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.