Saudi Arabian Milf Adventures

"Ah, the glamorous life of an exile," Najma Al-Duwaish Obaid thought to herself as she surveyed her neighborhood. Located in the heart of Vanier, Ontario, the two-story red brick building overlooked the nearby park that occupied much of Donald Street and bordered McArthur Avenue as well. Although the place was alright, all things considered, it was a far cry from her old digs in the opulent Al-Dhahab neighborhood of metropolitan Riyadh, that's for sure.

Not for the first time, Najma cursed the day that her philandering husband, Mohammed Obaid, met Fatima Said, unhappily married daughter of one of Saudi Arabian society's wealthiest magnates, legendary cleric and architect Hussein Said. The two of them carried on a torrid affair, which led to their discovery and arrest by the Mutaween, the Saudi religious police. Mohammed Obaid's family blamed Najma for his indiscretions, and after some lengthy and expensive legal wrangling, they left her destitute.

"You should leave Saudi Arabia for your own good, witch, your life is forfeit," said Khadra Obaid, Najma's mother-in-law. The old Saudi woman spat on the ground as she spoke to her daughter-in-law, whom she always despised for many reasons. Not the least of which being that Najma had grown up in the City of Toronto, Ontario, and wasn't "Saudi enough" for some. Nevertheless, Najma took the old woman's unsolicited advice, and left the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia for Ontario, Canada.

Najma's dual Saudi/Canadian citizenship proved to be a saving grace under the circumstances. Now here she was, thirty eight years old, starting over in a new country. Just call me the Saudi Arabian Muslim version of The Starter Wife, Najma thought bitterly, as she recalled her fondness for that short-lived U.S. Network series starring Debra Messing. Like her favorite character, Najma was a woman rebuilding her life after the end of a relationship. Living in a two-bedroom apartment in a seedy neighborhood didn't appeal to her one bit, but Najma had no choice. For now.

"So, you graduated from the University of Toronto with a bachelor's degree in psychology in 2004, what are you qualified for, as far as today's competitive workplace?" said Vincent Templeton, the stocky, bald-headed white guy working at the employment agency which Najma visited a couple of weeks ago. Glaring hatefully at the annoying little man, Najma resisted the urge to slap the shit out of him.

Clad in a black leather jacket over a red turtleneck shirt, black silk pants and knee-high black leather boots, her raven hair tucked under her Hijab, Najma knew that she cut a dashing figure. Unfortunately, her charms left Templeton cold, as evidenced by the picture of him all hugged up with a tall black guy while they were both holding rainbow flags. Najma hadn't lived in Canada in over a decade. In that time, the country had changed a lot. Interracial couples seemed to be everywhere, and gay marriage got legalized. Fascinating stuff, to be sure, but it wasn't getting her anywhere.

"I'm looking for a job, any job for which I'm qualified, you're an employment agency, aren't you?" Najma said icily, and Templeton shot her a look and pursed his thin lips. For some reason, he reminded her of one of the teachers in the Harry Potter movies. And not in a good way. So this is what my life has come down to, needing help from the dregs of the universe, Najma silently lamented, and she forced herself to stay calm.

Najma Obaid came to the City of Ottawa, Ontario, when it became clear to her that rent in Toronto wasn't something she could afford in the long run. After all, when all was said and done, Najma only had sixteen thousand dollars when she arrived in Canada from Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Her late husband's family made sure that she left the country penniless and heartbroken. Lucky for Najma, she'd begun stashing money away the day the Mutaween stormed the Obaid residence, and dragged her husband Mohammed Obaid away in handcuffs.

After a rather brief trial, Mohammed Obaid and his lover/accomplice Fatima Said were found guilty by the Criminal Court of Saudi Arabia. Pleas for clemency were sent to King Salman of Saudi Arabia, but fell on deaf ears. The law was the law, even for the wealthiest members of Saudi Arabian society. Adultery carried a death sentence in the Kingdom. Thusly, Mohammed Obaid and Fatima Said were summarily executed at the infamous Deera Square, a bloody corner of Riyadh were public beheadings are carried out. Najma remembered fainting on that hot, gruesome day.

"Frankly, Miss Obaid, I don't think it's your resume or your educational credentials that are holding you back, it's your attitude," Templeton said, and the little man's face was suddenly beet red. Najma smiled, resisting the urge to squeeze his nose. With his short stature, and the weird cap he always wore, he reminded her of a garden gnome. Yeah, it was true what they say about the little guys. Always insecure, and with hidden anger issues...

"My attitude is just fine, shorty," Najma said, and she looked Templeton up and down, smiled and grabbed her purse before exiting the employment office located on Catherine Street. There was an abundance of buses going to and fro, but Najma decided to go for a walk. As she walked by a nearby school, a tall, well-dressed and handsome black gentleman looked sharply in her direction. Najma smiled politely and continued on her way.

"Najma Al-Duwaish, is that you?" the stranger called out, and Najma turned sharply and faced him. She hadn't been called by her maiden name in ages. In Saudi Arabia, a woman's maiden name disappeared completely after marriage. They didn't have the practice of hyphenating it like they did in western countries. The tall black man looked at her like he knew her, and Najma found that profoundly puzzling.

"Salaam, do we know each other?" Najma asked cautiously, and the man smiled and nodded. When he smiled, Najma's heart skipped a beat. Memories she'd long cast aside came back, unbidden. Najma thought of her halcyon days at the University of Toronto, and one face stood out among the countless people she met there. Nasser Mukalay, the handsome, proudly Muslim, Congolese-born star of the University of Toronto's Varsity Basketball Team in the early 2000s. Oh, and he was also her college sweetheart...

"Come on now, Najma, it's Nasser, you forgot a brother this easily?" the handsome, chocolate-hued stranger said casually, and he flashed her that fearless smile that had the power to make her melt, once upon a time. Najma smiled and swiftly crossed the distance between them. Sidestepping decades of Saudi social and cultural conditioning, Najma held out her hand, and Nasser Mukalay gently shook it.

"Good to see you again, Nasser, you look amazing, how are you?" Najma said, looking him up and down. Although he was in his late thirties, Nasser looked almost a decade younger. Black doesn't crack, Najma thought enviously. Try as she might, she couldn't hold back the bloody sands of time. With a steady diet, a rigorous exercise routine and lots of creams, Najma kept herself looking good. Nasser on the other hand looked like a man in his late twenties, when she knew he was a decade older. Dammit, it just wasn't fair.

"I'm fine, Najma, I didn't know you were in town," Nasser said, and Najma felt a pleasant frisson as he suddenly pulled her into an impromptu hug. Hmmm, someone smells good, Najma thought appreciatively. Nasser smiled at her. Najma did not remember how they got into the nearby Greyhound station and sat down for a quick bite, nor did she care. It felt good to catch up...

"So, you're a Dad now?" Najma said, as Nasser showed her a picture of him standing next to a light-skinned, skinny and freckle-faced, dark-haired young woman, and there was a chubby, blonde-haired white woman in the picture as well. For some reason, Najma's heart winced when she saw Nasser next to ladies she presumed to be his wife and daughter. It bothered her, and for the life of her, Najma couldn't tell you why...

"That's my little angel, Nadia, and the blonde gal is my wife, Kirsten Bernstein," Nasser said soberly, and there was a haunted look on his face. Najma nodded and smiled, even though the name Bernstein definitely rang a bell. Where had she heard that name before? Najma wracked her brain for answers, and she slipped into memory lane, back to the University of Toronto, her old stomping grounds...

"Kirsten Bernstein, that chick from the Jewish/Muslim Interfaith Alliance? Coach Lincoln Bernstein's daughter? You married her?" Najma exclaimed, and Nasser smiled and shrugged nonchalantly. Smiling on the outside, Najma quietly fumed. Back in the day, she and Nasser were one hot item. A lot of people were stunned to see the tall, athletic Congolese-Canadian Muslim stud with the pampered young Saudi Arabian woman, but they nevertheless carried on a passionate relationship for years and years.

"Yeah, um, Kirsten and I got closer, after, you and I, um, split," Nasser said hesitantly, and Najma was surprised to see an almost pained look on his dark, handsome face. Najma nodded and gently laid her hand on his, but said nothing. She remembered all too well the tumultuous events of senior year at the University of Toronto. Nasser was about to graduate with his degree in business, and had declared for the NBA Draft. Many saw him as a shoo-in for his beloved Toronto Raptors...

"Nasser, my family wants me to return to Saudi Arabia," Najma said to her boo, three months before their graduation from the University of Toronto. They were lying in bed, in Nasser's off-campus apartment on Carlton Street. The evening started out nicely enough. Najma and Nasser went to see 50 First Dates at the movie theater, and then grabbed some Chinese food before returning home. Once there, they made passionate love...

"What are you saying, Habibti?" Nasser said, and he looked at Najma, the lovely woman who lay naked in his arms. Earlier, they'd gone at it like sex was going out of style. Najma had been feeling frisky since the movie theater, and unleashed a sexual cyclone on Nasser once they got home. Kissing him passionately while grabbing his crotch, Najma unzipped Nasser's pants and freed his manhood. Out came his long and thick dick, which glistened in her hand as she lovingly stroked it...

"Hmm, I love your stick," Najma said, smiling at Nasser as she got on her knees and proceeded to worship at his altar, as they say. Nasser leaned against the bedroom wall as Najma took him into her mouth. From the moment Nasser first laid eyes on Najma, he knew that she was trouble. At five-foot-ten, Najma stood taller than most Saudi women, and with her curvaceous figure, thick ass and wide hips, she drew Nasser like a moth to the flame. And he wasn't the type to back down from a challenge...

"Hmm, do tell," Nasser whispered, and Najma winked at him as she sucked his dick and caressed his balls. For the average black man, Arab women were usually an unapproachable lot, but Nasser wasn't the average black man. And it wasn't just because of his height of six-foot-five or his movie star good looks, either. Nasser Mukalay of Congo was destined for greatness...

Born in the City of Kinshasa, Congo, to a wealthy family, Nasser came to Ontario, Canada, for university studies, and ended up taking the University of Toronto by storm as a star athlete. Campus girls threw themselves at his feet, but the tall, handsome young Congolese brother liked a challenge. Hence why he went after Najma Al-Duwaish, the unattainable Saudi Arabian heiress, and seduced her.

"Dick me down," Najma moaned, after polishing Nasser's dick and balls with her silky tongue. The brother put her on all fours and smacked her big bronze butt as he ate her pussy from behind. Najma squealed in sheer delight as Nasser fingered her butt hole while he ate her pussy. She was hornier than ever and ached to have him inside of her. Like the frigging teaser he was, Nasser made her wait...

"Ask and you shall receive," Nasser laughed, and he smacked Najma's ass, making it jiggle as he rolled a condom on his dick. Without further ado, Nasser pushed his long, dark dick into Najma's pussy. The young Saudi woman sighed happily as Nasser's dick filled her womanhood, and he gripped her wide hips and began fucking her with swift, deep strokes. Groaning sharply, Najma cried out as Nasser began to fuck her silly, his absolute specialty...

"Hmm, that was nice," Najma said, taking a drag on her cigarette as she lay next to Nasser. The handsome young Congolese wrapped his arms around her and smiled. Looking at him, Najma sighed happily. Tall, dark and handsome, Nasser was one hell of a guy. Born into a family of wealthy Congolese politicians and businesspeople, he nevertheless made his mark on his own. After enrolling at the University of Toronto, Nasser applied for financial aid like everyone else, and his athletic talents earned him a spot on the basketball team. And the rest was history...

"It could be like this, just like this, forever, you know? Just you and me, Najma," Nasser said, and he smiled at her and gently kissed her forehead. Najma smiled sadly, and then took a deep breath. As much as Najma loved Nasser, she was not oblivious to reality. Her family was pressuring her to return to Saudi Arabia, lest they cut her off. Najma wasn't sure how to break the news to Nasser. Biting her lip, Najma took another deep breath, then did what she had to do...

"Nasser, I love you, but like I told you before, I have my world to get back to, and my responsibilities, after we graduate, I'm going to have to go back to Riyadh," Najma said, and Nasser looked at her, a hurt look on his face. Nasser felt betrayed, and Najma shook her head and lowered her eyes. Try as she might, Najma couldn't make Nasser see reason. That night, he stormed out of his own apartment. With tears in her eyes, a heartbroken Najma returned to her place.

"Kirsten was there for me after you left, and we became closer friends and eventually fell in love, she's a proud Jew but her family had no qualms about letting her marry a Muslim like me, once they got to know me," Nasser said proudly, and Najma blinked, as his deep, sonorous voice snatched her out of her little trip down memory lane. Nasser was going on and on, and Najma knew she had other places to be. The moment had passed, in more ways than one...

"Nasser, I'm glad you found happiness, you're a wonderful man, I'm happy for you and Kirsten and your daughter, I hope to find my happiness someday," Najma said, and she smiled at Nasser and gently touched his face. Something she used to do when they were together. Nasser looked at her, astonished by her simple gesture, then he smiled and nodded.

"Good to see you again, Najma, welcome back to Ottawa, I wish you the best," Nasser said, and then he pulled something out of his pocket. His work ID, which displayed his picture, his full name, and the letters CBSA. So he works for the government, Najma thought admiringly. Nasser stood up, and held out his hand, and Najma shook it without hesitation. The two of them exchanged a smile, and then Nasser looked at her one last time before walking away. Still got the cutest ass, that man, Najma thought with a reminiscent smile.

Najma gathered her belongings and walked to downtown Ottawa. Once there, she walked through the Rideau Shopping Center, intent on going to the lower level to catch the 9 bus which passed by her place on Donald Street. As she walked through the super busy shopping center, Najma saw a man asking for directions. He was tall, well-dressed, in his thirties, and black as midnight.

"Salaam, sister, do you know where I can catch the bus to Vanier? I'm from Montreal and I've got a meeting with the RCMP in an hour," the handsome stranger said, as Najma stopped to help him out. It was after all the Muslim thing to do. The man, who looked like he might be from Senegal, or perhaps South Sudan, due to his extremely dark skin and ruggedly handsome features, smiled gratefully at her. Around his neck hung a federal workers badge with the name Ahmad Taha, next to the letters G.R.C.

"Salaam, Brother Taha, I'm Najma, I'm going to Vanier myself, please, follow me," Najma said with a smile, and the tall, dark and handsome South Sudanese brother returned her smile. Dutifully he followed her to the escalator, and they made their way to the lower levels of the Rideau Shopping Center before exiting. Once they hit the street, Najma saw the 9 bus pull in and made a mad dash for it. Ahmad Taha easily bypassed her due to his longer legs, and held the door for her.

"Shukran, thanks for your help," Ahmad Taha said to Najma as he chivalrously waited for her to finish swiping her Presto Card against the bus's reader machine, and then he dropped four loonies inside, and picked up the transfer ticket. Najma smiled at him and bade for him to sit next to her. Ahmad Taha did as Najma said, and held tightly onto his briefcase full of legal documents.

"Welcome to Ottawa, brother, it's a hectic place but us Muslims got to stick together," Najma said, and Ahmad Taha smiled and nodded. As the bus got on its way, the two of them bantered. It turned out that Najma's initial assessment of Ahmad Taha was correct. The brother was indeed of Sudanese origin, though he'd been in Montreal for decades, long enough to get a degree and a cozy government job. Oh, and he was unmarried.

"Sister, you truly embody the spirit of Ramadan, thanks for your help, I'm new in town but if you ever need anything, don't hesitate to call me," Ahmad Taha said to a smiling Najma as he pulled out his business card. The bus reached McArthur, and Ahmad thanked her and handed her the card. Najma smiled to herself and pocketed it, then watched Ahmad Taha as he exited. Cute ass on that one, we're going to have lots of fun together, Najma thought to herself.