My Moroccan Goddess

"Holding you in my arms makes me feel alive, my sweet," I whispered into my girlfriend Samira Ali's ear as we walked through Vanier Parkway together. After waiting an eternity for the OC Transpo bus at the Rideau Center, we decided to walk home. Public transportation in the City of Ottawa absolutely sucks, trust me on that one. That's especially true in the brief, shimmering summer months.

"You're such a romantic, Suleiman," Samira says with a smile, and I smile at her innocently while gently rubbing that magnificent butt of hers. Samira gasps and pretends to be shocked, and we both burst out laughing. Once upon a time, Samira would have frowned upon such public displays of affection but not anymore. Nope, my lady has "evolved" since we met, and so have I.

Samira Ali was born in the City of Jerada, northeastern Morocco, to a Yemeni mother, Halima Kader and a Moroccan father, Ibrahim Ali. This lovely lady moved to the City of Ottawa, Ontario, with her family in the late 1990s and has been living here ever since. We come from two different worlds, Samira and I. The fact that we met and ended up together is, in and of itself, almost a miracle.

My name is Solomon "Suleiman" Clarendon. I was born in the City of Calgary, Alberta, to a Jamaican immigrant mother and a white Canadian father. My parents, David Clarendon and Josephine Thomas divorced when I was younger, due to cultural and personal differences. Alright, they argued constantly and honestly, they were no good together, alright? Like many young people from similar households, I grew up with a jaded view of marriage.

Calgary, where I was born, is a nice place to be from but not a nice place to live if you're a visible minority. I stuck around for school only, determined to get out first chance I got. I graduated from the University of Alberta with a Master's degree in business in the summer of 2013, and moved to the City of Ottawa, Ontario, looking for work. Somebody forgot to tell me that the City of Ottawa is the land of polite racists.

While not as outspoken as us Prairie folks on racial issues, Ottawa folks are definitely a bigoted and passive-aggressive, quietly sleazy and deeply prejudiced bunch. I didn't know that the lily-white business world of Ottawa would see me as a threat because of my great height ( I'm six-foot-four ), brown skin and wavy black hair, the result of my partial African heritage.

Tall, good-looking and highly educated biracial guy like myself ought to do well in the Canadian business world, right? Most likely to succeed, that's what people used to say about me in high school. I actually believed it myself. I thought life was going to be easy. Man was I wrong! For ages I looked for work throughout Ottawa and couldn't find any, and spiraled into a dark path, and began abusing alcohol and drugs.

Today, I work at a call center for CIBC, also known as the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce, and make nineteen bucks per hour. I work in a tall building and get to dress professionally. Those are the ONLY perks of my job. I work long hours but I make time for family and friends. Got to have balance in your life, you know?

While at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, I met a truly remarkable gal. Samira Ali, a six-foot-tall, gorgeous young Moroccan-Canadian Muslim woman. Look, the last person I expected to see at an AA meeting is one of them Muslims. I am ashamed to say that's how I thought back then. Today, I am a proud new Muslim, just so you know. At the time, I didn't know Jack about Islam, or any religion for that matter.

My mother is a lapsed Catholic and my father is a staunch atheist. Religion isn't something we were big on, you know? I just knew that Muslims weren't the drinking type, especially the Muslim females who went about with their hair all covered up. Shows you how much I knew about people, right? Yup, I had a lot to learn.

"So, what are you doing here?" I asked the Hijab-wearing young Middle-Eastern woman who sat next to me. In a room full of men and women of all ages and colors, this broad stood out like a sore thumb. Samira, for my sweetheart was the lady in question, shot me a wuthering look.

"Same reason you're here, buddy, now be quiet!" Samira said, in a sarcastic tone. Again, I was kind of surprised that Samira Ali spoke to me that way because I thought Muslim women were submissive. This broad was anything but soft and sweet. When I looked into those golden brown eyes of hers, Samira Ali glared at me defiantly.

"My apologies, ma'am, I didn't mean to offend you," I said, holding my hands up and Samira Ali relaxed, somewhat. I looked at her, and after a moment, mustered up the courage to man up and introduce myself. The room was full of people and the facilitator was talking, but you would have thought Samira and I were the only people in there.

"It is good to meet you, Solomon, I'm Samira, now please be quiet," Samira said, smiling without shaking my hand. I looked at her, taking in that fearless smile of hers. Lovely lady, I thought. Later, when the AA group facilitator announced a brief recess, I got a good look at Samira as the tall, curvy Moroccan gal went to the ladies room.

I want that ass, I thought to myself, smiling. I was somewhat of a womanizer at the time. I have bedded ladies of all hues, from white chicks to Asian broads and even an Aboriginal chick or two. I'd never been with a Muslim chick before and wouldn't mind giving it a try with Samira. Little did I know that I would end up getting far more than I bargained for. Eight months later, this woman has changed my whole life...

Samira Ali, the fearless, unforgettable gal from Morocco. The woman who taught me about Islam, who gave me my first copy of the Koran, and showed me that what much of western society believes is false. God is not an old white guy in the sky. The Creator is all-knowing, all-powerful and ever-present but He is not a physical being, and has no gender, no color or ethnicity. God is simply God, and this sinner is thankful to have learned that. I took Shahada a few months ago...

"Can you really blame me?" I say with a shrug, and Samira smiles, then grabs me and kisses me. I kiss Samira back passionately, and then we make our way through the parking lot of the Loblaw's on McArthur Road before winding down Donald Street. I take her to my modest dwelling, a brownstone building located right across the Park.

"The things I'm going to do to you," Samira Ali says, playfully licking my ear as I fumble with the keys. We barely make it into my apartment before my favorite tall, pious Moroccan Hijabi unleashes a sensual cyclone on me. Seriously, this broad is something else. When you first meet Samira, you'd think she were soft and sweet. Well, wait till you get her behind closed doors.

"Show me," I said, and Samira grinned, then shoved me onto the living room couch. I sat there and watched as my Moroccan goddess undressed, putting on a sexy show for me. Off came her long-sleeved red T-shirt, followed by her long burgundy skirt. Standing before me in her bra, panties, and headscarf, Samira Ali looked beyond sexy.

"Come to me," I said, and pulled Samira Ali into my arms. We kissed again, and I ran my hands all over her sexy body. I absolutely love Samira's body, especially her ass. Cupping her thick dark bronze ass with both hands, I smiled and caressed it. Locking eyes with Samira, I kissed a path from her lovely lips to her throat, and finally her tits. Gently I caressed them and sucked on them.

"Suck them gently," Samira said, and I did as I was told, gently kissing her tits and sucking on them. I massaged them enthusiastically, for while I am most definitely an ass man, I do like them tits. Samira moaned softly as I kissed her breasts, and I made my way down to the space between her legs.

"The Jackpot," I said with a smile, and Samira winked at me as I spread her shapely thighs wide open. Ready or not here I come, I thought eagerly as I buried my face between Samira's thighs. With my face all up in her business, as they say, I began exploring Samira's inner world with my mouth and tongue. The smell and taste of her pussy were wonderfully intoxicating and I couldn't get enough of them.

"Oh fuck, right there," Samira whispered, licking her lips and I continued what I was doing, sticking my tongue deep into her pussy. I slid my middle finger in there as well, followed by my index finger. Samira cried out and moaned as I did my thing, flicking my tongue over the hood of her clitoris and teasing the hell out of her. Torturing my sweetie in the sweetest way possible, that's my sacred duty and I do it well.

"Love the way you taste," I paused to say, then continued lathering up Samira's cunt with my tongue. I had my sweetie squirming and moaning, and to really shine her on, I stabbed her clit with my tongue, which I formed into the shape of a spear, and that's when Samira just about lost it. Crying out like a madwoman, Samira shuddered violently, shaking up the couch...orgasmic at last.

"Oh fuck," Samira cried out, and I gathered her into my arms while the aftershocks, so to speak, subsided. Samira looked at me, her face flush and her eyes moist. Now that's the look of a woman who got pleasured right. I kissed her, and Samira kissed me back, with a hunger that surprised me. Good thing I'm a horny bastard who rolls with the flow.

"Ready for me?" I asked Samira, and the look on her lovely face was all the answer I needed. Off came my clothes, and Samira's eager hands ran all over me. I am a damn fine specimen of the male species, if I do say so myself. I'm six-foot-four, and used to play rugby at the University of Alberta. I graduated a while back but I'm still in shape. Samira Ali caressed my hairy chest, and then went straight for my D, as they say.

"Hello Mr. Happy," Samira Ali cooed softly, and I held my breath. I absolutely hate Samira's term for my dick, to tell you the truth but I am also horny and she's holding my dick. Pissing off a chick who's holding your stuff isn't a good idea. Samira winked at me, and stroked my long and thick, uncircumcised dick. Now, I bet you're really surprised that as a Muslim, I'm uncut.

Well, I am uncut and staying that way. The only Muslim who knows is my lady Samira and she's okay with me being the way I am. Samira once told me that if her enlightened Moroccan father hadn't stepped in, the women from her Yemeni mother's side of the family would have circumcised her in the name of mindless tradition. Samira is "unmodified" and virulently anti-circumcision regardless of the genders involved. Isn't that cool?

"Yummy," Samira whispered, then she took my dick into her mouth. I smiled at her as she began sucking my dick with gusto. Slowly I let out my breath, loving every moment of it. Samira knows exactly how to rock my world, ladies and gentlemen. I almost cried out as Samira massaged my balls while sucking me off, seriously.

"I want you inside of me," Samira said in a demanding done, her eyes locking with mine. Tugging on my dick for emphasis, Samira looked at me pointedly. I smiled and pulled her closer. I guess my lovely Samira had other ideas for she shoved me violently, and I fell backwards, skipping past the couch, and landing on the carpeted floor.

"Okay, someone's feeling aggressive today," I said with a hesitant smile as Samira straddled me. My hands went to her hips, and Samira sat astride me, her cunt hovering inches above my hard dick. With a downward thrust, Samira impaled herself on my manhood. I gasped and Samira sighed happily, then wrapped her arms around my neck.

"Fuck me hard, you silly man," Samira demanded, and I've never been more than happy to comply with a lady's request. Oops, did I say request? I meant order! I thrust my dick into Samira's tight pussy, and my sexy lady rode me hard. My hands moved from her hips to her ass, which I cupped and caressed. I'm an ass man as I've said before. I smacked Samira's ass playfully while fucking her.

"I can't get enough of you," I said to Samira, much later, as we lay side on the carpet. The living room reeked of our juices and since I usually receive guests here, I'm going to have to clean it up later. I dismissed these thoughts and looked at Samira, who smiled at me. "I feel the same way, Suleiman, that's why I seduced and converted your ass," Samira said, and then she got up. I looked up at Samira, watching my Moroccan goddess's mesmerizing, as she walked out of the living room. As Samira made her way to the living room, she bent down to pick something off the floor, and I saw that ass in all of its glory.

"I'm glad I met you," I said, and Samira turned around and winked at me, then entered the washroom and closed the door. I sat up, thankful to my lucky stars that I have such an amazing woman to call my own. I looked at my reflection in the living room's mirrored armoire, and grinned from ear to ear like only a man in love can. I was still smiling when I heard Samira, ahem, start doing her business.

My lady love, my darling Samira, the woman I call my Moroccan goddess, is currently in my washroom, taking a dump, and she's farting mad loud and I can hear EVERYTHING. When I looked at my reflection again, my smile was frozen. Oh, well. Sooner or later, every couple's got to face reality. None of us are perfect, alright? When you love someone and live with them, you've got to accept that.

I, Solomon "Suleiman" Clarendon, will say this much on the subject. Love and relationships are complex things but I believe in keeping things simple. Samira Ali is the woman I love and intend to marry. To have and to hold. In sickness and in health. Farts and all. Wish me luck, eh? Now if you'll excuse me, I'm putting some clothes on and stepping out on my apartment balcony for some fresh air!