Paistani Girls for Somali Boys

So I sat in a stall in the ladies room, trying to squeeze one out. Sorry, I ate some really bad Sushi from the food court at my university. I sat there, sweating bullets as the, um, process got underway. Remind me never to eat Sushi again. That's what I get for trying exotic foods. Anyhow, I sat there, and checked my Facebook on iPhone to pass the time. Laughter from outside the stall caught my attention, especially since a fairly familiar voice started going on and on about "towel head chicks" at Carleton University and whatnot.

Now, as a hijab-wearing Muslim woman, I attract a fair amount of attention even in a somewhat racially diverse place like Ottawa, Ontario. Still, to hear such outright bigotry in the ladies room kind of surprised me. The two girls went on, and one of them mentioned something about the university slowly becoming "Little Arabia". I peered through the tiny space connecting the stall door to the wall, and glimpsed a plump chick in a red T-shirt and blue jeans. With those tacky brown boots on it couldn't be...oh my. My heart skipped a beat as I thought I recognized one of the bigots.

Shaking my head in disgust, I silently fumed. Part of me felt like leaping out of the stall and giving these racist bitches a piece of my mind, but I was otherwise engaged, if you catch my drift. By the time I was done, they were long gone. I finished my business, then wiped, and came out. I looked at my reflection in the washroom mirror as I readjusted my clothes. A short, slender young woman with light brown skin in a white T-shirt and long brown skirt stared back at me. Silently I fixed the somewhat loose pin holding my light brown hijab in place. Racist cunts, I said aloud, shaking my head.

Washing my hands profusely, I willed myself to calm down. Ottawa fancies itself a multicultural town where people from all ethnic backgrounds merge seamlessly into a free and open society. At times this feels like the biggest lie of all. My name is Bushra Khan and I was born in the City of Quetta, Pakistan. My parents, Amir and Nazira Khan moved to Ontario, Canada, when I was quite young. We've been living here ever since. My father works for the Royal Bank of Canada as an account manager. My mother teaches mathematics at a local high school. My older brother Imran is studying law at York University. I am a proud Canadian citizen and a good Muslim. I love this country and I'm thankful for the great opportunities it's afforded me. I just can't tolerate the everyday racism of some of my fellow Canadians.

I walked out of the ladies washroom with my head held high. Just another brown gal walking through the busy, at times bustling hallways of Carleton University. I walked back into the university center, where my boyfriend Omar Cisman awaited. Hello beautiful, Omar said, smiling that carefree smile I knew so well. Just like the gentleman he is, Omar rose and pulled my chair for me. Nodding silently, I sat down and began picking at my food. Gently laying his hand on mine, Omar asked me what was wrong.

I looked into Omar's big brown eyes, and wondered what to tell him. Ever since we met during freshman orientation three years ago, we've been inseparable. Many thought we wouldn't last since we make for one odd couple. He's like six-foot-four and I'm barely five-foot-three. Omar is half black and half white, born to a Somali immigrant father and white Canadian mother. His parents, Yusuf Cisman and Angelique Marrow are divorced, Omar told me about it, something about religious differences and clashing cultures. I'm a devout Muslim and Omar considers himself an agnostic. His white Christian mother did her best to push him away from Islam, but somehow he ended up with me, a Muslim sister. And we're quite happy together. He's my rock, and always has my back.

I took a deep breath, then told Omar what I'd heard in the ladies room. Omar listened to me carefully, giving me his undivided attention. That handsome face of his remained carefully blank. When I finished my little spiel, I waited for his reaction. That stinks, Omar said, a slow smile creeping into his face. I smacked his shoulder. I'm not joking, I retorted, even as I began to smile. Omar can always make me laugh regardless of the dire circumstances I sometimes face. I'm twenty one, and suffer from type one Diabetes. My mother has it. One of my aunts on my mother's side has it too. I just got diagnosed with it so as you can imagine, I've had a tough time adjusting.

Ignore them bitches babe, Omar said, snapping me out of my reverie. That deep voice of his took on an amorous tone as he took my hand in his and brought it to his lips. Smiling, I winked at him. There we sat, in the middle of the loud, crowded university center food court, not far from the television sets, and yet it felt like Omar and I were the only people in the room. No, make that the world. Smiling wickedly, I reached underneath the table, and patted the front of his pants. In mere moments I got him in quite a state. I could feel Omar's hardness in his pants.

Let's get out of here, I said suggestively, licking my lips for emphasis. Omar's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree, and we zipped out of the food court. My place isn't far away, we made it to my residence in like five minutes. Once we got there, it was like a hurricane got unleashed. Omar and I got our freak on, as they say. Off came my shirt and long skirt, followed by my bra and panties. Just as I got ready to take off my hijab and free my long, curly black hair, Omar stopped me. Keep it on, he said naughtily.

Shaking my head, I complied with my boyfriend's request. Lying on the bed, I spread my thighs, exposing my bush. Dinner is served, I said. Omar smiled and got between my legs, gently eating me out and fingering me. Nice and slow, just the way I like it. Omar licked my kitty, taking his sweet time as he did it. I relaxed and enjoyed as he went to work on me. I have one rule when it comes to my pussy. If you can't lick it, I won't let you stick it. Omar learned that the hard way. Before we met, he'd been with a few girls but had never gone down on a woman. Now it's his favorite thing to do.

I love oral sex, both giving and receiving. After Omar finished pleasuring me, leaving my cunt all tingly, I returned the favor happily. Grabbing his long and thick ebon dick, I sucked it gently, teasing him by flicking my tongue over his dick head while massaging his hairy balls. His manly smell intoxicated me, but in a good way. Half an hour later, we were fucking like jackrabbits. We even used his favorite condom brand, Magnum. I climbed on top of Omar, and slid right on top of his dick, impaling my cunt on it. Resting my hands on his big broad shoulders for support, I began riding him. Each thrust of his dick into my womanhood elicited a moan from me, and I loved the deliciously hot pain. Omar's way of setting me on fire down below.

Omar put his hands on my narrow hips, holding me firmly in place as he slammed his dick into me. Crying out, I urged Omar to fuck me harder. My sexy ebon stud got really aggressive, smacking my bum as he rammed his dick into my sweet spot. I rode him like a wild woman, crying with wild abandon, screaming obscenities in Urdu and English as I got the fucking I so richly deserved. We went at it like this, then tried another position. I got on all fours, and Omar took me from behind. Since we're so different in terms of height and physique, this is not the easiest position to manage sexually but we got it done.

Face down and ass up my sexy Somali stud fucked me till I came, and cried like a madwoman in orgasmic delight. Omar had me right where he wanted me. The feel of his hard dick pounding my cunt mercilessly always thrills me in the most awesome of ways. I wanted to try fitting that dick of his into other holes of mine because I'm freaky like that. A lot of women are afraid of anal sex. Just clean yourself up down below, relax and use lots of lube and condoms. Works wonders. Omar and I have tried it a couple of times, with wonderful results.

That afternoon, Omar delighted me by licking and fingering my asshole before lubricating me giving me a good fuck. Now, taking a dick as thick as Omar's isn't the easiest thing in the world but with patience and lubricant, one can work wonders. I wanted to look at him as he fucked me, so I lay on my back with my legs spread as Omar worked his dick into my asshole. Slowly but surely he worked most of it while I fingered my pussy and slowly let out my breath to keep from screaming. After a while, the discomfort I initially felt was replaced by a wonderful feeling of fullness. A most pleasurable feeling. It was a good day.

Kinky sex is fun but has a way of leaving us exhausted, albeit in a fun way. Omar and I lay in bed for the better part of the next three hours, then I got up from the bed because I had a class at five and it was already four forty five. When you live on campus and you're late for class it's frigging lame. Since Omar and I were headed in the same direction, we rushed out of the residence together. We got to the university center, huffing and puffing, and caught the elevator heading upstairs. Guess who I ran into on the first floor? A plump white chick in a red T-shirt, blue jeans and brown boots. I accidentally bumped into her and her eyes widened, then her lips curled in distaste. I started to apologize but the words got caught up in my throat.

I realized right then and there that this was the broad from the ladies room earlier. The one who was talking shit about Muslims while I was taking a shit, pun intended. I saw the hostile look in her eyes as they flitted over me, taking in my light brown skin, my ethnic South Asian features and my hijab. Got a problem with Muslims? I asked her tersely, letting my anger show. Standing next to me, Omar glared at her. That's right, bitch, your white privilege will serve you no good today. Us minorities are onto your bigotry. I felt Omar lend me his strength. Silently he stood beside me, observing the situation. The plump white gal opened her mouth but said nothing. Without a word, she walked away. Bitch, I muttered under my breath.

Omar and I made our way across the Atrium, then parted ways. His class was at Loeb and mine was in the Tory center. That's the bitch who insulted our great religion earlier, I said. Omar grinned, then kissed me on the forehead. You totally owned her, he smiled, giving me a hug. I hugged him back fiercely, then let him go, for we were both running late for class. In spite of the fact that I was late for our midterm review that day, I felt good. Normally, I'm a fairly timid gal and about as mild-mannered as they come but tonight I confronted a bigot. And it felt oh so good. May Allah always grant me such strength when I need it the most.