at school were nicer to me than the ones from the Caribbean or Africa? 

Hannah surprised me by asking me to sit with her when I told her that I was going to see The Dictator as well. We sat together in the back, and had fun. This chick was loud! An old white lady sitting in front of us tried to shush us but Hannah told her to mind her damn business. I would never have the guts to say something like that to someone. Hannah was fearless. At the end of the movie, we walked out of the theater together and caught the bus from the Silver City Mall to Hurdman Station. Before Hannah left, I asked her for her number. She told me she had no cell phone. I sighed, and gave her my number. I figured I'd never hear from her. That night, she called me and we ended up spending ninety six minutes on the phone. How about that?

Hannah and I met for a quick bite at Saint Laurent Mall three days after our first meeting and we began a tentative, flirtatious friendship. I learned that she was in her senior year at Saint Antonius and was headed to La Cite Collegiale in September. We began seeing each other regularly, and I spent less and less time with Liam. Not that the bastard noticed. He was too busy banging that Haitian heifer Helene Charles, the one that everyone at school considered the village bike. As in everyone's hopped on for a ride. I focused on my relationship with Hannah, and found myself smitten with her. The gal was smoking hot, loud and funny, and had no fear. And she was with me!

One night, we were smoking cigarettes in Mooney's Bay when Hannah put the moves on me. There we were, just smoking and throwing rocks into the water. My sexy black girlfriend leaned in for a kiss, my first with a woman, and our first as a couple. Looking into my eyes, she told me she wanted me. I pulled her close, and just like that, we were soon rolling around on the soft sand. I had done a lot of stuff with Liam sexually and although I still jerked off to lesbian and she-male porn online, I briefly wondered if I could get it up with Hannah. When she got naked I stared at her tight body, big tits and fantastic heart-shaped ass. My dick got hard as hell, and I pulled her on top of me, sucking on her tits as she stroked my dick.

Thus we made love, with her on top of me, impaling her tight pussy on my hard dick. Our moans filled the deserted beach, with only the stars as witnesses. The ecstasy I felt when my dick went into her pussy is a feeling that I'll never forget. I'd been shy and hesitant at first but Hannah guided me through it. Hell, she grabbed my dick and put it inside of her during our first roll in the hay, or sand, as it were. Passionately we went at it, for the better part of an hour. In hindsight, we were both young and foolish but neither of us cared because it felt so damn good. I didn't use any kind of protection with her. After we finished, I lay next to her, kissing her tenderly and caressing her. I felt at peace and happy for the first time in ages. I felt happy. I didn't feel that way after engaging in sexual activity with Liam. Sometimes I felt guilty after letting him suck my dick. After making love with Hannah, I felt like the king of the world!

Hannah drove me home, and we kissed before she drove off. I went inside, and my father greeted me with both relief and anger on his face. You were out pretty late with that hussy, he said. When he called Hannah a hussy, I told him to watch it. My tone shocked him, for he blinked in surprise. My mom and pops only met Hannah once and the dislike between them was mutual. Hannah thinks my dad is white-washed and my dad thinks she's a slut. Still, he was all smiles when I told him what Hannah and I just did. Glad you got that out of the way, he said, clasping my hand and smiling. I went to bed with a smile on my face. I'm no longer a virgin, I thought. I'm a man now.

I thought Hannah and I sleeping together would bring us closer together but it didn't. interestingly, she began pulling away from me. She cancelled several of our movie dates with lame excuses, backed out of a dining agreement and in general seemed to avoid me. I finally went to the hospital where she volunteered and demanded an explanation. I'm just not that into you anymore, Hannah said flatly. Whipping out her iPhone, she showed me a picture of her all hugged up with some dude. He was either Arab or Italian, one of the two. I'm with Ali now, Hannah said firmly. I swallowed hard. If Mike Tyson had punched me in the chest it wouldn't have hurt more. I see, I said, my face hot, my eyes growing moist. I walked out of there with my head down.

I went home depressed, feeling sad and low. When Liam called, I told him what Hannah had done and he came over to "cheer me up." You know the rest. My dad caught us getting busy. It was three weeks before Prom, four weeks before graduation and my father kicked out of the house, calling me a fruitcake and a loser. Oh, and my girlfriend dumped me for another guy. The saga of the bisexual black man in Canada continues. I graduated high school and I was the only person in my entire class who didn't have anyone show up. Not a single friend or family member. When I called my parents the day before, begging for forgiveness and asking them to come to my graduation, my own mother told me I was dead to her. I walked on that field with my classmates, got my diploma and then left. I left the City of Ottawa, determined never to return.

Toronto here I come, I thought as I boarded the bus at the Greyhound station on Catherine Street. I ended up in the world's oldest profession, as I told you before. I got enough money to enroll at the University of Toronto by selling my body, and began my first semester of higher education. I met a gorgeous young woman in one of my classes. Her name was Choukri Fatimid and she was all that and the proverbial bag of chips. Five feet ten inches tall and curvy, with light brown skin, a moon-shaped face and the eyes of an angel. Choukri was biracial, born in the City of Tadjourah, Djibouti, to a Moroccan father and Somali mother. Even in her long-sleeved sky-blue shirt and ankle-length navy-blue skirt she managed to look sexy. A light blue Hijab framed her face beautifully. I don't care how many layers of clothing she put on she couldn't hide that thick, round ass of hers. I've seen a lot of sexy butts, both male and female, but Choukri had the best ass I've ever seen, hands down. Her derriere looked like it could walk around all by itself without needing the rest of the body. Hot damn! The woman from Djibouti got a booty!

The first time I laid eyes on Choukri ( or Miss Djibouti Booty as I called her in my head ) I was late for my Business Ethics class and looked for a seat in the crowded lecture hall packed full of students. Someone in my row dropped a pen and like the helpful soul that she is, Choukri bent down to pick it up and handed it to the timid-looking Asian chick it belonged to. I hadn't even seen Choukri's face and I was already in love...for I had seen her thick round ass. Sometimes, I admire female booty so much and with such longing that I almost fool myself into thinking I'm straight. And then a muscular, dark-skinned guy walks by and my body reminds me that I'm bisexual. 

As luck would have it, the last seat in the row ( right next to me ) was empty, and Choukri smiled at me and asked me if it was taken. Once I looked into those golden brown eyes of hers, I felt mesmerized. It's free, was all that I could squeak out. As class went on, I kept stealing discrete glances at her. Now, at my old Catholic high school in Ottawa we had a few girls in hijab because they were born to Christian mothers and Muslim fathers. Still, I'd never spoken to one because they kept to themselves and seemed pious and reserved. Most of them seemed shy. Not Choukri. This chick was loud and outspoken. Stop staring at me and just ask me my name, she said, shooting me a warning look. I gulped, and extended my hand, too late I remembered that chicks in Hijab don't shake hands with guys outside their family. To my immense surprise Choukri shook my hand without hesitation. Good to meet you Island man, she said with a smile.

We became friends right then and there, and I added her on Facebook. I was fascinated by her. This lovely young woman was well-traveled, bold, beautiful and fearless. She had dual Moroccan and Canadian citizenship thanks to her father, and typically spent her summers in places like Paris, Djibouti City, Casablanca, Vienna and Dubai. Her father Abdullah Fatimid runs a textile business from Casablanca and has holdings in all those cities. Impressive, to say the least. Me? I was born and raised in Ottawa, Ontario, and my folks took me to Atlanta, Georgia, once. I really liked it. That's the only place I've ever been to outside Canada. Next to her I felt provincial. I mean, she had money and she was so...cultured. Just call me a black Canadian roughneck, I told her with a self-deprecating smile as she expressed surprise when I revealed to her that I'd never left North America. You're not a roughneck mon ami, Choukri said, gently touching my arm. When her fingers touched my bare skin, I felt a thrill coursing through me. Yes ma'am, I said. She smiled, then asked me if I had any weekend plans.

I want to take you to a movie this Friday, I said, keeping my fingers crossed while watching her face. I've got Masjid on Fridays, Choukri reminded me. I sighed, thinking oh well I tried. I want to check out Resident Evil Retribution, Choukri said with a wry grin. I smiled. Let's do this, I said confidently. Saturday night I took her to the Scotia Bank Theater and we caught the five o'clock show for our favorite zombie movie series. During the movie, Choukri provided loud commentary about Alice's fluctuating zombie-fighting skills, how the Resident Evil movies stacked up to the video games, and how hot Boris Kodjoe looked. I thought Boris looked good too but I wasn't about to admit that to Choukri. I mean, she seems relaxed and open-minded but she's still a Muslim woman and last time I checked, if you're any kind of LGBT, people of many religions won't like you.

After the movie we went to grab some Chinese food, and during dinner, Choukri and I got to know each other better. The feisty Djibouti gal was born under the Scorpio sign, which made me smile because Scorpio women are supposed to be lively and very sexual. I'm an Aquarius, and no, I'm not an airhead. Like me, Choukri had no siblings. Her mother died giving birth to her and her father raised her alone. I'm a die-hard tomboy, she said, showing me pictures of herself playing rugby at her old high school in Mississauga. Good for you, I said. When she asked me about my family and my past, I was hesitant. Out with it mister secretive, Choukri said with a frown. Alright, I said. I told her...everything. And I do mean everything. My preachy, intolerant parents, my dalliances with Liam and Hannah, my father's fury when he found out I was bisexual, and the exact details of how I paid my way into the University of Toronto. 

When I finished, I looked at Choukri Fatimid, closely watching her beautiful face for any signs of disgust or shock. You've lived an amazingly hard life my dearest friend, she said with a smile. I was flabbergasted by her response. I expected her to get up and leave, or start preaching to me about how homosexuality and bisexuality were haram or something. Instead Choukri gently touched my hand, smiled and thanked me for being honest with her. You still want to be friends? I asked her, still shocked. Choukri grinned and told me to stop acting stupid. Then she whacked me upside the head. You're not supposed to touch guys you're not related to, I reminded her, laughing some more. Choukri cocked an eyebrow. As a woman I've got the right to smack fools who speak nonsense, she smiled. A Chinese waitress walking nearby echoed that sentiment and Choukri winked at her. No tip for you, I muttered under my breath. 

I looked at Choukri, and noticed that she was still looking at the Chinese waitress. What are you staring at her for? I asked her, out of curiosity. Choukri smiled and licked her lips, then she locked eyes with me. I was checking out Miss Asian beauty over there because she's hot, my favorite Djibouti lady said evenly. When those words left Choukri's lips, I gasped in shock. You're into women? Choukri shrugged. I like both men and women but it really depends on the day, she said with a smile. Wow, I said, and it was all I could say. I've been around the block a few times. Hell, I even did a steamy threesome with a rich bisexual white guy and his Filipino wife in their mansion in suburban Ajax. I know that men and women from all walks of life are gay and bisexual. Still, I never thought of a Hijab-wearing Muslim woman having a sexual appetite...or desires. 

Choukri must have read my mind for she admonished me for it. Just because I wear the Hijab and I'm a Muslim woman doesn't mean I'm as sexless as a rock, she said vehemently. I held up my hands in surrender. I apologize, I said quickly. Choukri smiled and playfully smacked my shoulder. You're such a wimp, she said. I rubbed my shoulder, for it stung a bit. Her Henna-covered long nails kind of grazed my skin and it hurt a bit. I've noticed you checking me out from day one, Choukri said. Really? I asked, a bit surprised. I pride myself on my discretion. I check out both girls and guys daily, and sometimes hourly and I never get caught. Like most masculine bisexual guys, I'm invisible. Why else would I sit next to you? Choukri laughed. 

When Choukri said that last bit, I had to smile. Touché, I admitted. So you think I'm hot, Choukri said. It wasn't a question. I nodded, and, suddenly filled with inspiration I grabbed her hand and brought it to my lips. I think you're beautiful my sister, I said earnestly. And I meant every word. Good answer Island man, Choukri said. Thus began my whirlwind romance with the most unique woman I've ever met. Choukri was full of surprises, and I loved that about her. On one of our dates, she took me to an adult video store called the Red Tent Sisters. I was hesitant to walk in with her since she's a Hijabi and all but to my immense surprise, the woman working behind the counter was a friend of hers. The two of them greeted each other joyfully, and Choukri introduced me to her gal pal Monique. Wow, was all I could say. 




The Hijab Hunter: Moroccan Beauty



Dating Choukri changed my life. For the first time ever, I was in the company of someone who was one hundred percent sure of who she was. And her mere existence defied so many stereotypes I held about many Arab/Muslim people. For example, I expressed shock when I saw a picture of Choukri holding a fuzzy little white dog on the wallpaper of her laptop. We were hanging out at her dorm one night, just chilling. That's my father's dog dear Old Momo, she said with a smile. Conventional wisdom tells me that Muslims don't like dogs. Yet here was this Hijab-wearing Djibouti gal hugging one. You shouldn't paint an entire people with the same brush, Choukri said sternly. 

You know I'm sorry mama, I said with a smile. Choukri grinned, and hugged me. You're forgiven, she said, smacking me on the bum. I wasn't expecting that so I kind of jerked up a bit. Surprise, Island man! Choukri laughed. Oh, it's like that, huh? I held her in my arms and looked into her eyes. Without a word being spoken, I leaned closer and so did she. Our lips met, and thus we shared our first kiss. It was magical, I know it sounds corny but it really was. Her lips were soft, and she kissed me hungrily and passionately. I've kissed both guys and girls and in my earlier days I used to think the guys would be rough while the women were the gentler kissers. I'm finding the reverse to be true. Choukri kissed me passionately, and when we came up fir air, I saw in her eyes a powerful desire. 

I want you but I can't, Choukri said breathlessly. I kissed her lips, then her hands. Don't worry babe I got you, I said. I picked her up and brought her to the couch, then knelt before her. I can make you happy even if we don't go all the way, I said confidently. Choukri hesitated. Man, I looked at her and felt so horny. My dick was straining against the fabric of my pants, I was that hard. The sight of Choukri lying on the couch, wearing her long-sleeved skirt, long skirt and hijab actually turned me on! Be careful, she said, and I nodded. Slowly, I hiked up her skirt, and pulled down her purple panties.

I beheld what Choukri assured me no other man had ever beheld. Her hot, bushy pussy. For my gorgeous Djibouti girlfriend was still a virgin like any properly raised unmarried Muslim woman, though she'd fooled around with a few people. I inhaled the sharp scent of Choukri's womanhood. No two women smell or taste alike down there. I'm no stranger to eating pussy though, truth be told, I've gone down on a lot more guys than girls. I'm more familiar with dick since I've got one and I've played with a few dozen but I do like eating pussy. Counting Hannah and the wives of two bisexual male ex-clients of mine from my male escort days, I've gone down on exactly three women. I slid my tongue into Choukri's slit, and gently began licking her pussy. 

While going down on my sweetie, I looked into her face. Choukri was tense at first as I began gently eating her pussy. As I tried to finger her, she told me no. I must be a virgin on my wedding night I'm sorry, she said apologetically. I nodded, stifling a groan of frustration and resumed eating her out. Soon I had her moaning and squirming on that couch, sweat pearling on her beautiful face. I continued working my magic on her, delighting on the taste and smell of her pussy on my tongue. I buried my face between her legs, loving every moment of it. For I was doing what many men from around the world dreamed of doing. Sexually pleasuring an observant Muslim woman, the most elusive ( and untouchable ) of women. When Choukri warned me that she was about to cum, I stepped things up and watched her as she came, oozing droplets of girly cum all over my face. The sight of my orgasmic sweetheart is something that I'll never forget.

I let Choukri recover, holding her in my arms and kissing her. That was amazing, she said. I smiled and nodded. I was there, I reminded her, grinning. Shaking her head, she told me I was full of myself. Then, without warning, she grabbed my crotch. I watched her, mesmerized. Was she about to do what I thought? Moments later, Choukri unzipped my pants, freeing my average-sized dick. She noted that I was uncircumcised and I shrugged. Not a problem for me, Choukri said quickly, taking me into her mouth. The sight of my gorgeous Djibouti girlfriend on her knees going down on me hardened my cock almost like a steel bar but made my knees buckle. Luckily I was on the couch. Choukri worked her magic on me, flicking her tongue on my dick head and caressing my balls. She slipped a finger in my ass and I gasped in surprise. I really liked it! Wish I had a dildo to fuck you with, Choukri said, before resuming sucking me. Another time, I told her. I felt a surge deep within and warned her that I was about to cum. Instead of stopping, Choukri sucked me even harder. That's when I, um, came in her mouth. She held onto me as my orgasm wracked me with spasms, and I screamed loudly. I looked at Choukri, my vision suddenly a bit blurry. How was it? she asked me. I pulled her to her feet and into my arms, then kissed her. You were wonderful my love, I said. 

That night, Choukri and I slept together. We didn't go beyond oral sex for obvious reasons, but I didn't mind. I enjoyed falling asleep with my sweetie in my arms. After tasting her, smelling her and enjoying her, nothing thrilled me more than having her fall asleep while listening to my heartbeat, her head on my chest. I kissed her forehead, and thanked my lucky stars. Even though my parents are preachers, I've never really been religious. I went to church because my folks made me. I felt like God cursed me by making me what I am. I used to ask the Almighty to take away my forbidden feelings when I prayed. Being black and male in Canada was tough enough, why add the burden of being bisexual on top of it? And yet I had somehow found a woman who accepted me for who I am, and I wanted to be with her. Given how different we were from each other, the fact that we ended up together at all must be a sign from on high.

The next day, I told Choukri I loved her and she told me she loved me too. That Friday I accompanied her at her favorite Masjid, and took my Shahada. I took the Muslim name Saif. I didn't go as far as changing my name on any official records, rather it would be the name I used while in Muslim circles. On Christmas break, I introduced Choukri to my cousin Ricky and his mother, my aunt Giselle. Although a devout Muslim, Choukri had no problem spending Christmas Day with my family and I. Most Muslims can't stand the idea of the Christmas Holiday but they forget that Jesus Christ ( known as Isa Al Masih in Islam ) is a Messenger of Allah and must be respected by all of us, Choukri told me as we sat down with Ricky and aunt Giselle to eat some turkey. Celebrating the birthday of one of Allah's most beloved prophets shouldn't be seen as a bad thing, Choukri finished, before winking at me and squeezing my hand. Bless your heart my sister, aunt Giselle, a staunch catholic, said with a smile. The two women exchanged a smile, then we began eating. A good time was had by all. 

A few days later, Choukri introduced me to her father, Abdullah Fatimid. The older North African businessman was surprisingly friendly. Whenever I thought of Arab and North African guys I envisioned them as ruthless and domineering. The man was very kind and easygoing, and during our man to man talk, he asked me about my faith, my university studies and my plans for the future. Like any father I want my daughter to be safe and happy, he said evenly. Choukri is the light of my life and I was nothing before I met her so believe me when I say I would die for her, I told him, looking him in the eye. Good answer Saif, Abdullah said, laughing. Then he clasped my hand not unlike the way my own father clasped it that night, a long time ago, when I came home after losing my virginity to Hannah. Welcome to the family brother, he said. I nodded with relief, and said "Alhamdulillah". It means "praise be to God" in the Arabic language. 

There you have it, ladies and gentlemen. The story of how I met my gorgeous wife Choukri Fatimid-Morrison. We live together in a two-bedroom apartment not far from the University of Toronto campus. It's nice enough, has a bathroom, a living room and a kitchen. All for eleven hundred a month. I got a job as a security guard at a local embassy and they pay me about a thousand dollars ( after taxes ) every two weeks. With some help from Choukri, who works at the campus bookstore, we can actually afford the place. As a wedding present her father offered to buy us a house but I declined. I will build my wife a castle when I'm good and ready, I told the old man. Abdullah Fatimid was surprised but nodded understandingly. You want to stand on your own two feet and I respect that, he said. Choukri and I are a year away from graduating with our bachelor's in business, then we're going for our MBAs. Once we're ready, we'll start a family. For now, we're okay. Life is good. I thank God for His blessings. Peace. I've got to rush home because my sexy wife Choukri is waiting for me. It's strap-on domination night at the Morrison household and I don't want to miss it! 



The Hijab Hunter: Muslim Booty!



Just because I'm a Muslim gal who wears the hijab and a long skirt in public doesn't mean I can't be the biggest slut you know. Of course, people assume I'm pious and repressed when they meet me, and that suits me just fine. Why? It lets me get away with all kinds of shit. My name is Fowziyah Jabir and I'm a young black woman of Somali descent living in the City of Edmonton, Alberta. The story that I'm about to share with you involves one of the juiciest hookups I've had in recent times.

I recently graduated from the University of Calgary with a bachelor's degree in computer science. I'm not sure whether to go for my Masters right away or try to find work with my B.A. These days, I work as a cataloger for the public library, working the nine to five for seventeen dollars per hour. It's not a bad job but I feel like I should be doing much more, you know? I mean, I didn't put myself through four years of school at a university full of rednecks just to end up working at the library for the rest of my days. I can do more. I will do more. I believe in myself.

While on break at work, I ran into one of the handsomest men I'd seen in a long time. Guillaume Pierre, a tall and muscular, ruggedly handsome black guy. Clad in a red silk shirt, dark blue silk pants and Timberland shoes, he had Haitian written all over him. I grew up among a lot of people from the Caribbean in Alberta, Haitians included, and I always found Haitian men very appealing. It's too bad that most of them are staunch Catholics and would never mess with a Muslim gal like me. I approached Guillaume Pierre, and introduced myself. The dude works at the print and copy center next to the library and came to use the computers during his lunch break. He's a student at Mount Royal University, studying chemistry. How cool is that?

See? That's why I like guys from the Caribbean. When they come to Canada, they go to school because they want a better future for themselves and their families. A lot of the young Somali men in Alberta would rather go for easy cash working in the oil sands than go to college or university. That's why a lot of educated Somali sisters are single. We want to marry educated Somali brothers, the type of men who will step up to the plate and be worthy husbands and fathers, good heads of household. Unfortunately, they don't want the job, and that leaves us Somali sisters frustrated. Lately, I've seen Somali girls walking around malls, restaurants and other public venues in metropolitan Calgary and Edmonton with guys from other communities. Somali guys need to watch out. If they're not careful, all the pretty Somali girls with college or university degrees are going to end up marrying outside.

Anyhow, back to that fine piece of chocolate I spotted alone in the library, Guillaume Pierre. The guy looked good enough to eat. I don't make it a habit to flirt with guys I meet at work because I don't shit where I eat. However, I make exceptions when the dude in question is as flawless as the handsome and sexy Mr. Guillaume Pierre, university student and hard-working professional. He's oh so yummy, that's why I gave him my cell number and also added him on Facebook. Hey, like I said, I don't usually do this but fuck it, cute is cute. 

You can't ignore the ones with great potential, ladies. You simply can't. Guillaume Pierre is a tall, good-looking and educated black man in western Canada. The way I figure it, I've got to be forward with him and move fast otherwise some floozy on his campus or at a bar would probably steal him. I've seen a lot of cute black guys at my old school with white chicks and the sight of them together makes my blood boil. Some sisters say they don't care but I can admit it pisses me off. I don't like to see that shit, pardon my Somali. Anyhow, where was I? Oh yeah. I was telling you about my juicy hookup with Guillaume Pierre, the handsome Haitian stud.

We kind of clicked at that first meeting, and that night when I got home, we ended up talking for like ninety minutes. I really liked the way Guillaume Pierre's voice sounded on the phone. He's got a deep voice, kind of like that actor Kevin Grievoux from the Underworld movies. I went to bed that night feeling quite pleased with myself. Guillaume seemed really promising so far. A smart, sexy man who's easygoing, funny, and doesn't take himself too seriously. Oh, and he knows how to talk to a woman. Dude had me rolling with laughter. I like that in a man. That's why, when he asked me to go see a movie with him I was all for it.

Guillaume and I began seeing each other shortly after, and our movie and restaurant meetings turned into, well, dating. Now, a lot of Somali girls consider dating haram and they want to wait for the perfect guy to come along, ask for their hand in marriage and ride off with them on a pale horse or some shit like that. Me? I'm a proactive sister. I believe in going out there and getting things done instead of waiting for stuff to fall into my lap. You have to go after what you want, you know? And man am I glad I did! Guillaume Pierre turned out to be just what the doctor ordered. Six weeks after we met, I took him home for a test drive, and let me tell you, the Haitian stud did not disappoint. He rocked my Somali ass!

I lay on my bed, stark naked, and Guillaume stood before me, feasting his eyes on me. I gently pinched my nipples and slid a finger into my cunt. Come to me, I said. Guillaume smiled. Yes ma'am, he said, and came to me. He took my feet and massaged them with those surprisingly gentle, big hands of his. Taking my toes into his mouth, he sucked them one at a time, each and every last one of them. Hmmm. I like that. Dude's kind of kinky. After licking my toes, Guillaume kissed me full and deep, then sucked on my tits, flicking his tongue over the areolas. At the same time his hand slipped between my legs, and he began fingering my pussy.

I moaned softly as Guillaume began fingering my cunt, and soon he kissed a path from my lips to my neck, my belly and finally my pelvic area. His agile tongue darted inside of me, and I shuddered as I felt him lick and probe my pussy. Teasing my clitoris with his tongue, Guillaume thrust his fingers into my cunt. Hot damn, the Haitian dude really knew his way around the female body. Moaning softly, I urged him to continue. Guillaume licked my pussy like there was no tomorrow, and in the end, the dude had me begging for mercy. You haven't felt anything yet, he said confidently. I was ready for more!

Later, I rolled a condom on Guillaume's dick after getting him nice and hard thanks to some good sucking. I love sucking dick and my oral skills are among the best. Guillaume is uncut, which is surprising but I don't mind. Cut or uncut, it's all good as long as the man knows how to use it. I sucked him real good. Afterwards, I climbed on top of Guillaume and began riding him. Right before we started fucking, he had a rather unusual request. The dude actually asked me to put on my hijab before he stuck his dick inside my pussy. From what I'm told, lots of non-Muslim guys have such a fetish. A lot of Muslim women would be turned off by it but not me. I'm open to experimenting. That's why I acquiesced, putting on my hijab before straddling Guillaume. The sexy Haitian stud put his hands on my hips and thrust that hard dick of his into my cunt.

Guillaume and I sucked and fucked the night away, ladies and gentlemen. A good time was had by the both of us. The charming Haitian gentleman I met in the library downtown turned into a raging lion in the bedroom, in the best way possible. He smacked my ass, ripped off my hijab and pulled my hair while slamming his hard dick into my cunt from behind. He grabbed my throat and locked eyes with me while fucking me sideways. Hot damn, talk about intense. I had an awesome time with him, and he was definitely worth the wait. We're still seeing each other, and we're happy together. I'm a Muslim woman from Somalia and my boo is a Christian man from Haiti. Who cares about religious and cultural differences? Life is too short to bother with bullshit. I just want to live my life my way, and only Allah can judge me.



The Hijab Hunter: My Wife



You'll never know what hit you, I thought to myself as I smiled at Yasmin Khaled as we sat together inside the Eaton Center food court in downtown Toronto, Ontario. We just had coffee, and the six-foot-tall, pretty Hijabi from Somalia broke her own rules first by holding my hand and second, by allowing me to kiss her. I mean to get her into bed as soon as possible. I chase Hijab-wearing chicks and I seduce them and sleep with them. Tis what I am all about. The name is Dylan Bertrand, but you may call me the Hijab Hunter.

Anyone looking at me would see a six-foot-three, lean and athletic young man with dark brown skin and stylish dreadlocks. I was born in the town of Mississauga, Ontario, to a Haitian immigrant father, Jacques Bertrand and a white Canadian mother, Muriel Tremblay. These days, I'm studying criminal justice at the University of Toronto, and hope to get into law school someday. When I'm not in class, I'm chasing Hijab-wearing chicks left and right. I got a thing for them, folks. I can't explain it. Lucky for me, quite often, they respond to my advances. 

After breakfast, I took Yasmin Khaled to the movies, and we watched The Hunger Games. Not my kind of movie. I'm more of a Divergent fan, but you got to keep the ladies happy if you want to get within even sniffing distance of their goodies. Ironically, Yasmin and I met at the movies, four weeks ago. You see, lots of Hijab-wearing Muslim chicks go to the movies with their female friends and look enviously at "normal" girls who are at the movies with their boyfriends. I like to capitalize on that.

You have to understand that a woman is a woman, regardless of religion or culture. All women want a guy who cares, and wants to take care of them. A lot of people tend to forget that Hijab-wearing Muslim girls are, well, women, when dealing with them. They think of them as another species altogether. With their myriad rules and codes of conduct, the Muslim ladies certainly don't make it easy for themselves. 

Guys simply don't approach them because they think all a Muslim gal who wears the Hijab wants to do is pray and get married, that's it. They oversimplify these lovely Muslim ladies and deny both their womanhood and their very humanity. They don't think these ladies want to be wined and dined ( figure of speech about the wine part ) and dated and romanced and all that jazz. And that's their loss if you ask me. I treat a Hijab-wearing Muslim gal like I would any woman. With respect, and charm, and wit. The results are usually impressive. Treat a woman right and she'll usually treat you in kind. Doesn't take a bloody genius to figure that one out, eh?

Anyhow, where was I? Oh yes, dear reader. I was about to tell you about how I met Yasmin Khaled, the tall, curvaceous and sinfully sexy yet innocent-looking Somali Hijabi. I was coming out of the movies, on the prowl as usual, when I saw some chubby older white dude shove his way past the lady in question, actually bumping her pretty hard, judging by the way she rubbed her elbow afterwards.

I'm no angel and heaven knows I like to lie, cheat, steal and sleep around but one thing I don't do is hurt the female of the species. It takes a special kind of brutish son of a bitch to do that and, well, that's not me. Not by a long shot. In a display of chivalry, I went after the old white dude and confronted him for bumping the lady, and he looked at me, saw that I was an angry young black male, and mumbled an apology, lest I kick his tubby white ass. 

After the tubby white bozo took off, I approached the Hijabi and asked her if she was okay, then I apologized to her for the dude's uncouth actions. The tall, pretty Somali gal with the angelic face smiled shyly at me and thanked me, then she asked me my name. Dylan Bertrand of Mississauga, I said, gently bowing my head. The lady folded her hands, nodded gracefully, and introduced herself as Yasmin Khaled. Thus we were formally introduced, and the rest, as they say, was history.

Yasmin Khaled and I come from different worlds, but we definitely had more in common than I would have thought. For starters, we're both biracial. I consider myself black because that's how I was raised but with my light brown skin, curly hair and pale brown eyes, I am often asked if I am mixed. I guess it's because I am technically mixed, but I embrace my blackness. 

The lovely Miss Yasmin Khaled was born in the environs of Ajax, Ontario, to a Somali immigrant father, Ali Khaled, and Karen "Khadija" Vincent-Khaled, a white Canadian mother who converted to the religion of Islam. I had honestly never heard of a Somali Muslim man marrying a white Canadian woman. From what I know of them, the Somali community pretty much shuns all others. Somalis usually marry other Somalis, or they marry Arabs on occasion. Yasmin definitely got the best of both worlds if you ask me. The gal was simply lovely. With her angelic face and sweet eyes, Yasmin tends to make my heart skip a beat when she looks my way. If I'm not careful, I could fall in love with her. Falling in love is the one thing I don't do. 

Look, I hate to sound jaded or whatever but falling in love is for suckers. At least that's what I thought, until it happened to me. Yasmin and I were walking around Mississauga one afternoon when I slipped and fell, and twisted my ankle. It even got bloody. Yasmin screamed and looked at my bloody foot with concern on her pretty face. I assured her I'd be okay, and then I passed out because, well, I had accidentally hurt myself much worse than I thought.

I woke up at the hospital, and found a white female doctor and Yasmin Khaled looking at me. Welcome back, Yasmin said with a smile on her face. I looked at her, then quickly figured out where I was and what happened. The doctor filled in the blanks and told me that I was lucky to be alive. Apparently, I'd passed out not because of the twisted ankle and leg scratch but due to high blood pressure. A condition I hadn't even known I had. What the fuck?

Your lady friend here probably saved your life, the doctor said, smiling at Yasmin Khaled, then at me. I smiled at Yasmin, who held my hand, and the tall Somali Hijabi kissed me on the lips the moment the good doctor left the room. Don't ever scare me like that again, Yasmin whispered, and I saw tears in her lovely eyes. I smiled at her, and my heart skipped a beat, and then, I kissed her back and promised her I'd be good.

Man, that's how the bitch got me! Like, six months after that incident, I got converted to Islam and starting going to mosque every Friday. Yasmin Khaled introduced me to her people, and they were cool, and my parents actually liked her. Next thing I know, I'm engaged to her. Like, all I wanted was to bang the hell out of Yasmin Khaled's thick and round, majestic Somali booty and get to stepping but I actually went and fell in love. 

The first time Yasmin Khaled and I made love, I got hooked. I was still on crutches, and sat in my apartment living room while Yasmin cooked in my tiny little kitchen. Except that when she came back into the living room, I forgot all about the new episode of Supernatural which I was watching, and my jaw actually hit the floor.

For Yasmin Khaled stood before me, her long Islamic dress gone, her womanly body bare, save for her Hijab. Hello sexy, Yasmin whispered, and gestured for me to come to her. I went to her like a moth to the proverbial flame. We kissed, and then began making love, right there on my ancient couch. Passion, folks. It makes you not give a fuck about anything other than fucking.

I kissed Yasmin's full lips, then sucked on her large, firm breasts. I flicked my wicked tongue over the areolas of her tits, and then licked my way to her cunt. I spread Yasmin's shapely thighs and inhaled the scent of her hairy pussy, then went downtown. I licked her pussy with gusto, taking my sweet time while pleasuring her and teasing her.

Yasmin cried out in pleasure as I licked and fingered her cunt, and when she came, I lapped up all of her hot girly cum with my hungry mouth. Yasmin tasted oh so good, folks. Afterwards, I put my sexy tall Somali Hijabi on all fours, gave her big booty a light spanking which made her laugh, and then I eased my dick into Yasmin's cunt. 

The lady's cunt was warm and tight, and Yasmin turned around, smiled and told me that I was her first. Nodding, I smiled at her and thanked her for giving herself to me. Then I fucked her good and proper. I made Yasmin squeal in delight as I slammed my dick into her cunt. We went at it for hours, until we lay, exhausted, on my carpeted living room floor. I love you Yasmin, I whispered, and the gorgeous Somali gal smiled and kissed me.

It was our first time making love, Yasmin and I. Definitely one for the ages. Alright, I might as well fess up. Yasmin Khaled and I have a passionate relationship and we're actually quite happy together. The tall Somali Hijabi turned me into that smiling fool who shows up at his woman's job with flowers and shit. I swear, Yasmin got me hypnotized. We're getting married during Ramadan 2015. I freely admit that I'm pussy whipped, alright? Sheesh! Watch out for them Somali Hijab chicks, man. They'll make you believe two plus two equals five because Somali pussy is actually THAT good!



The Hijab Hunter Returns!



Can you be a Hijab-wearing pious Muslim woman and still love BDSM? That's partially what this story is about, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Haifa Osman and I'm a young Arab woman living in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. I was born in the City of Khobar, Saudi Arabia, and have been in Canada since 1999. I am twenty two years old, and study accounting at Algonquin College. I also work part-time as a cashier at Bayshore Mall. Life is pretty boring for me, that's why I make my own fun.

Recently, I got a lecture from my older sister Fatoumatta when she saw me in a YouTube video, talking about sex and BDSM while still wearing my hijab and some tight-ass jeans. Even though I had sunglasses on, my sister still recognized me. And she warned me that if our parents found out, I'd be in deep shit. Damn. Just what I frigging need. That's the thing with Saudi families, they refuse to evolve! As far as I know, ninety nine percent of all Saudis are Muslim, though there is a growing Christian minority back in Saudi Arabia and nearby Qatar. We're a conservative bunch in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, to say the least. 

Even though there are lots of Saudi guys and Saudi chicks doing freaky shit behind closed doors, sex remains a taboo subject in our community. My cousin Hassan is gay, and left his wife Hamidah and their daughter Khadija to live with his Jamaican boyfriend Theodore Morrison. He left Ottawa for the bright lights of Toronto. Our family curses the day he was born. I don't hate my cousin Hassan. He's the only guy in the family who isn't a jerk or a control freak. There are gay men, lesbians, bisexual women and bisexual men in the Saudi Canadian community but such matters aren't discussed. Saudis like to pretend that LGBT people don't exist in our families and communities. The truth is that they're in the Masjid with us every frigging Friday night.

Long before my cousin Hassan decided to divorce his wife Aisha he confided in me about what he was going through, and I encouraged him to be honest with himself and his wife. In the end, when Aisha flipped out after Hassan confessed his sexual secrets, divorce became inevitable. Muslims worldwide aren't known for their tolerance of sexual minorities and the Saudi community puts the H in homophobic. Honestly, Hassan is lucky he's still alive. We're still friends on Facebook and Twitter. I went to visit him in Toronto and spent a weekend at the house he shares with his partner. Theodore Morrison is a tall, good-looking black guy built like a football player. He's a patrol officer with the Toronto Police Service, if you can believe that. Like Hassan, he was married once before, to a white woman named Valerie with whom he has two sons, Timmy and Joshua. I am cool with Theo, as Hassan calls him, as long as he makes my cousin happy. Live and let live, that's what I say. It is my belief that Allah created all of us and we have no right to judge anyone simply because they're different from us. Amen. 

While hanging out in the Algonquin College library, I checked out how many hits my YouTube videos got that day. I was smiling when I saw that my video titled "female domination, Islam and BDSM" had gotten more than sixty thousand hits in five days. That's when someone sat next to me and asked me what I was looking at. I rolled my eyes when I saw who it was. None other than Stephen Rousseau, this tall, slightly chubby black guy who's like obsessed with me. He's originally from Haiti and we've had a couple of classes together. Hello Haifa, he said with a grin, pulling a chair and sitting at the computer terminal next to mine. I offered him a cold smile, and resumed what I was doing. I honestly hoped Stephen would get the hint and stop gawking at my computer screen. No such luck.

Stephen's eyes were riveted on my screen in typical nosy Haitian fashion and the bozo smiled when he recognized me. So you like BDSM, he said with a smirk. It wasn't a question. I looked at him and cocked an eyebrow. So what? I asked him defiantly. Stephen grinned, licked his lips then asked me if I was dominant or submissive. I'm bossy, I said with emphasis. The grin on his face widened. I'm submissive, he said with a shrug. I looked Stephen up and down. The cross-wearing, red-and-blue clad Haitian dude who'd been pestering me like Steve Urkel once pestered Laura Winslow on Family Matters was into BDSM? Damn. Will wonders never cease?

I smiled at Stephen and he smiled at me. I never would have guessed that a guy like him would be into this stuff. I often see Stephen hanging out with the guys and gals from the Christian Students Alliance at school and figured him to be a Bible thumper. Hell, sometimes I come to school with my Quran to pray on special holidays with some of the Muslim students so I guess appearances don't count for much eh? That afternoon, I got to know Stephen like never before. He'd been introduced to BDSM by his Nigerian ex-girlfriend Madeline Azonye and after she bent him over and fucked him with a strap-on dildo, he discovered he was a proud submissive. When he shared that with me, I was both moved and surprised. I decided to tell him the truth about me. I love BDSM and both blog and make videos about it online but I've never done anything. Hell, I've never had sex. I'm a twenty-year-old pious Saudi Muslim gal. To me, BDSM is the forbidden fruit. The one I yearn for but dare not experience because of the restrictions placed upon me by my faith. Sad? I know, dammit!

When I finished telling him this, Stephen flashed me that fearless Haitian smile of his and made me an offer I couldn't refuse. He offered me his submission. I couldn't pass up the offer to experiment at last! That's why I went back to his residence, and we got our freak on. I felt both nervous and eager, though Stephen let me be in charge completely. We didn't get naked or have sex or anything like that. I love BDSM but I told Stephen we had to keep everything Halal or as close to Halal as possible because I'm not a slut. My faith matters to me a great deal, thank you very much. Fortunately, he was very understanding. 

I sat on Stephen's living room couch, and he knelt before me, looking at me with pleading eyes like a puppy. I nudged his face with my slippers, and ordered him to lick my shoes. Obediently Stephen kissed the tip of my shoe, then the whole thing, including the soles. Watching him do this made me cackle with glee. In Muslim culture, shoes are considered dirty and being forced to kiss them is a sign of ultimate humiliation. I took off my slippers and allowed Stephen suckle on my toes like he'd begged me to. One at a time he sucked on them. I am kind of sensitive down there so I found myself giggling as Stephen licked my toes. He's like a big puppy, nice and obedient. That's so awesome!

When he finished licking and sucking on my toes, Stephen asked me if there was something else he could do for me. I glared at him and reminded him that I still have my virtue as a pious Muslim woman who is unmarried and intend to keep it. Stephen nodded, then told me what he had in mind. When he told me, I hesitated. On one hand, I'm as sexually curious ( and frustrated ) as any woman ever born, and being a virgin at twenty in the Capital of Canada isn't easy. On the other hand, was it truly haram to try oral sex? Granted, women aren't supposed to show their Awrah ( shameful parts ) around males they're unrelated to, but hadn't I already done that in a way by allowing Stephen to lick my feet? Sexual curiosity and lust warred with a strict Islam upbringing within my soul. Temptation won out.

I hiked up my skirt, and pulled down my panties. Hesitantly, I slipped a finger into my pussy. Understand that I've never touched myself in front of anyone before. Stephen's eyes were riveted on me. I guess he liked what he saw. Looking at Stephen, I told him to get to work. Stephen did as he was told, and he did not disappoint me. First he breathed in the smell of my hairy pussy, then began to gently lick it. I felt his tongue all over my clitoris, teasing it ever so nicely while massaging my mound. 

As I felt his fingers on my pussy, I tensed and he sensed it. I warned Stephen not to penetrate my pussy with his fingers. He looked at me, a look of surprise on his face. I can only give my virginity to my future husband, I told him. And so it goes for Muslim women worldwide. If I let Stephen break my hymen with his fingers while fooling around, I won't be a virgin when time comes for me to marry. And I can't have that, even though my body yearned for his touch. Shaking his head, Stephen resumed pleasuring me, this time using only his tongue and keeping his fingers out of my pussy. I closed my eyes and licked my lips. At last I relaxed, and enjoyed. It was a lot of fun, especially when Stephen's darting tongue sent little shockwaves of pleasure deep inside my cunt. The man has the magic touch for real!

A little while later, I had readjusted my clothes and departed from Stephen's apartment. I walked to campus, then crossed the street to the bus station. I got on the 95 bus heading downtown and went my merry way. I can't believe the things Stephen and I just did together, man! A pious, hijab-wearing Muslim sister like myself having a secret rendezvous with a young man, and a non-Muslim one at that, for purposes of BDSM and sexual gratification. If anyone finds out, I'm a dead woman. Seriously. I'd be the next Muslim female victim of an honor killing you'd read about in the pages of Metro or the Ottawa Sun. No way my relatives would suffer my existence if they knew what I was up to. That's why I swore Stephen to secrecy. My life kind of depends on it. 




The Hijab Hunter: Saudi Girls



When everything is wrong, just follow your own instincts. Those are the words I live by. In case you're wondering who this is, the name is Halima Osman. I was born in the town of Minneapolis, Minnesota, to Saudi immigrant parents. I'm five-foot-nine, large-breasted, wide-hipped and big-bottomed, with an hourglass figure. I have light bronze skin, light brown eyes and curly black hair. I'm nineteen years old and I'm living far away from home for the first time. I'm studying business administration at Saint Paul University and honestly, life couldn't be better. My parents, Ali and Faisa Osman and my brothers Rashad and Yousef are far away and I can finally do whatever I want. 

The life of a Saudi-American woman isn't easy, for I come from the most conservative nation in the Islamic world. Where I was born women cannot drive or leave the house without a male chaperone. I barely remember the town of Makkah where I was born but from what I'm told, it's not a very nice place to be if you're female. I won't bore you with the standard "poor oppressed Muslim female" story. Instead I'll tell you about how I have my fun when no one is looking. I like men, especially Black men. Lots of Arab women like Black men but since there's so much racism in the Arab world, interracial mixing doesn't happen too often. That's why I thank Allah that I live in America, where everyone and their mother is trying to get a sexy brother!

Since I'm finally free to experiment without my family breathing down my neck, I decided to make up for lost time. That's why I'm having some fun with a sexy guy I met at school instead of going to Masjid during the first Friday of Ramadan. As Raymond slid his thick ebony cock into my asshole, I gritted my teeth while rubbing my cunt. Go easy on me, I warned, and the six-foot-tall, handsome and athletic African-American stud nodded. I wrapped my legs around Ray's waist as he thrust his cock deep inside of me. The feel of his dick in my ass was like nothing I'd ever experienced before. Ray asked me if I was okay and I nodded. truth be told, I was kind of worried. Although I felt curious about anal sex for the longest time, I worried about a possible accident that's why I kept putting off any experimentation. 

Dammit Aisha your ass is so tight, Ray said, burying his handsome face between my tits. It's my first time, I reminded him. I'm Muslim and in my culture anal sex is considered haram or forbidden. I don't always follow the rules of Islam, though. I'm having sex with a man I'm not married to, and I am also doing it during the holy month of Ramadan, to make things worse. Ray licked my tits and I moaned softly as his cock sank deeper into my asshole. I love it when he does that. My breasts are really sensitive and I love having them played with but tonight, all I could think of was the dick in my ass. You look great with your Hijab on, Ray says and I smile. I'm naked, saved for my Hijab, because he likes it when I wear it during sex.

I'd taken extensive precautions to prevent any unpleasant surprises prior to our anal sex encounter. I had a bowel movement two hours prior, and afterwards I washed my ass with soap and water. Oh, and I didn't eat anything. I figured my ass would be as smooth as a newly paved highway when Ray got to stick his cock inside. Little did I know that unexpected things always happen. After I complained about some slight discomfort, Ray pulled his dick out of my ass and then applied some lube on his member. Moments after he pulled out of me, something unexpected happened. I, um, farted. Loudly. For a moment I just stared at Ray and he at me. Neither of us said anything. Laughing, Ray rolled his eyes and I smiled nervously, for I was on the verge of dying from embarrassment. 

You're only human sweetie, Ray said reassuringly, pulling me close and kissing me on the forehead. I smiled and gently kissed him. I'm ready for more, I said and he nodded before pressing his dick against my asshole. He added more lubricant and this time he slid inside of me easily enough. I'm okay, I said, and this time I absolutely meant it. Ray raised my big legs in the air, resting them on his shoulders and resumed fucking my ass with that magnificent ebony cock of his. I fingered my pussy and closed my eyes as Ray pounded my ass. It hurt oh so good, and I loved every minute of it. When he came, exploding violently in my ass and filling my rectum with his cum, I cried out in sheer pleasure mixed with some deliciously hot pain. 

For a while I just lay there, my mouth slack and drooling, my eyes drooping, and my body covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Ray slowly pulled his dick out of my asshole and I gasped at the sudden emptiness. Once more I farted, but this time Ray and I both laughed at the same time. How do you feel? Ray asked me. I feel wonderful, I said as I stretched on the bed, basking in the warm afterglow of a good fucking. Ray lay next to me, and for a long, tender moment we just held each other. I wish it could be like this all the time, just me and him, but deep down I know that it can never be. And that is most unfortunate because Ray means a lot to me. In my entire life everyone whom I met has defined me by my religion and ethnicity. I'm the Hijab-wearing daughter of a conservative, wealthy Saudi-American businessman. Ray is a member of the men's cross country team here at Saint Paul University and one of the most famous people on campus. We like each other but we're too different.

What do I mean by that? Where do I begin? Please bear with me. I cherish my sweet Ray but I'm a Muslim woman and he's a Christian man. And even if he were to convert to Islam, my racist Saudi parents would never let us be together because he's Black. Racism is alive and well in the Muslim world. Many pretend it doesn't exist but it's there. The Arabian communities have lived in proximity with African nations for thousands of years and have a history of conflict with them. At one time Egypt was ruled by an African king from nearby Nubia ( present day Sudan ) who conquered it after lawlessness had taken over Egypt following the fall of an Egyptian king. With the advent of Islam, pan-Arabism and Arabian supremacy began dominating the Middle East and much of North Africa which further drove a wedge between Blacks and Arabs. We're neighbors, we trade, we visit each other's countries but it's not a love fest. Living conditions for me and all others like me, unfortunately. 



The Hijab Hunter: Soul Mates



A lot of people say that my religion is violent. There are lots of violent men in all races and religions, and people shouldn’t generalize. As a black man living in North America, I know this all too well. People’s habit of generalizing and oversimplifying that which they do not understand. My name is Solomon “Suleiman” Winston and I am a man with a story to share with you. A cautionary tale about the evils of pride, prejudice and intolerance. Please bear with me, since it’s kind of a long one.

I was born in the City of Ottawa, Ontario, to a Jamaican immigrant mother and French Canadian father. On the first day of January 1978 I came into the world. As a mixed brat in the Canadian Capital, I didn’t have it easy. Canada fancies itself a multicultural nation but my mother, Janelle Winston and I endured a lot of racism and mistreatment, especially after my biological father James Tremblay abandoned us and went back to his white family. French Canadians are the most bigoted group among Canadians of European descent, next to the rednecks of Alberta and the weirdoes from Nova Scotia. Trust me, I would know. To date I haven’t had any contact with my father’s side of the family. What does that tell you? 

Anyhow, I learned early in this life that the only person I could count on was myself. I grew up to be a six-foot-two, heavyset man with caramel skin, curly black hair and pale green eyes. In the eyes of the world I am mixed, but I consider myself totally black. When bigoted cops stop me and give me a ticket for driving under the speed limit, I know it’s because I am of partial African descent. Since they give me a full ticket instead of half of one, why not embrace my blackness as a whole? In 1994 I graduated from Saint Augustine Academy, and won an academic scholarship to Carleton University. I earned a bachelor’s degree in accounting from Carleton University in 1998 and an MBA from the University of Ottawa in 2001.

In September 2001 my world changed, like that of many people around the world. After months of looking for work all over Ontario, I was finally hired as an account manager by the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce. The job paid eighteen dollars per hour, and I did eight-hour shifts five days a week at the local branch. Making fourteen hundred bucks every two weeks in the Canadian capital isn’t too bad, especially since this was the first few months of 2001 and the U.S. and Canadian economies were booming. I was leading a pretty cool life. I bought a nice silver convertible, and lived in a three-bedroom apartment near downtown Ottawa with my girlfriend Justine Connelly, a lovely blonde-haired and green-eyed Irishwoman I met during my last year at the University of Ottawa. Justine and I had the makings of a power couple. I had my MBA and a cozy job at the bank and she was studying criminal law. How cool is that? Mixed couples like us were indeed coming up in the world, eh?

Life was pretty good, and then September 11, 2001 came. From that moment on the world would never be the same. I developed a singular hatred of Muslims on that day, especially after seeing the gleeful reaction from Muslims around the world as the Twin Towers fell in New York City. Those crazy towelheads really hate us and it’s our duty to make their lives hell. That’s how I felt. I cheered U.S. President George W. Bush’s decision to invade Iraq and several other Arab nations as the Western World began the War on Terror. The war against Islam had begun, and I wanted to see every last one of those fuckers dead. 

My hatred of Muslims consumed my life. One day, I lost it at work when a Muslim dude came in with his burka-wearing wife and the two of them came to my counter. I called them terrorist freaks and ordered them out of my workplace. The incident was recorded on someone’s camera phone and later shown on television. You’re a bigot and an Islamophobe, my boss, Nancy Dwyer told me as she fired me after a public outcry. That’s when everything started to go wrong. Overnight my picture-perfect life went to hell. My fiancée Justine left me for another man, I lost my apartment and nobody would hire me. Everywhere I went I was the Muslim-hating ranting creep from that bank video. When I had to file for bankruptcy, I broke down and cried. How did everything I valued and cherished get taken away from me so quick?

I ended up homeless, and had to sleep in a shelter while begging on the streets of Ottawa, which I once roamed like an urban prince. At the shelter where I slept, I met a woman who took an interest in me. Yasmina Osman, the six-foot-tall and absolutely lovely, curvaceous and big-bottomed, Hijab-wearing Somali woman who became the shelter’s new director of operations. This young woman had a bachelor’s degree in psychology from Carleton University and a master’s degree in political science from the University of Calgary. She was smart and beautiful and could have written her own ticket but instead she got involved in public works to help those in need. This young woman was destined to change my life.

At the time that I met Yasmina, I’m ashamed to say that I was still simmering with anger, at followers of Islam, at Western society for trying to accommodate the needs of Muslim immigrants and at the world itself. I blamed everyone but myself for my downfall. It never occurred to me that my arrogance and pride led me to this dark moment. My prejudice and hate led me to the path of darkness, and I saw no redemption in sight. Ugly, smelly, homeless and destitute, I still cursed the Muslims with every spiteful breath I took. And then along came a ravishing Muslim woman who believed that God had a plan for me. All men are God’s creations even one such as you, Yasmina told me confidently when I questioned her interest in helping me.

I was reluctant to trust this seemingly innocent young woman, after all she was Muslim, a person of the same faith as those nineteen Saudi guys who hijacked those planes and flew them into the Towers in NYC. Yasmina told me that even though lots of Muslim men were out there doing terrible things, many Muslims were peaceful and friendly. Don’t generalize and don’t judge for only God can judge mankind, she admonished me. In spite of myself, I became curious. I found myself wanting to trust again. Yasmina helped me get back on my feet. With some help from the department of social services, I got myself a one-bedroom apartment and got cleaned up. I gave up the drugs and the booze, and I got myself a job as a security guard. I wrote to Carleton University and the University of Ottawa to reclaim my educational credentials. I’d lost my university degrees, good name and various other things in those darker days.

Reclaim your place in the world and fulfill the plan God has for you, Yasmina encouraged me. I hadn’t spoken to my mother in ages, and we’d lost touch. I found her living in Gatineau, not far from Ottawa. It was an emotional moment for sure, when I returned to my mother’s loving arms. I set out to make amends. Mom was living alone and suffering from various health issues. I took care of her patiently and lovingly like any good son should. I set out to find my father, for, through Yasmina’s insightful musings I realized I had a great deal of anger toward the man who abandoned me and my mother. I found my father living in rural Sept-Ile, Quebec, alone and suffering from early onset Alzheimer’s. As I approached him, he got up and cried out, for he recognized me even after all these years and feared I’d come to do him harm. I am not here to hurt you, I told him. I just wanted to make peace with him. He finally calmed down and we talked. That day, we shared forgiveness and I returned to Ottawa a changed man.

When I returned to my low-rent apartment in Vanier, I did something I’d never done before. I prayed to the entity called Yahweh by the Jews, God by the Christians and Allah by the Muslims. I thanked God for His blessings. The next day, I received two phone calls that changed my life. Apparently someone from CBC got wind of what I’d gone through and wanted to interview me. I called Yasmina to let her know but I couldn’t find her. The ladies at her office told me she’d gone to mosque. I went to the mosque to look for her. I didn’t find her because the place was empty but I ran into an old Somali man who told me he knew her. The old man introduced himself as Brother Ibrahim, and he told me to make myself at home as he showed me around the mosque. For some reason I felt comfortable talking to him and I told him my story. God has a plan for you my friend, he said with a smile. God shouldn’t bother with evil men like me, I said somberly. 

Brother Ibrahim shook his head, and invited me to have coffee with him. We went to a nearby Tim Horton’s and talked for the next three hours. We discussed race, religion and politics. I told him that I once hated Muslims but after meeting Yasmina and befriending several other Muslims who were nice people, I realized how wrong I’d been. Being Muslim doesn’t make someone evil because no evil person would have helped me like Yasmina had, I said with conviction. 

Good and evil are part of every man regardless of race or religion, Brother Ibrahim said. He gave me his cell number and told me to call him sometime. We began talking regularly, and the more he told me about his faith, the more I liked what I heard. I learned that there was a big difference between being a Muslim and an Islamist. A Muslim is simply a man or woman who submits to God completely, while an Islamist is a nutcase with supremacist tendencies who thinks being Muslim places him above other human beings. Being white doesn’t make a man racist but thinking his whiteness places him above people of color would do the trick, Brother Ibrahim said confidently. I had to agree. The old man was full of wisdom. He became the friend, mentor and father figure I’d long sought. Three weeks after we met, he gave me his Koran. I read the whole book in one week. Afterwards, I went to the mosque and declared my Shahada. I was now and forevermore a Muslim.

I embraced my new faith, and went on the CBC television interview. I shared with Sharon Donovan, the pretty blonde newswoman, how I went from bigoted businessman who hated Muslims to homeless beggar and then had a change of heart. That interview was seen by millions of people across Canada and around the world thanks to YouTube. I thanked God for His blessings on the air and I also thanked Yasmina Osman for being my guardian angel. I hadn’t seen her since that day because she’d gone to Djibouti to visit her family. When she returned, I was at the airport to greet her.

When I saw Yasmina Osman standing there in the middle of the airport, looking so gorgeous in her long floral skirt and white hijab, my heart skipped a beat. I walked up to her, and embraced her. Though surprised by that gesture Yasmina hugged me back. She smiled and told me she’d seen the video of my CBC interview online, where it was among the most watched clips on YouTube for an entire week. The story of a Muslim-hating businessman who lost everything after his bigotry was exposed, ended up homeless, got rescued by a Muslim woman and then embraced Islam. Kind of different, don’t you think?

Yasmina and I held each other like this for a long time and smiled. Hesitantly I kissed her on the lips. The tall young Somali woman kissed me back with a passion that surprised me. I love you, I said haltingly. I love you too Suleiman, Yasmina grinned. A throat cleared rather loudly behind us. We turned around, and I did a double take when I saw who it was. Brother Ibrahim, I said hesitantly. Hello father, Yasmina said, slipping out of my arms as she rushed to hug the old Somali man. Brother Ibrahim smiled warmly as he hugged Yasmina. That’s your daughter? I asked him, suddenly feeling very nervous. Of course, the old man smiled. Then he held out his hand to shake. We of the Osman clan are a clever and pious bunch, Brother Ibrahim said as he shook my hand. Looking at Yasmina he winked and told her I’d been going to the masjid every day looking for her during the month that she was gone. Is that so? Yasmina laughed, entwining her hand with mine. I have missed you terribly, I confessed. Let’s go to lunch we have a wedding to plan, Brother Ibrahim said, suddenly all seriousness. When I heard these words, I almost passed out. Yasmina chuckled and elbowed me in the ribs. Dad’s just messing with you, she laughed. I smiled weakly. It’s working, I said.

That was in 2002. Eleven years ago. Today, I am the Chief Operating Officer of the Ontario Minority Chamber of Commerce, a professional organization with ten thousand members scattered across the province, mainly in Toronto, Ottawa and Hamilton. That’s just my job, though. I found success, which is good but I also found something much better. I found happiness and a purpose. You see, Yasmina and I got married. We have three daughters, the triplets Halima, Khadija and Maryam Winston. My princesses.

They’re tall and beautiful like their mother but they’ve got my stubborn and rebellious spirit. Although they drive us nuts with their antics, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love my princesses. Touch them and I’ll kill you three times. There you have it, ladies and gentlemen. The story of a bad man who met a good woman who led him to God, and gave him a wonderful family and a brand new life. Whatever your background or circumstances, remember that God has a plan for you. Call Him by any name, whether Allah, God, Yahweh, the Most High or Jehovah, He made you for a reason. Trust in Him and all will be well. I’ll see you later. I’m taking the wife and daughters to see the flick Despicable Me 2 at the local theater. Friday night ( right before mosque ) is the official movie night at the Winston household. 



The Hijab Hunter: True Love



Shada Salman licked her lips before fastening them to Stephen's long and thick ebony cock. The sexy Saudi gal began sucking on her boyfriend's member like her life depended on it. Stephen leaned back on his chair, going as far back as he could. The bright red BMW was a spacious car, but it clearly wasn't designed for the kind of sexual acrobatics these two lovers had in mind. Shada fondled Stephen's hairy balls and licked his dick head after gently pulling back on his foreskin. Stephen took a deep breath and watched as Shada leaned closer, engulfing almost his whole penis into her mouth. Hot damn. 

Shada looked into Stephen's eyes as she sucked his dick and gently stroked his balls. Long had she yearned to do this. Practically from the moment she met Stephen, the handsome, fearless Haitian stud at Ottawa University in the City of Ottawa, Province of Ontario. The guy was simply sex on legs. Growing up in the City of Jeddah in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, Shada had seen many Black men among the hired workers and skilled immigrants in her beloved hometown, but none were like Stephen. Black men from the Caribbean and North America were different from continental African men. For starters, they were fearless. She wanted him the first time she saw him. Eagerly and lovingly she practically devoured his cock. This was his masculine tool, and she couldn't get enough of it.

While Shada sucked his cock and fondled his balls, Stephen was not inactive. Gently he reached between his sweetheart's plump thighs, went into her pants and began fingering her hairy pussy. Shada was surprised by Stephen's gesture but continued what she was doing. She flicked her tongue over his dick head, and even licked the space where his dick connected to his ball sac. That drove Stephen absolutely nuts, and he moaned in pleasure. Emboldened by his response, Shada continued licking his balls. She even slipped one finger inside Stephen's asshole, and felt his whole body stiffen. He shouted a warning, screaming that he was about to cum. 

Shada looked into Stephen's face, and paused for a moment. Knowing that he was close to the edge, she couldn't help delivering one wicked flick of her tongue to his already vulnerable and trembling cock. It was the coup de grace, as they said. Stephen shouted as he came, shooting his load of masculine seed all over Shada, splattering it all over her face. Hell, he even got some on her hijab as well. He looked at Shada sheepishly, and apologized for losing control like that. Shada winked at him and said that she did not mind. As if to prove it, she grabbed his cock and licked every last drop of cum from his shaft. Stephen sighed. Hot damn, she looked amazing with his member in her mouth.

Shada winked at him when she was done, and asked him what he thought of her very first blowjob. Stephen smiled, and gave her the thumbs up sign. Then he pulled her into his arms and gently kissed her. Shada gently let go in Stephen's embrace, and smothered her beloved with hot, wet kisses. Stephen kissed her, and locked eyes with her. He loved this young woman more than life itself, and verily he was risking much to be with her. He wanted her so much. Shada read the desire in his eyes and patted his groin. Oh, yeah. He wanted her. She was surprised when he caught her hands, stopping her from reaching for his member. Puzzled, she looked at him. Stephen kissed her again, and asked her to trust in him. Shada nodded her consent, and Stephen propped her up on the backseat.

Locking eyes with his darling Shada, Stephen gently pulled down the long dark gray silk pants she wore, followed by her thong underwear. He smiled as he pulled the thong down to Shada's ankles. Shada smiled as Stephen brought his dark, handsome visage close to the space between her thighs. Stephen admired Shada's sexy, hairy pussy and then leaned forward to inhale her scent. Shada was thankful that she showered less than two hours ago, for the man she loved the most seemed to like the way she smelled. Stephen spread Shada's thighs a bit wider and gently licked her pussy. Shada licked her lips, moaning softly as Stephen began fingering and licking her. He was probing her innermost self, and she was delighted at this most welcome intrusion.

Stephen looked at Shada as he gently pleasured her with his mouth and hands. Observing her body language and response, he adjusted his technique. When her breath quickened, he thrust his middle into her cunt while teasing her clitoris with his tongue. Shada leaned way back on the backseat, spread her thighs even further and gently rubbed Stephen's stringy hair as he went to work on her. By Allah she loved what he was doing to her. His tongue and fingers sent waves of pleasure coursing through her. Her body shuddered, and she cried out. Stephen knew what was happening. At long last he wrought what he sought. Grinning, he continued licking and probing Shada's pussy as she cried out, orgasmic at last. Her sexy, curvy body trembled uncontrollably and he wrapped his arms around her, till she stopped shaking. Shada looked at Stephen, stunned by how much his simple touch had set her ablaze with desire before sending an ocean of pleasure through her.

Stephen smiled, and told Shada she hadn't felt anything yet. Looking into her eyes, he asked her if she was ready for more. Shada smiled so broadly that it must have hurt her beautiful, round and playful face. Stephen laid his beloved down, then began kissing a path from her sweet lips to her neck. He kissed her breasts, flicking his tongue over the areolas. Shada lay there, loving what Stephen was doing to her. He slipped his hand between her thighs again and she welcomed his touch there most of all. In no time he had her on fire. She told him she wanted him, needed him, right now. Stephen smiled, then put on a condom. Again he asked Shada if she was ready and she nodded. 

Shada took a deep breath, and asked Stephen to make love to her. He nodded, and pressed his hard member against her vaginal opening. Gently, he pushed his way into her. Shada felt a slight pain as Stephen's cock penetrated her, but it went away quickly. She wrapped her arms around Stephen, urging him to fuck her harder. Stephen made passionate love to his darling Shada, thrusting deep into her with wild abandon. At first he wanted to be gentle since this was her first time and all but threw caution to the wind when he realized she wanted it as badly as he did, and just as roughly. 

Shada's heart thundered in her chest as she screamed in pleasure while Stephen took her on the ride of a lifetime. The very first one for her. His thick member filled her pussy, pulsing with life and raw masculine energy as Stephen explored her gentle folds with his noble tool. Long had he yearned for his sweet Shada, and now they were finally together. He wanted to make this memorable, and so did she. This wasn't merely the two of them fucking. It was a meeting of souls. Two people separated by race, religion and culture. And yet, love brought them together. They didn't plan on it, for their first meeting occurred on a rainy day in Vanier, Ontario. And yet it happened for a reason. And now they were inseparable. Passionately they made love until exhaustion claimed them.

After hours of passionate lovemaking, Shada Salman of Saudi Arabia fell asleep in the arms of Stephen, the big and tall, handsome young Haitian man whom she loved more than life itself. Stephen gently kissed Shada's forehead and watched her sleep. He couldn't believe how much his life had changed since meeting this young woman. The wife of a wealthy Saudi man whom she was in the process of divorcing. A refugee claimant with the Canadian Citizenship and Immigration Bureau. What in hell did he get himself into? Originally, to be honest, he only spoke to her because the lapsed Christian ( and horny bastard ) he happened to be found Arab/Muslim women mysterious because of their conservative mindset and style of dress. And he'd bedded quite a few of them. He just never counted on falling in love with one. He was in love with Shada Salman, and he wanted a life with her. How do you like them apples? 



The Hijab Hunter: Virgin BBW



Lying next to my sweetheart, Jean-Christophe Etienne, I thank my lucky stars that he's safe and sound beside me in my bed. Every time I log onto my Facebook account or watch CNN, the trigger-happy cops have shot another unarmed young black man. A while ago they choked a black man to death for selling cigarettes on the streets of New York City. Seriously, President Barack Obama needs to do something about this. Racist white cops are shooting brothers for sport, and unless we start locking them up for this shit, they'll just keep doing it. 

My name is Ayaan Abdullahi, and I'm a newcomer to the City of Saint Paul, Minnesota. I was born in the City of Ottawa, Ontario, to Somali immigrant parents. Three years ago, I visited Minnesota for the first time after graduating from Carleton University with a bachelor's degree in business administration. It was my first trip to the States. My parents, Ali and Fatima Abdullahi don't travel much, at least not outside of Canada. 

When we came to Minnesota in the summer of 2011, we stayed with my father's older brother, Uncle Osman. I fell in love with America during that trip. Somali Americans are so different from us Somali Canadians. Growing up in the close knit Somali community of Canada's Capital region, I was raised fairly conservative and wouldn't dream of leaving the house without my hijab. The Somali girls I saw in Minnesota were so Americanized, with their bare heads, their short skirts and loud voices.

During that trip, I met a young man whom I simply could not forget. Jean-Christophe Etienne, the guy next door. Born in Minneapolis to a Haitian immigrant father, Lucas Etienne, and a white American mother, Jean-Christophe is simply one of the most beautiful human beings I've ever seen. Six feet two inches tall, slim and fit, with caramel-hued skin, curly black hair and lime-green eyes that he got from his Irish-American mother, Deirdre O'Bannon. Nice, eh?

I think I fell in love with Jean-Christophe Etienne the first time I laid eyes on him. This beautiful, friendly and easygoing brother simply took my breath away. A first-year student at Saint Catherine University at the time, Jean-Christophe aspired to work enforcement someday. Damn, if a sexy brother in uniform like him approaches me, I'd seriously volunteer for a strip search. What? Do my thoughts surprise you? Just because I'm a Hijab-wearing Somali gal from Canada doesn't mean I don't have the same thoughts, feelings and desires as all other women.

Jean-Christophe and I became friends, and I was surprised by how much this young Haitian-American stud muffin knew about Somali culture. Jean-Christophe would laugh when I asked him to say certain words in Somali. At Saint Augustine High School, where he went, there were apparently lots of Somalis and he learned to speak their language. I asked Jean-Christophe why he learned the Somali language and he laughed and said it's because he wanted to holler at all the pretty Somali girls. Good answer, I thought and smiled. Very good answer indeed.

Jean-Christophe and I hung out a lot during the two months I spent in Minnesota in the summer of 2011. He would pick me up in his car and take me around Saint Paul and Minneapolis, and I grew to love those cities. There are so many Somalis in the state of Minnesota it's not even funny. Everywhere we went I would see my people. Sometimes I think there's more Somalis in Minnesota than in Ontario! 

Discovering Minnesota with Jean-Christophe by my side proved to be an experience I would never forget. Jean-Christophe took me to malls, movie theaters and restaurants, and he was always friendly and courteous. I was sexually attracted to him, to tell you the truth, but I was too much of a coward to do anything about it. Somali culture is quite repressive when it comes to sexual matters because of the Islamic influence in our customs and cultural ways.

Pious, Hijab-wearing and Koran-quoting Somali women like myself aren't supposed to shake hands with males, or go on dates, or do a variety of other things considered haram by the rules of Islam. Marriages in Somali culture are arranged for convenience rather than romantic sentiment, for the most part. Even though there are millions of Somalis living outside of Somalia, making their homes in places like Canada, America and the United Kingdom, we stick to our cultural ways. We still have arranged marriages and follow the strict rules of Islam wherever we go.

I never questioned anything about my religion, which I consider to be the world's best religion, until I met Jean-Christophe Etienne, the sinfully sexy Haitian-American stud muffin. I was in love with him, you see, and I struggled with whether or not to tell him. According to the ancient and sacred rules of Islam, a Muslim woman cannot marry a man who isn't Muslim. By the same token, a Muslim man may marry a woman from any religion or cultural background. For the first time in my entire existence, I disagreed with an aspect of my Muslim faith. I found the rule preventing Muslim women from being with men of other faiths utterly unfair. And yet, I loved Jean-Christophe and wanted to be with him.

Sadly, I never told Jean-Christophe how I felt and when he made a pass at me, I told him that I just wanted to be friends. Jean-Christophe was deeply saddened, but accepted my decision. That was in August of 2011. Fast forward three years later. I graduated from Carleton University and left the dull lights of Ottawa, Ontario, for Minnesota. I got fired from my job at TD Bank and decided to make a fresh start elsewhere. My cousin Amina Hussein moved from Toronto, Ontario, to Saint Paul, Minnesota, and married a guy named Ibrahim Adewale. A Nigerian Muslim guy whom she met while he was visiting Toronto from the States.

Our family wasn't thrilled when Amina Hussein, a good Somali gal, decided to overlook all the Somali brothers in Canada and went all the way to the U.S. to marry a Nigerian-American Muslim lawyer. Personally, I felt happy for Amina and supported her marriage to Ibrahim. Muslims from all cultures ought to marry without problems. After all, our prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him, envisioned a day when people of all races and cultures would follow Islam and be united in brotherhood and sisterhood. 

When I told Amina I wanted to leave Ottawa for the U.S. my dear cousin told me that if I came to Minnesota, I'd have a place to stay. Armed with my Carleton University degree, along with my hopes and dreams, I moved to America. Surprisingly, it didn't take me long to find a job in Saint Paul. I applied to work as a teller for Western Bank, and got the job. I also applied to the University of Saint Paul, to pursue my MBA. A bachelor's degree only gets you so far in today's cutthroat economy.

Guess who I ran into during my first week on the job? A certain tall, well-dressed brother with lime-green eyes. Jean-Christophe Etienne walked into Western Bank to discuss credit card issues. Even though credit cards weren't my specialty, I told my co-worker Eileen that I'd personally handle this customer. Inside the office, Jean-Christophe and I had a happy reunion. The mixed stud muffin looked even hotter than I remembered. He had graduated from Saint Catherine University with a bachelor's degree in criminal justice and was currently working for the Minnesota State Department of Corrections as a prison guard. Personally, I thought a sexy guy with a brain like his could do better but Jean-Christophe assured me that he liked his job. Before he left the bank, I gave him my number, my address, and a new credit card. Am I good or what?

Jean-Christophe and I reconnected, and this time, I threw caution to the wind. To hell with the super tight rules of my Islamic faith, I wanted to live my life. I'm twenty four years old, and I've never even been kissed. Not that a lot of guys feel like kissing me. I'm five-foot-ten, chubby and dark-skinned. A chubby, dark-complexion type of woman in a world that worships pale, skinny chicks. At least that's what I thought of myself, until Jean-Christophe came back into my life. The way he looked at me made my heart skip a beat.

On our first date, Jean-Christophe and I watched X-Men Days Of Future Past, and then we grabbed a bite at a Haitian restaurant. There, sitting across from me, Jean-Christophe took my hand in his and brought it to his lips. As I blushed in surprise, my heart racing with excitement, Jean-Christophe smiled and told me I was beautiful. That's when something amazing happened. I did something completely out of the ordinary. I'm a Hijab-wearing, quiet and reserved Somali sister in a traditional long skirt. Yet I grabbed this dashing, beautiful brother and kissed him full and deep. Yup, I kissed him first. On our first date no less! What can I say? Something about this particular Haitian stud that turns me into a wild slut!

The first time Jean-Christophe and I made love was simply awesome. My gorgeous Haitian stud laid me on his bed, and kissed me full and deep. Relax, he whispered into my ear while caressing my breasts. His hands roamed all over my curvy body, slid under my traditional long skirt and finally found their way between my plump thighs. I gasped as Jean-Christophe slid his fingers into my cunt and began fingering me. I welcomed his unexpected intrusion and cried out in pleasure when Jean-Christophe spread my thighs and began licking my pussy like there was no tomorrow.

Grinning, Jean-Christophe worked his magic on me, sliding three fingers into my pussy and watching me moan and squirm. When I came, oozing hot girly cum all over his beautiful face, the handsome Haitian-American stud licked it all up. Later, Jean-Christophe finally took his clothes off and I feasted my eyes on his oh so fine body. His well-cut abs. his strong chest. His beautiful yet manly face. His sexy eyes. His strong arms. His cute butt. And let's not forget, his thick swinging dick. My eyes devoured all that and more.

I licked my lips as Jean-Christophe allowed me to touch him, and I caressed his face, his chest and then grasped his manhood with both hands. I was surprised to see that he was uncircumcised but hey, it's whatever. I pumped my hands up and down Jean-Christophe dick. Honestly, I wasn't sure what to do. Jean-Christophe smiled and told me to kiss it, and I did just that. Slowly, I took his member into my mouth and gently sucked it. This was my first time so I wasn't very good, but I followed Jean-Christophe guidance to the letter, and he seemed pleased with me.

I was quite surprised when Jean-Christophe came all over me, his dick shooting out loads upon loads of cum which splattered across my face, my mouth. Hell, some of it even got on my Hijab. Jean-Christophe apologized profusely but I told him it was okay. Tentatively I tasted his sperm. I liked it. Salty and yummy. Jean-Christophe pulled me into his arms, kissed me and asked me if I was ready to be bedded. I nodded firmly. Grinning, Jean-Christophe spread my thighs, and then pressed his hard dick against my pussy.

I looked at Jean-Christophe and smiled at this beautiful young man I loved so much. Wrapping my arms around his lean, strong body, I nodded firmly. Jean-Christophe pushed his dick into my pussy. A sharp cry escaped my lips as I lost my virginity to the man I love. Slowly, gently, Jean-Christophe made sweet love to me. I felt tense at first but relaxed as Jean-Christophe penetrated me. The initial pain and discomfort I felt was replaced by a wonderful feeling. I found myself crying out in pleasure and embracing Jean-Christophe tightly as he made love to me. Jannah forgive me, I didn't want this to end...

I slept in Jean-Christophe arms, and felt happy and content. At some point, it hit me that by sleeping with a man, and a non-Muslim man at that, I had violated some of Islam's most sacred rules. I am a Muslim woman, forever bound by the rules of my faith, body and mind. I should feel guilt but all I felt was happiness. I love Jean-Christophe and I know he loves me. So what if he's a Haitian-American Christian? I don't care. I'm in love. And even though my family will hate me and cast me out when they eventually discover this, I won't back down. I won't be afraid. After a lifetime of loneliness, of feeling ugly and unwanted, I finally found a man who loves me just as I am. I won't give him up for the world. Sincerely, Ayaan.