Afghan Milf for African Stud

I first spotted him walking around the Bay Shore Mall one fine Thursday morning. What started out as yet another dark, boring mid-August day in the City of Ottawa, Ontario, brightened up real quick for yours truly thanks to a certain vision of masculine beauty. Tall, lean and athletic, with chocolate-hued skin, short, curly black hair and a goatee. This one could give Hollywood star Will Smith a run for his money in the looks department.

Clad in a blue silk shirt and black dress pants, the brother looked good enough to eat. With long strides, he cut through the crowded Bay Shore Mall like a knife through butter. I followed him around discretely, and watched as he entered the bookstore. Imagine my surprise when I saw him pick up the well-known novel The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini.

"Interesting book," I said, as casually as I could, and the tall, dark-skinned brother looked up, apparently noticing me for the first time. I'd been trailing Mr. Cute Buns here for a good fifteen minutes, ever since he caught the escalator, and he just noticed me. I studied anthropology back in my university days and when I theorized that women's attention to detail might make us better hunters than men, whether in modern times or prehistory, many in the classroom actually laughed at me. Today, though, I seem to be proven right.

"Oh, yeah, I have lots of friends from that part of the world, and one of them recommended it," the brother said, pursing his lips. Yeah, he's even better-looking up close, if a bit slow on the uptake. He smiled at me, and I wondered what he must be thinking. Men often don't know what to make of me because I like to boldly accost them, for a variety of reasons. This one held the book in front of him as if shielding himself from little old me, and I found that wryly amusing.

"I'm Andisha, from Afghanistan," I said simply, and held out my hand for him to shake. The brother looked at my hand, smiled a bit and then shook it gently. I bet he was surprised by my forwardness. Nice and polite, hijab-wearing Muslim ladies in Ottawa aren't forward with the menfolk. Good thing I'm not one of them. For a man with such large hands, he's got a very gentle handshake. Nice. I waited with baited breath for him to take the hint, and finally Mr. Cute Buns deigned to tell me his name.

"Good to meet you, Andi, I'm Bilal Kamoun," the brother said at last, and I grinned. Men are so innocent sometimes it almost amuses me. I would never tell my last name to a person I just met, whether male or female. Bilal here is definitely from Central Africa, probably Rwanda or maybe even Central African Republic. Bilal is a common first name in West Africa and parts of central Africa. It's the name of the beloved companion of our prophet Mohammed.

Our tall, dark and handsome friend here is not West African, though. Bilal is from much further. That much I garnered from his last name. The red and black backpack he's carrying has the Carleton University Ravens logo, and since this brother appears to be in his mid to late twenties, I'm guessing he's either a fourth-year undergrad or a graduate student. Dammit, I should have been a detective.

"Excited about the start of school?" I asked abruptly, and Bilal grinned, and then told me how excited he was about starting his graduate studies in civil engineering at Carleton. Bilal got a bit loud, and I grinned and pressed my index finger against my lips, and the brother lowered his tone somewhat. Smiling bashfully, Bilal apologized for his loudness, and I shrugged.

"Glad to meet a fellow grad student, I'm doing anthropology at the University of Ottawa," I managed to squeeze out, and Bilal grinned and launched into a discussion of stuff he'd seen anthropologists do in the Discovery Channel. I stifled a frustrated groan, for the inaccurate portrayal of anthropologists on television irks me, but Bilal's infectious good humor must have affected, for I managed to stop myself from ranting.

"I could totally see you in the jungle studying animals, like an Arab version of Jane Goodall," Bilal said, and I looked at this tall, handsome young man and flashed him a smile a shark would recognize. Jane Goodall is perhaps the most well-known person from my field of study, and her work with primates is legendary but that doesn't mean I like the comparison. Seriously, there's a lot of hard-working women and men in my field who seldom get proper recognition for their contributions.

"Perhaps someday," I said to a smiling Bilal, and absentmindedly picked up a copy of Arabian Jazz by renowned Jordanian-American author and Portland State University professor Diana Abu-Jaber, and headed to the checkout counter. Bilal was ahead of me, and like the gentleman he is, he offered to let me go first. I reluctantly accepted, temporarily deprived of seeing his sinfully sexy ass. Bilal paid for the book with his CIBC debit card, and then exited. I watched him go, with a sigh. Oh, well. Nobody wins them all.

I walked out of the bookstore, and figured I'd head to Starbucks to grab a coffee, and guess who I bumped into? The handsome Mr. Bilal. Grinning, he approached me and I smiled and looked him up and down. Small world indeed, eh? Seriously, some guys are thick in the skull and just don't get it when a lady is at least curious about them and it's frustrating. I was all set to place Bilal in that category. Well, looks like I spoke too soon.

"Sister, I forgot to tell you, I work for an event management firm, and figured I'd give you my card," Bilal said, and he smilingly pulled a laminated card out of his well-worn brown leather wallet, then handed it to me. I nonchalantly picked it up, and put it in my purse. Seriously, I was excited since I thought Mama was cute but a lost cause, and this turnaround definitely surprised me, in a most pleasant way.

"Thanks, Bilal, I'll pass it along, you know, help you out with your business," I said, and sealed the deal with a wink and a handshake. Bilal shook my hand, and held onto it a moment too long, then smiled and let go. He said something about having to catch a bus to Carleton, and I nodded and waved him off. Nice ass, I thought to myself as I watched Bilal made a dash for the nearby elevator.

I was all smiles as I got in my beat-up little Passat and drove back to my place in suburban Kanata. What a promising morning, I thought. Oh, um, it seems that in all the excitement, I might have missed a step or two. My name is Andisha Khairzad, and I was born in the province of Nimruz, Afghanistan, and raised in the City of Montreal, Quebec. My parents, Aziz and Azra Khairzad left Afghanistan in the 1990s for political reasons.

I left the lovely metropolis of Montreal in the summer of 2008 and I studied anthropology at the University of Ottawa. I graduated in 2012 and these days, I work at a call center in the east end of Ottawa. Nothing glamorous. I'm the slightly accented female voice on the other line when you call, all frustrated and stuff, about your credit card. The job pays nineteen dollars an hour, but it's not all it's cracked up to me. I, um, work for the collections department. Which means I go after delinquent account holders, those of you who owe money on your credit cards and won't pony up the dough. The job is frustrating because I hear all kinds of excuses and bullshit from people. I miss face to face conversation. Being on the phone is stressful.

Well, not all face to face communication is fun. Had a bit too much of that with my former husband Ali Haidari, a hot-tempered dude I made the mistake of marrying. Our families were close, and we were both students at the University of Ottawa. If you're at all familiar with Afghan society, then you'd know that the pressure to marry is great, especially for the girls. Well, I got married, endured a lot of mistreatment during those eighteen months the marriage lasted, and now I'm happily divorced. My parents and I are estranged, and at the age of twenty six, I am living my life for me.

I went home, and that afternoon, I called one Bilal Kamoun. The Central African stud was surprised to hear from me so soon, and I reminded him that I was bold, not at all like the women he must be accustomed to meeting. Yes, I'm a Muslim woman living in Ottawa. No, I don't play by any rules other than my own. That's what independence means. Bilal picked up on that, and seemed keen to see me again.

"What are you doing tomorrow? I was thinking we could catch a movie or something," Bilal said, and I waited a few seconds before answering, even though I was pretty much expecting him to at least try to ask me out. When guys get a gal's number, they tend to wait a day or two before calling us. I find that stupid. Life moves pretty fast. Within a day or two, an attractive gal could meet someone new and forget all about you. Think fast, fellas.

"Hmm, what movie were you thinking of?" I asked coolly, and Bilal started raving about Jurassic World, which I'd seen twice with my girlfriends. One of my co-workers, Arlene, is a big science fiction buff and she even as toy dinosaurs on her desk at work. She dragged me to see Jurassic World, which was okay, although the storyline could have been better. I wasn't interested in seeing it a third time, not even for Mr. Cute Buns.

"Heard great things about Straight Outta Compton," I said, and Bilal fell silent at the other end. I almost instantly regretted my choice. Sighing, I slapped my forehead. Great way to be stereotypical, I thought. Afghan gal about to head out to the movies with a black guy insists on seeing a flick about Hip Hop. I'm not that socially clueless, I swear. I think I spend too much time around the white girls at work. I'm starting to pick up some of their habits.

"Yeah, black American culture is fascinating, it's so different from us in Africa," Bilal said, laughing, and I slowly let out the breath I hadn't even realized I'd been holding. Bilal picked up on my clues and I liked that. We made up a date, or whatever you want to call it, for Saturday afternoon at two o'clock. I wished Bilal a good day, then hung up. I went to the call center for my three to eleven shift, and I was all smiles.

"Oh, Miss Snarky is happy today, who's the guy?" said Arlene O'Neill, my co-worker. Tall, with short red hair and green eyes, Arlene is both tomboyish and nerdy. My dinosaur-obsessed colleague is also man-crazy, but her tomboyish mannerisms ( Arlene likes to wear guys suits ) turn them off, and more than a few of the guys at work are convince that she's a lesbian. Which is a shame because Arlene desperately wants to find the right guy.

"A sinfully sexy piece of chocolate," I said, and pulled out my iPhone, which I used to creep up on Bilal Kamoun's Facebook profile. Arlene looked at Bilal and caressed the screen with her pale hand. I took the phone away from her before the bitch started to lick it. Arlene playfully slapped my shoulder, then leaned back against the nearby wall and shook her head, half-admiringly and half-grudgingly.

"Andisha, how do you do it?" Arlene asked, biting her lips and I smiled and shrugged, then put on my headphones. Arlene got the hint and went back to her own cubicle, and I began to call up delinquent credit card account holders, as is my job as a collections department agent. I called up one Dillon Greystone, age twenty four, student at Algonquin College and eight hundred dollars in debt, since he went over his credit card's five-hundred-dollar limit.

"Go fuck yourself, lady, I told you people not to call me," said a very angry Dillon Greystone before hanging up the phone. I smiled, shook my head and looked out the window. From the seventh floor window, I could see the vast landscape of eastern Ottawa, and it was beautiful. If I didn't cherish my two-bedroom apartment in Kanata so much, I'd seriously consider moving to the Vanier area. A lot of people speak ill of Vanier and eastern Ottawa as a whole, but not me. With so many Arabs, Somalis and other minorities in the area, I'd feel right at home. Kanata is another story. People over there are kind of stuck up.

"First disgruntled call of the evening?" Arlene called out from her cubicle and I nodded, then flashed her the thumbs up sign. I swear, if you're a call center operator, the people on the other line speak to you as though you were something other than human. They're rude to you in a way they would never dare to be in person. If a man spoke to me the way Dillon Greystone did, I'd slap the fool into next Wednesday.

"Yeah, it just keeps getting better and better," I said quietly, and returned to doing my job. A little over a year ago, my life was quite different. I'd just graduated from the University of Ottawa, and I was madly in love with Ali, the handsome young Afghan student I met in the school library. Of course, Ali hid the fact that he was controlling and mean as hell behind his handsome face and easy smile.

I met Ali's family and they were charming, and my parents were glad to see me marry a young man from our culture. In the past, I dated Ahmed Singh, an Indian Muslim guy and a Jamaican guy named Paul Johnson both of whom they disapproved of. You've got to understand that even while living in places like the United States of America and Canada, Afghan immigrants stick to their Islamic faith and cultural ways. My parents would freak out if I left the house without my hijab, I swear. That's just the way they are.

I've always had a thing for dark-skinned guys, and I don't apologize for it. Even my Indian ex, Ahmed, was of partial Tamil ancestry. In south Asian and central Asian countries, fair skin among women is a prized commodity while dark skin is looked down upon. The holy Koran states that piety, good conduct and fine character, rather than skin color or origin, is to be the ultimate methods of assessment among Muslims. Today's Muslims have forgotten that.

In this life, I've been mistaken for everything from Mexican to Lebanese, but I always tell people that I am Afghan. My mother, Azra Kanju-Khairzad is originally from Pakistan, and has some Tamil ancestry. Pakistan used to be part of India, where the dark-skinned Tamil people originate, and Pakistan is right next to Afghanistan. Many Afghan men have Pakistani wives, by the way. My father Aziz Khairzad is pure Afghan, whatever that means.

As a result of my mixed ancestry, I look rather...unique. Look up ethnic South Asian in the dictionary and you might find a picture of me. I'm five-foot-ten, which is considered quite tall where I come from. My skin is dark bronze, the same shade as that of Hollywood starlet Mindy Kaling. I have long black hair, light brown eyes and I'm pleasantly chunky. Nope, I'm not curvy or voluptuous or well-rounded. I'm a big gal, and I own up to it. Besides, the gentlemen I find attractive tend to like my big tits and big ass. All is well that ends well.

Speaking of gentlemen, I went online and checked Bilal Kamoun's profile...thoroughly. I saw a picture of him hugging a young black woman, and licked my teeth. Seriously, brother's all hugged up with this big-booty broad. Checking out the photo comments, I was pleased to see that Bilal and the booty gal, Amina, shared the same last name, on account of being siblings. Relieved, I continued checking out the pictures. I almost had a heart attack when I saw a picture of Bilal, shirtless, on the beach, in shiny white shorts.

"You are so going to get it," I said, smiling, as I barely stopped myself from "liking" the picture. Bilal and I weren't Facebook friends...yet. Still, since his profile is an open one, pretty much anyone could see his pictures. Guess this dude is real secure with nothing to hide, or he's naïve about how treacherous the online world is. Bilal only has forty or so Facebook friends. Me? I've got close to a thousand, mostly extended family, friends of friends, or people I've met at various places where I've worked.

Feeling inspired, I took a break, and went to the ladies room. I cleared the deck, making sure I was alone. I sat there, and pulled down my long skirt, and my panties. My hand slipped between my thighs, and my fingers touched my wet pussy. Closing my eyes, I visualized Bilal's tall, muscular body, shirtless on the beach and in my fantasy, the magnificent African stud was stark naked.

"Come to me, sexy woman," Bilal called out to me, standing naked on the beach, his muscular arms outstretched. Carelessly I tossed aside my Firaq dress and hijab, and stood naked before the dark prince. Usually, I feel self-conscious when naked, for I am a big gal with somewhat dark skin in a world that worships skinny, pale females. Bilal looked at me, and told me I was beautiful, and I believed him. So I went to Bilal, eager to be made his.

"Here I am," I said, and Bilal took my face into his hands and kissed me. We embraced passionately, and tumbled on the sand. Just like that, we began making love. Bilal kissed and caressed me, his eyes and hands roving all over my curvy body. Few men can truly appreciate a woman like me, brainwashed as they are by the West's ridiculous beauty standards. Bilal kissed my throat and caressed my large breasts, pinching the nipples, and I shuddered, welcoming his touch.

"You are beautiful," Bilal said, and he sucked on my breasts greedily while spreading my thick thighs. I gasped as I felt Bilal's hand on my pussy. One of his fingers slipped into my womanhood, followed by another. I held my breath as Bilal smiled at me, and then kissed a path from my round belly to the space between my thighs. Soon I felt Bilal's tongue on my pussy, then in it. I licked my lips and closed my eyes. Time for me to enjoy myself.

Thrusting two fingers into my wet cunt, I masturbated furiously on the toilet seat, not caring that I was at work. The call center where I spend most of my days is one of the largest and most diverse such establishments in all of Canada. At any moment one of the other ladies might come in, to answer nature's call, but I didn't give a damn. I was answering an altogether different but just as urgent call from mother nature.

I masturbate a lot these days, sticking everything from dildos to anal beads into my eager holes. I like to finger my cunt while having a butt plug embedded deep inside my ass. Why do I do it? It's pleasurable, and I'm one horny broad. I have rarely had male company since my divorce. I wear the hijab so most men assume that I'm off-limits. I swear, wear this symbol of your faith and it transforms you into a sexless drone in the eyes of both Muslims and non-Muslims.

Well, while a lot of Muslim women might be content to be seen as the embodiment of feminine modesty and purity, I'm way beyond that shit. I'm a woman and I've got my needs. As I thrust two fingers into my wet pussy, I envisioned Bilal Kamoun on top of me, pressing his dark-skinned, muscular body against me, while thrusting his thick dick into my cunt. A happy moan escaped my lips as I climaxed violently, shuddering all over, my toes curling in my sandals.

"Oh fuck," I said, smiling guilty as I came down from cloud nine, thanking Fantasyland-Bilal for this quick, violent orgasm. I took a moment to compose myself, then pulled up my crimson panties, and then my skirt. I walked to the washroom counter, and admired my reflection in the mirror. A tall, curvy woman in a long-sleeved dark blue T-shirt, long black skirt and open-toed black sandals looked back at me. I smiled, and then left. I returned to my seat as if nothing had happened.

For the rest of the evening, I did my job, calling client after client, and oddly enough, I didn't get a single rude answerer. This young woman, Gina something or other, owes us four hundred and volunteered for biweekly payroll deductions of fifty dollars until her debt was settled. How about that? I work for the collections department, people avoid calls from me like visits to the dentist. When the clock hit eleven, I walked out of there hastily, waving Arlene goodbye instead of taking the elevator together like we normally do.