From Morocco With Love

Rama grasped my dick in her hand and licked the head, then looked at me. Do you like that? she asked. I smiled and nodded. Seriously, what else was I going to say? When a woman literally has you by the balls the last thing you want to do is piss her off. Rama gently sucked my dick, and fondled my balls. In no time my Moroccan goddess had me hard as a piston. Now, there was a scary moment when she kind of, um, grazed the underside of my shaft with her teeth while sucking my dick with gusto. I yelped, and she stopped immediately. I'm sorry, Rama said, concern in her big brown eyes.

It's okay, I said, and promptly put a stop to the oral sex portion of our little encounter. I looked at my dick, and noted with relief that it was uninjured. I'll do better next time, Rama promised. Shaking my head, I smiled at her, this tall, big and beautiful young woman whose unique combination of wickedness and innocence takes my breath away. I kissed her passionately and then proceeded to take her, right then and there. Come and get it I'm ready for you, Rama teased, yanking off her skirt and tossing it aside before spreading her big sexy legs invitingly.

I felt myself harden at the sight of Rama like this, so...horny. Just as I approached her, ready to take her, Rama held her hand up. Wait, Rama said, and her hands went to her head and she began removing her hijab. I put a stop to that toot sweet. You can keep it on if you want to, I told her with a straight face. If Rama picked up on any ulterior motives on my part she didn't let on. We embraced, and began making love. I looked Rama in the eye and asked her if she was ready for me. Do it, Rama grinned, licking her lips. I put on a condom, pressed my hard dick against Rama's pussy, and gently pushed it inside her. At last we were one. Make love to me, Rama whispered. I did as the lady demanded, and then some.

When morning came, it found Rama and I lying on the living room floor. Lots of new couples find the 'morning after' an awkward time, especially after they've hooked up/fucked/made love for the first time. It wasn't so for Rama and I. I put my T-shirt and pants back on and watched Rama Abdel-Masih, my beloved, as she put herself back together. First she put on her panties, then her bra, followed by her T-shirt and long skirt. The hijab was the only thing she didn't take off. Don't ask me why but making love to her while it's still on her head turned me on. I can't explain it.

Last night was wonderful, I told her. Rama looked at me, a serious look on her pretty face. Gone was the wanton woman from the night before. In front of me stood the very image of Islamic feminine modesty. We shouldn't have done that, Rama said, a pained look on her face. I gasped in shock. What the hell? Why was she saying such nonsense? I took Rama's face in my hands and told her that last night was one of the best nights of my life. I care for you a lot and don't want you thinking less of me, Rama said, her full lip quivering. I stroked her chin. Never, I said, then I kissed her.

Rama showered while I cooked breakfast, then she left hastily. I've got class in forty five minutes, Rama said, kissing on the lips before rushing out the door. I watched from my living room window as she crossed the street and headed for the bus stop. The number nine bus runs through my neighborhood, Vanier, and it connects with Hurdman Station. From there, it's easy to get to Carleton University. The number four bus would get her there in ten minutes. I sat in my kitchen, sipping my coffee while eating my omelette. This could have gone better, I said to myself.

I didn't see much of Rama that week, though we talked and texted. It's almost exam time so that didn't surprise me too much. When we did talk, though, our conversations were brief, only lasting about ten minutes instead of our regular hour-long chats. See you soon Insha'Allah, Rama would say, at the end of our chats, and hang up. The following Friday, I showed up at the Masjid. Just a regular brother coming for prayer. I ran into Warsama, this Somali dude I knew from school. He wished me a warm welcome to the Masjid, and we sat together as the Imam, an older Arab guy in priestly robes, preached.

In a mosque, men pray up front and women pray in the back. That's how it's been done since the days of the Prophet Mohammed, the Founder of Islam. No shoes and no chairs allowed on the premises, especially the prayer hall. The Imam's office, and the meeting hall downstairs are a different matter, though. Men and women enter the mosque at different entrances. After prayer, I talked with Warsama and the brothers for a bit, then exited the premises. I live within a fifteen-minute walk from the mosque, and didn't feel like going home yet.

I called Timothy and Dalton, but they were with their girlfriends. I didn't feel like intruding, so I wisely stayed home. I went to bed that night feeling frustrated. I called Rama, and got no answer. As I lay on my bed, I thought about recent events. Things aren't going well between Rama and I, and the fact that she seems to be avoiding me doesn't bode well. Around seven o'clock the next morning, I called Timothy to ask him for advice, but a sleepy female voice answered, telling me to get lost. Ah, the wonderful bond between male friends, eh? Bros before hoes and all that! Pussy's a trump card, and everyone knows it.

I went to school, and decided to focus on my classwork, the real reason anyone goes to university, instead of getting sidetracked. I figured one thing about women a long time ago, when you chase them they run, and when you run, they chase you. I'll ignore Rama for a few days, and I'm sure she'll turn up eventually. I hung out with Timothy and Dalton, sans women, and we were Los Tres Diablos once again. We studied together, and afterwards, we smoked fatties and washed them down with Heineken. A manly good time, to be sure.

My little ploy worked like a charm. Two days later, guess who I found waiting for me at my apartment? A lovely Moroccan gal who answers to the moniker Rama Abdel-Masih...minus her clothes. Welcome home Big Al, Rama purred, lying luxuriously on my bed, naked as the day she was born. I smiled at her and nodded. It is good to see you mamas, I said smugly, as I joined Rama on the bed. Ladies and gentlemen, Rama took care of me better than I ever expected. Let's just say she left me pleasurably sore and thoroughly exhausted in the most wonderful way.

This was our second time around the bend, and I wasn't into the love-me-tender crap. Especially after Rama pissed me off by ignoring me for days. I took her on all fours, spanking her thick Moroccan ass and pulling her lustrous, curly black hair as I slammed my dick into her cunt. Rama just went with it, clearly loving this more aggressive, utterly dominant side of me. I fucked her roughly, taking pleasure in totally owning that big butt of hers. I came twice that day, and made Rama polish my dick with her tongue afterwards. This time, she did a good job. So much that I got hard again and fucked her some more. Marvelous, Rama said, resting her head against my chest after a two-hour fuck session. I smiled and nodded, silently concurring with her appraisal.

We were back in action, in more ways than one. Rama Abdel-Masih nd I went for a walk from my neighborhood on Presland Street to New Edinburgh. Hand in hand we walked through Vanier, even passing by the very mosque I'd been visiting for the past few months. My favorite Masjid, I said, looking at the square, nondescript building located on a street full of religious institutions, including no less than four churches. Rama smiled and nodded as I smiled while looking at the mosque.

Islam is the way and once you're ready to embrace it your life will be better, Rama said knowingly. I kissed her, and nodded. A month later, I took my Shahada at the mosque in front of many witnesses. I embraced Islam, and took the name Ali Al Din. I chose to name myself partially after the Muslim historical figure I've always admired is Sal Al Din, legendary opponent of the European forces during the last truly great Crusade. And since my first name is Alessandro or Al, the Arabic name Ali is right up my alley. After the ceremony, Rama Abdel-Masih and I went to grab dinner with Warsama and some of our friends to celebrate. And just like that, I've got myself a new family. I am no longer alone. With my gorgeous lady love by my side, I felt confident, strong, and ready for anything. A week later, Rama dropped not one but two bombs on me. Let me explain.

I'm sure I'm not the first man to realize that women have a talent for complicating things. I've been estranged from my parents ever since I told them that I was interested in Islam. My father and mother are both Catholic, and while they can't stand each other, they're united in their dislike of Islam. I introduced Rama to my aunt Jacqueline and my cousins on a trip to Montreal, and they absolutely adored her. I had to let my family know that she's the woman I want to be with. Rama and I shared everything, or so I thought. It turns out my lady love hadn't been completely honest with me.

My lovely other half, Rama Abdel-Masih, born and raised in Sale, Morocco, came to Ottawa, Ontario, as an international student after getting accepted at Carleton University. All those things are true, Rama did come to Canada on a student visa. What she kept from me is the fact that her parents, Imran and Latifa Abdel-Masih got killed during the Moroccan protests, which rocked her country between February 2011 and the spring of 2012. Apparently they supported the wrong political party and paid dearly for it.

Rama's aunt Amira Fakri, who worked for the Moroccan government at the time, helped her get a visa and got her out of the country. Rama couldn't return to Morocco under penalty of death. All this Rama told to the Canadian government when she filed for refugee status. The people who killed her parents were still back there, and they wanted her bloodline extinguished. Forever. From what I know of Arab/Muslim countries, they don't play when it comes to politics or religion, and since they mix the two, heads tend to roll when political unrest occurs.

Why didn't you tell me? I said to Rama Abdel-Masih, as we sat in my living room. Rama shook her head, a sad look upon her face. I didn't want you to think less of me, she confessed. I stood there, grunting in frustration. We need to be able to trust each other, I told Rama, taking her hand in mine and looking her in the eyes. Rama smiled faintly. From now on I'll tell you everything, she said, and hugged me fiercely. Good, I mumbled, hugging her back.

A few days later, Rama and I met with her lawyer, immigration attorney Rose McCray, a short little white woman in her fifties with an office in Orleans, Ontario. McCray told Rama and I that the government had just refused her appeal. Apparently, Rama had already gone before an immigration judge in a closed-door hearing in downtown Ottawa and gotten refused. They're going to send me back to Morocco, Rama wept. The sight of her weeping broke my heart. We got to fight this, I told McCray. The little lawyer lady shook her head. I am so sorry, she said softly. I asked her if there was anything I could do, as a Canadian citizen, to help Rama. Five seconds later, I wished I'd kept my mouth shut.

When the Canadian government refuses a refugee's claim, it's only a matter of time before they're removed from the country. They can get a 'stay of execution' while the government does an assessment as to whether or not they'll be in real danger when they're sent back where they came from. The Harper government isn't fond of refugees, especially those from Third World countries. Suddenly I remembered stories my mom once shared with me about her plight as a Haitian woman seeking asylum in Canada after fleeing the Duvalier government in the 1980s.

Damn, I'm caught between a rock and a hard place. I care for Rama, but sometimes I have doubts about her. This oh so wonderful lady I care so much about is so damn secretive. I hate to sound cynical but if she's playing me I could end up looking like a fool. I shared my doubts with Dalton and Timothy. Don't do it my dude, Dalton said, and Timothy echoed his sentiments. I called my Mom and sought her advice. Mom told me to drop Rama and Islam, and go back to church. My dad told me I was an idiot for saddling myself with Rama in the first place. My aunt Jacqueline told me she liked Rama, and that I should follow my heart. As usual, I decided to take my aunt advice.

Thus, I asked Rama Abdel-Masih to move in with me. We went to City Hall and got her a work permit, and a social insurance card. You're going to need a job, I told her. I've noticed that a lot of immigrant women from Arab countries aren't fond of hard work. My buddy Warsama is engaged to a Yemeni chick and he told me she's like a princess, expecting him to work while she shops. Damn. Lucky for me, Rama wasn't like that. You should have seen the look on her face when the local Shoppers Drugmart manager hired her. My first job, Rama said, tears of happiness flooding her face. I smiled at her and hugged her tightly. You can do it, I whispered into her ear.

Rama began working part-time while continuing to attend her courses at Carleton University. Living with a woman, even one I'm crazy about, well, that took some adjustments. It's not easy when your lady love moves in with you and you learn that she does disgusting things like not replacing the toilet paper roll when it's empty, and that she smokes cigarettes ( I only smoke weed, and only on weekends, cigarettes disgust me ) and also fills your washroom cabinet with tampons. I was not ready for this, but I had to grin and bear it. I care for Rama, and she needs me. It's the "man" thing to do, right?

It wasn't all bad, though. Sharing a bed with Rama is definitely a fun experience. The lady is passionate, but she also has some bad habits. Her farts are outrageous, man. I think she could kill a T-Rex if she blasted him! Oh, and she took all my porn magazines and put them in a box. You got me now, Rama said, tossing me the box. Then she kissed me. Man, a guy's porn is sacred. Females need to stop tripping over that stuff. Oh, well. At least Rama wasn't asking me to throw it away. I tried to flip the script on Rama when I quizzed her about her extensive sex toy collection. It's not the same thing, Rama said with a shrug, and closed the subject.

Rama and I live together now. This means that while Timothy and Dalton visit us, they don't stay overnight anymore. Oh, and the cigarette-addicted 'lady of the house' frowns on weed-smoking. Yeah, women don't share when they enter a man's real estate. They like to dominate. Timothy and Dalton teased me about being whipped and I had no rebuttal. They were absolutely right. I thought things were bad, and then she dropped bomb number two on me. Rama Abdel-Masih was pregnant. Yup, my Moroccan goddess had a bun in the oven. All of a sudden, my two-bedroom apartment was too small. When Rama dropped the news on me, I experienced sheer joy and great panic. What in hell am I going to do?

Rama Abdel-Masih was expecting a son or daughter of mine. I was twenty years old, having wrapped up my first year at Carleton University, and I was about to become a dad. Wow. I called my friends and family to share the news, and their reaction was less than thrilling. Step up and be a man, my aunt Jacqueline told me, and I hesitantly concurred. My dear old Dad told me to run like hell, and my Mom said "I told you so". Timothy and Dalton told me they had my back. This really meant a lot to me. We were still Los Tres Diablos. My buddies had my back. Life is grand, isn't it?

Rama Abdel-Masih and I got marriage in a wonderful little ceremony at our favorite mosque three months later. We only invited a handful of people, among them my friends Timothy and Dalton, my aunt Jacqueline and my cousins Mira and Nadine, along with my uncle George. Rama looked absolutely stunning in a lovely starch-white Moroccan wedding dress. Instead of her traditional hijab my bride-to-be wore a gold-plated diadem. Indeed, Rama looked like a queen. We were lawfully wedded before the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. He who is called Yahweh by the Jew, God the Father by the Christian and Allah the Beneficent by the Muslim. Amen.

For our honeymoon, Rama and I went to the City of Montreal, Quebec. We stayed at a resort for a week, then returned to the City of Ottawa. The honeymoon was wonderful, pregnancy sex rocks. Rama is horny all the time, and even kinkier than before. She lets me put it in every hole now. Yes, including that one. I love it! I have some wonderful news to share. Right after Rama and I returned to Ottawa, we were approached by a man named Jean-Claude Rameau, a Quebec-based representative from the Banque Populaire Du Maroc, the national bank of Morocco.

The esteemed Mr. Rameau informed Rama Abdel-Masih and I that she had just inherited a fortune from her dead parents, Imran and Latifa Abdel-Masih. How much, you may ask? Two million four hundred and seventy four thousand Dirhams, or the equivalent of four hundred thousand Canadian dollars. I think I almost had a heart attack when I heard that. I had to catch Rama before she fainted on the spot. Cradling Rama in my arms, I gently held her tight. I looked at my wife and the future mother of any son or daughter I may have. We're going to be just fine, I thought.

A few months later, Rama Abdel-Masih and I became the proud parents of Omar Carvalho, our bundle of joy. I wept when he was born, our little son. I don't care if a grown man isn't supposed to cry, I was moved to tears when I held my son in my arms for the first time. He's perfect. Our son. A unique blend of ethnicities, that's for sure. He's got Haitian, Moroccan and Portuguese in his bloodline. And since his mother recently became a permanent resident of Canada, Omar is going to have both of his parents around as he grows up in our fair capital.

The Canadian government decided to show leniency rather than break up a lovely, happy family like ours. Rama and I have our own house now, a lovely four-bedroom townhouse in Barrhaven. We bought it for two hundred grand. Omar and his future siblings will have a big yard to play in as they grow up. With the money we have, Rama and I hired a full-time nanny, and we continue to study at Carleton University. Money or not, we're very much interested in getting our university degrees. What kind of example would we set for Omar if we didn't? All is well that ends well, ladies and gentlemen. Always thank the Creator for His blessings. Peace.