Chechen Muslim Womens Erotica

It was a frosty day in late November, and a storm was brewing on Chariot Street, where, more than three decades ago, the Russian government purchased land to build its state-of-the-art Diplomatic Mission. Normally, Chariot Street was quiet, but on that fateful day, dozens of men and women gathered before the Russian Diplomatic Mission to protest the actions of the oligarchic Russian government against the persecuted Chechen Muslim minority. One of the protesters definitely stood out...

"What the fuck are you looking at, rent-a-cop?" Xava Kadyrov said angrily to the towering uniformed security guard standing between her fellow protesters and the Russian Diplomatic Mission, located not far from downtown Ottawa. The security guard sighed deeply, and then repeated his request for her not to cross the yellow line separating the not-so peaceful protesters from the vaunted Mission grounds.

"Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to stay behind the line, please and thank you," the security guard replied, his voice polite but firm. Xava looked at him, this rather tall, dark-skinned young man in the dark blue security uniform, and wondered how much his Russian masters were paying him to oppose her and her righteous cause. Probably doesn't care as long as he gets paid, Xava thought darkly.

"We're here to protest because three young Chechen Muslim men were attacked by radicals in Moscow, and the Russian government hasn't gone after their attackers, this is a hate crime, and we won't stand for it," Xava said vehemently, and the guard, whose name tag read Camara, actually sighed. Why do I always end up dealing with hotheads? Camara wondered silently.

"Sister, what happened to those Muslim brothers in Moscow was terrible, but I still cannot allow you on Mission grounds, so please stay behind the line," Camara said softly. Before Xava could reply, she noticed that several security guards were making their way to the front of the line. They were converging on where she and Camara stood, apparently bantering.

"I'm not your sister, Camara," Xava said haughtily, before walking away. She returned to the throng of protesters, some thirty to forty deep, and grabbed the microphone from her friend Paul, from the University of Ottawa. Turning her back to the security team guarding the Russian Diplomatic Mission, Xava faced her fellow protesters, most of whom weren't even Chechen but well-meaning Canadians who were passionate about the cause of human rights.

"A threat to any religious or ethnic minority is a threat to all human rights, Russian prejudice will not be tolerated," Xava screamed into the microphone, and the crowd erupted in agreement, cheering loudly. Xava pumped her fist into the air and shouted defiantly, before turning to face the Russian Diplomatic Mission grounds. Russia will feel the might of the Chechen diaspora, Xava silently vowed to herself.

Abbas Camara stood at the picket line, sincerely wishing that he were elsewhere. It was cold, and the blazer that he had on over his security uniform did nothing to protect him from the frosty Canadian weather. The only thing colder than the fierce wind which bit into the young man's bones was the coldness he'd seen in the blue eyes of a certain young female protester...

Four months ago, after obtaining his permanent residency card in the mail, Abbas had been thrilled because it meant he could finally have a life in Canada. Abbas first came to the City of Ottawa, Ontario, from his hometown of Dakar, Senegal, as an international student, majoring in Criminology at the University of Ottawa. Paying international fees sucked, and Abbas had been praying for relief from such a burden when the Canadian immigration authorities granted him his request.

Abbas got himself a job as a security guard at the Russian Diplomatic Mission, a gig which paid seventeen dollars an hour, but also came with some severe drawbacks. Out of a team of twenty security guards who worked the daytime, evening, overnight and weekend shifts, Abbas was the only black person. Everyone else was middle-aged, and white. There were three female guards on the crew, and they were all small-town and country types, not his kind of people.

"We're expecting a lot of protesters today, people, so be careful," said the security team boss, an old Quebecer named Durocher. Along with every other security guard working at the Russian Diplomatic Mission, Abbas was in the cafeteria slash meeting room, listening to the Chief speak. They had protesters to deal with, something that the Ottawa police really ought to be handling, but nope, it fell to the security team to take care of that.

"Duly noted," Abbas grumbled to himself, and then he left the room along with the other guards. He sincerely hoped that Canadian protesters didn't throw rocks, broken bottles and other projectiles like those in his homeland of Senegal. This was his first time dealing with protesters as part of his job. Why didn't I call in sick today? Abbas thought to himself.

"Hell no, we won't go, Russia will pay for what it did to our Chechen brothers," Xava shouted, her shrill voice rising into the frigid air. Thirty meters from her, Abbas Camara wrapped his blazer around himself and checked his watch. It was eleven seventeen in the morning, and he'd be getting a break soon. He'd forgotten to wear his gloves, and rubbed his hands together, trying to stay warm.

"Hey rookie, forgot your gloves?" came a familiar, raspy male voice, full of mockery, and Abbas closed his eyes, hard. Chief Durocher came by, smiling his cold smile. The old Quebecer stood closer to Abbas than the younger man felt comfortable with, and in spite of the Russian Diplomatic Mission having a non-smoking policy, he was smoking one of his Menthol cigarettes.

"I'll be alright," Abbas replied, trying to keep his cool. Durocher never liked the idea of hiring him, but the security company that had the contract with the Russian Diplomatic Mission did send him to the site for training, and that was that. Abbas knew that if Durocher had his way, no minorities would be working at the Russian Diplomatic Mission. Bozo's been trying to get rid of me for a while, Abbas thought bitterly.

"Hey, rookie, when you speak to me, you will address me as sir," Durocher said, and he jabbed his index finger into Abbas's chest. Abbas, a burly young black man who stands six-foot-three and weighs two hundred and fifty pounds, has often been told that he's a gentle soul. The brother from Senegal is always polite and respectful, and a pleasure to have around. This was the one time he lost his cool...

"Don't you ever touch me," Abbas retorted, and he shoved Durocher, hard enough to nearly send him tumbling. The old Quebecer barely remained on his feet, and he looked at Abbas, an astonished look on his face. Abbas looked at his own hands, then looked at Durocher. It suddenly occurred to him that a lot of people, from his fellow guards to the protesters at the picket line, were staring at him, including the feisty gal with the microphone.

"What have we here?" Xava wondered, watching as Camara, the black security guard with whom she'd exchanged words earlier seemed to be getting into it with an older security guard. The other guards came and separated the two men, who looked like they were ready to fight. Xava was puzzled by what she saw, then she remembered Camara's words. The man called me sister, perhaps he's a Muslim, Xava thought, puzzled.

"Abbas, I want you off my site, and you're lucky the cops aren't here, or I'd tell Durocher to press charges against you," said Emil, another old Quebecer who was Durocher's second-in-command. Abbas nodded, and grabbed his backpack before heading for the door. Troublesome thoughts filled his head. He'd have to go to the security office to explain his side of the story, and maybe he'd get suspended or fired. Life frigging sucks, Abbas thought bitterly.

Abbas casually walked to the Rideau Shopping Center, which was about a kilometer from the Russian Diplomatic Mission, and sat down inside the food court. He watched the people walking by, going about their day. Everyone seemed so purposeful. Abbas sat there in his security uniform, getting stared at by passersby and feeling awkward. When it rains it frigging pours, Abbas thought angrily.

After a while, feeling quite bored, Abbas pulled out of his backpack his copy of the Predator : Concrete Jungle comic book he'd been reading, and headed for the nearby Chinese food restaurant. A fella's got to eat, Abbas reminded himself. He sat there, wolfing down his meager meal of Chinese noodles, shrimp, egg roll, and washed it down with a Pepsi. He didn't even want to think about what life had in store for him next.

The next day, Abbas was summoned to the security office, where he was promptly fired, and made to return his uniform and security access card. Jobless and alone, and with only three hundred dollars in his pocket, Abbas wondered how he was going to survive. The young man headed to the University of Ottawa library, where he sat at a computer and checked out the job ads. There had to be another security company out there in need of new guards.

"Salaam, may I sit here?" came a feminine voice, and Abbas turned and found himself looking at a rather familiar face. A tall, slim young woman with dark hair, alabaster skin and cold blue eyes stood there, clad in a red turtleneck shirt, blue jeans and boots. Abbas scrutinized the lovely face, wondering where he'd seen her before. When the truth hit him, Abbas blinked in surprise.

"It's you, the gal from the protests at the Russian Diplomatic Mission," Abbas said, and the young woman grinned, then introduced herself as Xava. Abbas looked her up and down, wondering what she wanted. She was indirectly responsible for his firing as far as he was concerned. He worked the overnight shift and didn't do daytime gigs because he wanted to avoid Durocher, who usually worked the morning shift. If it hadn't been for Xava's damn protesters, Abbas would still have a J.O.B.

"Yeah, it's me, small world, you're Camara, right? The gutsy man who nearly decked that fascist," Xava said, smiling at him like a gat at a celebrity event, fawning over a Hollywood celeb. Cute but looks like trouble, Abbas thought, and he smiled politely as Xava sat down next to him, without waiting for him to reply to her request. Some people ask and some people take, guess she's the latter, Abbas thought, annoyed.

"Actually, I didn't get into it with my boss over your protests, sister, I got pissed at him for putting his hands on me," Abbas said, still seething over what Durocher had done to him. The annoying old Quebecer was a bigoted control freak, but Abbas wouldn't tolerate any man putting his hands on him and actually getting away with it. Not now. Not ever.

"Oh I see, anyhow, Mr. Camara, I came to apologize, I didn't know you were Muslim, when you said sister, I thought you were being patronizing, I'm Muslim too, from Chechnya," Xava said, flashing Abbas a smile that must melt a lot of hearts where she came from. Abbas nodded, and bowed his head gently, and Xava's smile actually deepened. A faint glimmer of interest appeared in Xava's blue eyes...

"Apology accepted Xava, I'm actually looking for work, I lost mine yesterday," Abbas said sullenly, and he switched his gaze back to the computer in front of him, hoping Xava would get the hint and scram. The young Chechen Muslim woman actually leaned over his shoulder, swiveling her chair closer to his, totally invading his personal space while looking at his computer screen. No shame in her game, Abbas thought, not knowing whether to be annoyed or impressed.

"Oh sorry that you lost your job, Camara, I feel so bad, but perhaps I can help," Xava said, and she grinned at him in a rather unsettling way. Abbas looked at Xava, shook his head, and resumed looking up the employment ads featuring security companies. Securitas Canada. G4S. Neptune Security. Garda World. So many to choose from...

"What would you know about helping me, Xava? We just met but you seem like a troublemaker, no offense," Abbas retorted, more than a bit peeved by this gal's brazen demeanor. Abbas was usually a gentleman in his interactions with folks, male or female, but Xava irked him. Yesterday she insulted him and he lost his job, and today she wanted to play savior. Weird gal, Abbas thought, annoyed.

"Dude, I work for KPMG and could get you a job in the mail room asap, for like seventeen dollars an hour," Xava said, grinning at Camara like the cat that ate the canary. Abbas looked at her, hesitated, and then heard himself ask for more details. That's all Xava was waiting for, it would seem. I'm going to have this brother in the palm of my hand, Xava thought, smiling.

Xava Kadyrov has always been what most people would consider a troublemaker. Born in the District of Shatoysky, Chechen Republic, and raised in the City of Toronto, Ontario, Xava recently moved to Ottawa to work for KPMG. Trained as an account at Ryerson University, Xava came to the Canadian Capital to make her mark in the business sector. The only thing Xava is more passionate about, other than money, is social justice.

Xava's parents, Zelimkhan and Makka Kadyrov left their hometown of Shatoysky due to the events of the Second Chechen War. The conflict between Chechen rebels and the Russian armed forces destroyed much of their homeland, and also affected the Caucasus region and much of Eastern Europe. They wanted to emigrate to America but America wouldn't have them. They finally settled in the City of Toronto, Canada.

Xava's parents, who are quite familiar with political persecution, warned their only daughter against upsetting the order of things in Canada. Xava, who supports everyone from Amnesty International to BLM and Me Too, never met a human rights cause that she didn't like. When the incident in Moscow happened, Xava risked her job with KPMG to protest against the Russian oligarchy...

"Alright, Xava, we'll play it by ear," Abbas Camara said carefully, and Xava grinned. The only thing that Xava, a thrill seeker by nature, enjoys more than making money and fighting for causes, is an exotic man from someplace far away. During her time at Ryerson University, Xava explored her sexuality with several energetic young men, hailing from places like Nigeria, Eritrea, Kenya, Haiti, Trinidad, and Gambia. A Senegalese gentleman like Abbas Camara was a rare delicacy for her...

"You won't know what hit you," Xava thought to herself as she and Abbas discussed the opportunities at KPMG, where she happened to work. A few days later, Abbas showed up for an interview in a nice suit with his resume, and got a mail room clerk/administrative assistant position. At least I won't have to wear a uniform but nice business clothes, Abbas thought, after he got the job.

"Xava, I owe you so much, you must let me take you out to celebrate," Abbas said to his benefactor, six weeks after he got settled into his new job. Xava pretended to be surprised, then suggested the Heart & Crown Restaurant, one of her favorites. The two of them went there, and seemed like a nice, well-dressed young couple, out for a night on the town. Game, set and match, Xava thought, looking at Abbas, who looked great in a sharp gray suit, white shirt, and tie.

"Thank you, Abbas, this is nice," Xava said, looking at their surroundings, and Abbas smiled and nodded. The brother looked like a classy, elegant and masculine gentleman, not the rent-a-cop she'd insulted and clashed with a while ago. As they dined on fine food, Abbas talked to her about his plans once he graduated from the University of Ottawa. Don't bore me by talking about yourself, Xava thought, peeved.

"I owe you a lot, pretty lady, and I won't forget you," Abbas said, and Xava grinned, nodding gently. Abbas was easy on the eyes and had a lot going on for him. After supper, they went for a walk around the Little Italy area, and then headed to Xava's nearby condo, to continue with their talks. Once they got there, however, they didn't do much talking...

"Show me how grateful you are," Xava said to Abbas, as they relaxed in her plush living room. He sat on the couch, after loosening his tie, and she sat on his lap. Abbas looked at the lovely, decidedly foxy young woman sitting on his lap and grinned. Abbas had only been with a few women in his time, and while they were all lovely, Xava of Chechnya was in a category by herself.

Xava reminded Abbas of the super-strong gal from Marvel's Jessica Jones, only with a much bigger butt. He wanted her quite badly, and she damn well knew it. Tall and slim yet sexy, with a nice round butt, Xava was one fine woman, and from her coy, seductive smile, to the sexual confidence that oozed out of her every pore, Abbas knew that he was every bit in her power.

Taking Xava's face in his hands, Abbas kissed her, and just like that, they began making love, right there on her couch. A lot of men like to rush things with a woman in bed, but Abbas likes to take his time. Xava was beautiful, feisty, fearless and bold, and a woman like that was a rare jewel, not something to be dealt with casually. Unless it's what she wants, of course.

"This is how I show my affection and gratitude, lovely temptress," Abbas said as he kissed a path from Xava's lips to her throat, and then he caressed her breasts. Xava sighed happily as Abbas sucked on her erect nipples, and slipped his hand between her thighs. Rubbing her clitoris with his thumb and index fingers, Abbas stimulated Xava's sweet spot, and felt her get wetter and wetter.

"Oh fuck don't stop," Xava squealed, and Abbas heeded her words. The handsome brother from Senegal buried his face between her legs and began eating her out. Arching her back and rubbing her erect nipples, the young Chechen Canadian Muslim woman moaned softly, loving what her ardent lover was doing to her. Abbas had the magic touch, and Xava wanted some more...

"I want you so much," Abbas said, after polishing Xava's pussy with his tongue, and coaxing an orgasm out of her which left her a squealing, quivering mess. They'd moved from the couch and were on the carpeted floor now. Xava admired Abbas burly, dark-skinned and muscular, masculine physique. The brother from Senegal reminded her of Hollywood actor Don Cheadle, only taller and younger, with a more defined build.

"Come here handsome," Xava said, grabbing Abbas's face with one hand and his dick with the other. Stroking his manhood, she straddled him. Without further ado, Xava impaled herself on Abbas dick, and at last they were one. Abbas smiled appreciatively and thrust into her, and Xava's pussy gripped him tightly. Locking eyes with her, he placed his hands on her hips and began fucking her.

Xava rode him hard, and she proved to be a sheer delight for Abbas, who dicked her down good and proper. They switched things around, and he took her on all fours, face down and ass up. Xava kept grinding that big pale ass against Abbas groin and he fucked her hard, loving the great visual she gave him to work with. Their screams of passion echoed across the spacious condo, and they went at it for hours.

"Thank heaven for Muslim women of all cultures," Abbas said, sighing deeply, while trying to catch his breath, after hours of lovemaking. Xava lay next to him, smiling from ear to ear. Moments like these, thoroughly enjoyable as they were, didn't come around often enough as far as Xava was concerned. A life without passion wasn't worth living, that was Xava's motto.

"Thank heaven for Muslim men of all cultures, my handsome Abbas, now, are you ready for another round or what?" Xava asked, looking into his eyes while playing with his chest hairs. Abbas looked at the beautiful young Chechen Canadian Muslim woman next to him and grinned, thanking his lucky stars. For the first time in his life, things were looking up at all levels. Abbas happily went another round with Xava, and showed the foreign temptress what the men of Senegal could do...