Qatar Woman for Haitian Ing

Give me a break, I thought angrily as I walked out of the Carleton University library with Samira Zeidan, holding her hand while a group of young Middle-Eastern guys stared at us angrily. Want to hear something funny? These guys are glaring at me, the tall brother happily married to the young Qatari woman, while one of them is with a blonde-haired white chick. Hypocrites much? At least I'm married to the lady by my side. That's more than I can say for these dudes.

My name is Gabriel Salomon, also known as Jibril Suleiman since I converted to Islam, and I was born in the City of Cap-Haitien, Haiti, but raised in the City of Montreal, Quebec. There aren't a lot of Muslims in the Haitian community. I am one, though, and damn proud to be. How I came to embrace Islam is a story in and of itself. Let's just say that life had a lot of surprises for me, in more ways than one.

Today, I'm the assistant manager of a CIBC branch in the environs of Ottawa, and I'm a recent graduate of the Sprott School of Business. Finally got my MBA, and not a minute too soon because my wife Samira Zeidan is pregnant with our first brat. Yup, I'm a successful business, a recent university graduate and a proud daddy-in-the-making.

The fact that Samira and I even met is a quirk of fate, to say the least. My lady and I come from different worlds. I guess we walked into each other's lives at the right time. We both came to Ottawa, a town far outside our comfort zones, because we were looking for something. And we found each other. I came to Ottawa for work and school, and Samira moved here because she was fleeing her situation back home. I know all about running away from bad situations, ladies and gentlemen. There's a time to run and a time to make a stand.

My parents, Stephanie and Jacques Salomon moved to Canada in 1990, when I was in the second summer of my life. They came to Canada as refugees, fleeing political instability and persecution back on the island of Haiti. For me, Canada is basically all I've ever known. After graduating from the University of Montreal with a bachelor's degree in Sociology in 2011, I spent ages looking for work.

Eventually, my search for a job took me to the City of Ottawa, Ontario, of all places. I work as a bank teller at CIBC, also known as the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce. There are zero jobs connected with what I studied in university anywhere in Quebec or Ontario, man. Trust me, I've looked.

That's why I decided to go back to school, and I'm now studying for a Master's degree in business administration at Carleton University's Sprott School of Business. I've seen plenty of guys and gals with sociology, psychology and political science degrees working at Starbucks and Tim Horton's. That is not the fate I want for myself.

Now, you're probably wondering what all this got to do with my shorty Samira, right? I'll get to that in a sec. I'm from Montreal, which is considered the Paris of Canada and a stronghold of the Francophone communities of North America. I am technically bilingual but I definitely speak more French than English. My first day at Carleton I was lost, and all of them students and teachers walking around didn't have any time for little old me.

Finally, resigned to my fate, I walked into this little cafeteria located inside the Loeb building to grab a coffee. I'd been walking around campus for half an hour and nobody seemed to know where in hell Dunton Tower was. Either that or they were too busy to show me. My thick French accent probably wasn't helping matters much. People in Ottawa are two-faced, man. I can't stand these fools. They politely tell you that they don't know but their slick smile tells you they're having fun at your expense.

"Salut monsieur, ca vas?" said a pretty, round little lady in a long black dress and hijab. I looked at the young Arab woman and gawked, for she was the first person I heard speaking French and I'd been walking around campus all day. Since the young lady just inquired as to how I was doing, I smiled and answered her query.

"Bonjour mademoiselle je suis perdu," I said, shrugging while putting down my coffee cup. For those of you who don't speak a lick of French, I just told her that I am lost. Quite frankly, I was about to start looking for directions to Dunton Tower on Google maps via the app on my iPhone, man.

The young Arab woman smiled at me, and her eyes lit up when I told her the name of the place I was looking for. "I'm a student at Sprott too, I'll show you where it is," she said excitedly, and I got up and happily followed her. Shoot, looks like my luck was turning, you know?

Little did I know that my luck was about to turn in more ways than I could have imagined, ladies and gentlemen. The pretty-faced little Arab lady walked me out of the Loeb building and up some stairs, and we walked in front of the University Library and then through a type of garden that she called a quad and then, we stopped in front of a tall brownstone building.

"This is Dunton Tower?" I said, scratching my head and honestly feeling kind of foolish. I mean, it's the tallest structure at Carleton. Got to be one of the tallest buildings in all of Ottawa. You could probably see it from an airplane. I mean, it completely dominates the landscape for miles. How in hell did I miss it?

"This is the main building of our school of business," the young Arab lady said, and smiled at me before she turned to leave. I kind of did a double take, for I hadn't thanked her for taking time out of her busy day to help me. Believe me, lots of people on campus aren't eager to help a big and tall black man with a French accent who doesn't know his way around.

"Thank you lady I'm Raphael by the way," I said loudly, and people kind of stared at me. My helper was already halfway down the ramp leading to the University Center building, but for some reason she stopped. Turning around, the young Arab lady flashed me a bright smile and kind of inclined her head.

"As Salam Alaikum brother Raphael I'm Samira," the young Arab woman said, and then, like quicksilver, she pulled open the door leading to the University Center and vanished. I stood there, shaking my head. This was my first day on campus, not counting Orientation Day, and I would never forget it because it led to the most fateful encounter of my life. The day I met the woman meant for me.

The next time I saw Samira, I was sitting in the Food Court, eating a Shawarma sandwich and potatoes, and the Arab Pixie, as I called her in my head, happened to be walking by while checking out something on her cell phone. I loudly greeted her, and I think I kind of startled her, for Samira looked at me with narrowed eyes.

"As Salam Alaikum Sister Samira," I said enthusiastically, and quietly congratulated myself on doing a very convincing uttering of the traditional Islamic greeting. Samira smiled at me, and kind of hesitated, but like the gung-ho dude I am, I got up and chivalrously pulled my chair for her.

You've got to be aggressive with the ladies sometimes, man. Samira nodded, and then joined me. "Wa Alaikum As Salam," she said, and plopped down on the seat next to me. I offered to get her a drink or something, my way to thank her for helping me out the other day. I must say, Samira was looking real good day. In a long-sleeved black T-shirt, blue jeans and black boots, with a modest ebony Hijab on, Samira somehow managed to look both modest and sinfully sexy.

Samira smiled, said "Masha' Allah, and then said it was the Will of the Most High that we encounter each other. I looked at this pretty-faced and ( from what I could tell ), curvaceous young Arabian beauty and smiled. This gal is beautiful, and I definitely wanted to know her better. The question is, how do I get through her, ahem, religious/cultural reluctance to deal with a male from a different background?

"I have a question for you my friend and I was hoping to run into you sooner or later," I said confidently, and Samira's golden brown eyes sparkled and she looked at me with rapt attention. What did I say to her, you may ask? I simply asked her about every Muslim's favorite subject, Islam, and Samira's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.

"I ran into a man in Montreal who saved my life after I insulted him and he said he helped me for the sake of the Most High," I said, and as Samira's captivated eyes fixated on me, I summoned depths of acting and guile most people would never have guessed I possess and made up a convincing tale about a brawl I had with some Somali guy, I ran away, and nearly got run over by a truck but the Somali guy I fought with pushed me out of the way.

I willed my face to show pain and conflict, and looked at Samira. "I've been feeling conflicted over this ever since," I said, shaking my head for good effect. Samira looked at me, her pretty face filled with emotion, and she laid her hand on mine.

"You were meant to learn about Islam my brother and I will help you on this journey," Samira said, eyes burning with intensity. I looked at her, hesitation written all over my face. Samira nodded firmly, and that's when I knew I had her. Game, set and match, ladies and gentlemen.

You see, I might be new to Ottawa but we have our fair share of Muslim immigrants and French Canadian converts in Montreal. Observant Muslim women do NOT touch males they're not related to. Samira crossed the line by touching me, and if she's willing to cross that line, it means I have quite an effect on her.

"We should keep in touch," Samira said, and I feigned surprise but nodded as she took out her cell phone. I calmly dictated my digits to her, and softly encouraged her to text me immediately. Women take a long time to make decisions, man. Give a gal your digits and she might wait days before calling you, or she might never call you. Samira dialed me, and I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket and smiled contentedly. I'm a winner, what can I say?

I was about to thank Samira for her offer, but the lady wasn't done with me. Indeed, Samira pulled a small booklet out of her purse and held it reverently before her and then handed it to me. "Please take my Koran it's in French," Samira said, smiling as she gave me the book.

My, this was most unexpected but I just quietly rolled with it. Samira is an Arab woman from the State of Qatar. Her country of origin is right next to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, the Heartland of Islam. Her religion is part of her and indivisible from her. " Thank you for this gift," I said respectfully, and took the book from her.

Samira smiled at me, and I took her holy book and gently held it against my chest. I swear, if she smiled any wider her face would be split in half. Once again she touched my arm. "I'm so excited," she said excitedly, and then told me to call her whenever I had a question about Islam. And then she giggled happily, wished me a good day and left.

I looked at the book in my hand, and smiled faintly. Dear Lord, what have I gotten myself into? I looked up, watching Samira go...and gasped. Man, I don't know how come I hadn't noticed before but the petite gal from Qatar had one hell of a butt on her. Big and round, and looking fetching in her tight blue jeans. Damn.

Looks like I've got some reading to do, I thought to myself as I finished my meal, then looked at my cell phone. I saved Samira's number, then went to my Intro to Economics course. It's a requirement for all MBA candidates. Honestly, the rest of the day was a blur. I was kind of distracted. I kept thinking about Samira and her odd mix of religiosity and sexiness, her ass sashaying from side to side in them tight blue jeans like a pendulum of temptation....damn.

That's how it all began, ladies and gentlemen. Initially, I set out to seduce Samira Zeidan, but the Arabian Pixie claimed a spot in my heart. We began hanging out at school, talking about religion, school and Canadian politics. Samira is an international student Al Khalifat, Qatar, and she's paying a lot for her studies at Carleton. More than twice what I'm paying as a Canadian citizen and new resident of Ontario.

"There's really a place called Khalifat?" I said to Samira, incredulous, as we sat at a table inside the Starbucks located in the campus library. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the window, causing light and shadow to dance beautifully on Samira's face. Seriously, I didn't believe her. Khalifat sounded a lot like Khalifa, the last name of my favorite rapper, and Samira laughed when I told her as much.

"Wiz Khalifa is sexy," Samira said, a look of wonder creeping into her beautiful face as she absentmindedly sipped her latte. Honestly, I was kind of surprised that Little Miss Religious here likes Rap. Sorry, I can't imagine a Hijab chick doing the bump and grind. As it turns out, I had a lot to learn.

"Stop daydreaming about that fool," I said, feeling honestly kind of jealous that Samira was fawning over Wiz Khalifa. That dude's alright but he's got nothing on me. I'm six-foot-two and 240 pounds of hard-bodied Haitian masculinity. And I'm no slouch in the brains department either. As soon as I get my MBA from Carleton, I'll take the business world by storm.

Samira grinned, a look of mischief dancing in her golden brown eyes. "Are you jealous, monsieur Salomon?" Samira said coyly, licking her lips. I found that gesture profoundly distracting, for it caused me to shiver lustfully down below, if you know what I mean.

Samira's got the fullest lips I've ever seen on a woman of non-African descent. Later, when she told me that there are tons of Africans, Indians and Filipinos living in Qatar and intermarrying with the local Arabs, I was kind of surprised. Globalization, eh?

"And what if I am?" I said somewhat provocatively, looking at Samira and honestly feeling kind of bold at the moment. We'd known each other for several weeks now. We'd hung out on campus mostly, but we'd also checked out a movie together, and grabbed lunch at the Saint Laurent Mall food court. Samira seems to enjoy my company, but the gal is honestly hard to read. I like to know where I stand, you know?

"I don't like jealous guys," Samira said, her eyes boring into mine with an intensity I had never seen before. Alright, I thought, wondering where she was going with this. Typically, I don't like to waste my time with females. No man does. I know that Samira and I come from different worlds. I'm Haitian-Canadian, and she's a Qatari Arab woman. I'm a lapsed Catholic who hasn't been to church in years and Samira is a practicing Muslim. Still, a woman is a woman, alright? If the lady is not feeling me, I can take a hint.

"You do have an effect on people," I countered, somewhat defensively, and Samira grinned. Looking me up and down, Samira smiled and shrugged. I kind of hate it when she does that, her insouciance sometimes gets to me. I know when a woman is being coy and when she's playing games. Hijab-wearing Muslim chick or night club vixen in a low-cut dress, a female is a female. Samira was starting to frustrate me, man.

The other day, we went to the movie theater and watched Twelve Years A Slave and while we sat together inside the movie theater near Blair Station, I tried the old "yawn and stretch" move on Samira, only to have her move my hand away. I apologized profusely, thinking I'd crossed the line. Alright, then. As we exited the theater, Samira had to tinkle and I dutifully waited for her outside the public washrooms.

While I stood there, waiting for Samira, a big-booty Hispanic chick walked by and kind of dropped her cell phone. As she bent down to pick it up, I kind of gawked because, hell, I love a nice ass, you know? The gal walked away, and the way her ass moved in her low-cut skirt had me hypnotized. I was still staring when Samira came out of the ladies room, followed my gaze and apparently she didn't like what I was doing.

"Hey there," Samira said, elbowing me in the ribs none too gently. Dammit, for a five-foot-four, pixie-like gal, she's got some strength on her. I smiled at Samira and asked her if she was ready to bounce. Samira said nothing but instead flashed me a grin a shark would recognize. It was scary, man.

I drove her back to her dorm at Carleton, and Samira gave me the silent treatment during the whole trip. A half-hearted hug and a glum "goodnight" was all I got for taking her to the movies and spending my dime on her. What the fuck? Now here she was, sitting across from me and sending mixed signals.

Samira looked me in the eye, all seriousness now. "Do you want a piece of me?" she said, her thick Qatari accent somehow giving urgency to words that would seem comical to anyone who'd heard a certain Britney Spears song. I took a deep breath, and shrugged. Might as well lay my cards on the table, right?

"Yes I like you Samira even though you confuse me at times," I said, looking her in the eye. Samira smiled, and sipped on her latte, that playful twinkle returning to her eyes. The Arabian Pixie licked her lips, and then, abruptly, she got up, and crossed the distance between us in the blink of an eye.

Suddenly, Samira's beautiful face was inches from mine. "Was that so hard to say?" she whispered, grinning. As I fumbled for words, Samira took my face in her hands, and then she kissed me. It was a brief kiss, lasted maybe ten seconds, nothing like what you see in the movies these days. But it was a KISS. I kissed Samira back, passionately.

I looked at Samira, still trying to catch my breath. The cutie from Qatar was full of surprises, what can I say? I mean, I never would have imagined that this seemingly shy, demure Hijabi was bold enough to kiss me in front of everybody. Believe me, people stared at us. Grinning, Samira and I walked out of the Starbucks and went back to her dorm to chill.

When we got there, we did a lot more than just chilling. Samira was one freaky mama, ladies and gentlemen. "I thought you wanted a piece of me, what are you waiting for?" the sexy Qatari diva said seductively, licking her sweet-looking lips and spreading her thighs invitingly.

Underneath the traditional Islamic dress that she wore, Samira had on sheer red panties, and the sight of her hairy cunt in them got me hard instantly. "Let me taste you," I said breathlessly, kneeling before Samira and spreading her thighs further. I inhaled the sharp, intoxicating scent of her womanhood, then began licking her pussy with gusto. This was my first taste of Arab pussy, what millions of guys worldwide dream of, and what Arab guys jealously hoard for themselves, and I swore to myself right then and there that it wouldn't be the last. What can I say? Them Arab women are addictive!

"Just like that lover," Samira whispered, gently rubbing my head as I ate her out, sticking my tongue into her cunt and teasing her clit with my fingers. Pleasuring her was sweet delight for me, watching her sexy body writhe under my expert touch. I love eating pussy, man. We got all kinds of females in Montreal and you can ask any of them, among those who like the brothers, we Haitian men eat pussy like nobody's business.

Soon, I had Samira howling in delight and crying out my name in Arabic, Farsi, English and profane. Once she came down from cloud nine, Samira stared at me with stunned eyes. "Wow that was intense," she said, giggling happily. I smiled and shrugged casually, then told her that she hadn't felt anything yet.

I kept my word to Samira, and I'm happy to say that this Arab shorty can definitely throw down in the bedroom. "You taste wonderful," Samira said, as we lay on her bed, stark naked, and she sat between my legs, stroking my Johnson. I nodded, silently encouraging her by nodding to my dick.

Thankfully, Samira got the hint and resumed sucking my dick. The sight of this curvaceous, bronze-skinned and dark-haired beauty, naked at last and greedily sucking my dick turned me on like you would not believe. "Taste the D," I said smugly. Samira shot me an angry look and I held my hands up in surrender.