Somali Queen In Ottawa Ch. 18

I probably shouldn't have done this, but I've been browsing through my Haitian boyfriend Steve Salomon's diary. Makes for truly fascinating reading, let me tell you. I just couldn't resist peering into my lover's mind and see what he truly thinks. If that makes me a nosy bitch, so be it. My name is Yasmin Hussein, and I'm a young black Muslim woman of Somali descent living in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. I'm a student at Algonquin College, studying accounting. Steve and I live together on Donald Street in Vanier, in the east end of Ottawa. Life is alright for us these days.

After reading the first few pages, I was smiling because they were full of praise from Steve. My sexy Haitian boo lavished me with praise, calling me his "Somali goddess" and his "big-booty sweetheart". I was smiling from ear to ear until I began to read about Steve's criticisms of me. Phrases like "Yasmin takes too long in the shower" and "she needs to stop stealing my razors" littered the next pages, and I was nonplussed. What the fuck? Miffed, I continued to read, and grew angrier and more perplexed by the minute.

By the time I got to the passage where Steve Salomon, in his typical Haitian arrogance, made unflattering remarks about the way I smelled after coming home from the local gym without showering, I was boiling mad. I went to class and then came home. I was still simmering over what I read in Steve's journal. I love this man something fierce. I call Steve my Haitian prince in my most private moments. Is that what he truly thinks of me?

It always galls me, to hear men talk about women's imperfections. As if they're perfect. Ha! If I were to dish on Steve Salomon, I could tell you about his farting jokes, his nasty habit of pissing in the toilet and not flushing it right away, and the fact that he likes to hum when he has to go the washroom in the middle of the night. Dude always wakes me up with his nightly antics, and not in a good way.

I'm not a perfect woman, and I never claimed to be. I'm almost six feet tall, curvy, wide-hipped and big-bottomed, with golden brown skin, long curly black hair and dark eyes. I'm a chubby brown woman in a world that worships skinny white girls. Oh, and I also wear the Hijab half the time. It's not easy to be me. I gave Steve the best of me. To hear that he's dissatisfied angers me like you would not believe. When Steve dragged his ass home after a long day at Carleton University, he found me sitting in the living room, watching Swim Fan, one of my favorite movies. Hello babe, Steve hollered, and leaned over to kiss me on the lips.

You got some nerve, I said, shaking my head and staring at Steve through angry eyes. My favorite big and tall Haitian looked at me pensively. What's wrong sweetie? Steve asked. I pursed my full lips, and flashed him a smile a shark would recognize. Steve took a step back, and inside, I rejoiced. It's good to know I can still scare him from time to time. Steve grabbed the chair opposite me, never taking his eyes off of me, and then asked me what was up.

Without a word, I took the journal, and handed it to him. Explain this, I said angrily, looking Steve in the eye. My boo took a deep breath, and smiled at me. As I looked on, Steve flipped to the very beginning of the journal, and then pointed something out to me. "My Somali Romance by Steve Salomon", the title of a forthcoming fiction book written by yours truly, he said, grinning. I gawked at Steve, stunned speechless. I was NOT expecting that, ladies and gentlemen.

Sorry for being a paranoid and nosy bitch, I said sheepishly, biting my lip and looking meekly at Steve Salomon. My favorite Haitian stud looked at me and shook his head. Nosy Somali women, he said, laughing heartily. I looked at him, still feeling deeply embarrassed for my latest gaffe. I had no idea Steve was writing a novel loosely based on our daily lives, or that he considered me his muse. Steve got up and went to the kitchen. He grabbed a gallon of orange juice and poured himself a cup. Damn, I really blew it this time, eh? Open mouth and insert foot, I guess. Steve ignored me and went to the living room.

Turning on the TV, Steve Salomon sipped on his orange juice and turned on CNN, where the middle-aged blonde newscaster went on and on about the Republicans standing poised to take over the U.S. Senate, which would result in a nightmare for current United States President and democratic party leader Barack Obama. Although I like Obama, I don't really pay attention to U.S. politics. Why is that?

Got our favorite conservative tyrant Stephen Harper and his Tory buddies to worry about here in Canada. These bozos hate immigrants, especially Muslims. Steve on the other hand has family and friends in the States and he's fascinated by U.S. politics. My boo watched television and continued ignoring me. What's a gal to do in this situation? Hmmm. Steve just came home and he's famished. There are no Shawarma restaurants or Haitian restaurants near the Carleton University campus, so he probably only had Tim Horton's since he left the house this morning. I know Steve really well.

That's why I went to the kitchen and took out the tasty traditional Somali dish I prepared earlier. Goat meat and rice, with Angelo bread, a type of Somali cornbread called Moofus, and last but not least, Beer Iyo Basal, which is essentially liver and onions. Steve loves meat and spicy food, and as a Somali woman, I am glad to hear that because spicy foods and tasty meats are delicacies where I come from. I took the food out the stove, and prepared the table. I could sense Steve's eyes on me, and knew he could definitely smell the food.

And now to entice him, I thought wickedly, as I "accidentally" dropped my keys, and bent down to pick them up. I should mention I had on a red tank top, black sweatpants, and a crimson headscarf. I heard Steve sigh from the living room and smiled, before slowly, very slowly, picking my keys up and rising. I turned around, and found Steve standing half a meter from me. I pretended to be surprised. Steve smiled wolfishly, and pulled me into his arms. Thought you were hungry, I whispered, grinning.

Steve kissed me full and deep. I'm hungry for you Yasmin, he whispered into my ear as he began undressing me. Feast on me, I said hotly, and Steve laid me on the kitchen counter and did just that. Steve kissed my lips, my neck and my breasts. His hand slipped between my thick thighs, and his fingers slid into my cunt. Steve kissed a path from my lips to my belly, and finally the space between my thighs. I arched my back and cried out as Steve began munching on my sweet pussy like a hungry man.

Having only been with Steve, I'm in no position to say whether all Haitian men are as passionate about eating pussy as my boo, but he's definitely got skills. Steve's tongue teased my clitoris as his fingers darted deep into my cunt, setting me on fire while probing the depths of my womanhood. Dude had me crying out in every last language I knew, from Somali to English, French and profane. Yeah, Steve definitely knows how to make a gal's toes curl. After eating me out and leaving me quivering and moaning in post-orgasmic bliss, Steve smiled at me and thanked me for breakfast.

I sat there, with my legs spread, naked safe for my headscarf, and looked at Steve. I honestly thought he was going to fuck me, but my favorite Haitian grabbed some food from the kitchen table and ate it. I watched as Steve grabbed some butter from the fridge and approached me with a weird grin on his face. Steve? I said hesitantly, not knowing what to expect. Steve grinned and without warning, applied a big glop of butter to my pussy. I gasped in shock, and Steve grinned wickedly, while freeing his long and thick, uncircumcised dick from his pants.

Yummy, Steve said, and kissed me tenderly before spreading my thighs further apart. Without another word, Steve thrust his dick into my cunt. Yeah, dude just shoved his dick into my butter-covered cunt. I wrapped my arms around Steve as he began pounding away at me. Never let it be said that my favorite Haitian stud doesn't know to improvise. I welcomed him inside of me, loving his odd mixture of roughneck and tenderness.

Things got much hotter when Steve turned me around, smacked my ass and said he wanted a shot at my thick Somali ass. Bring it on, I said, and Steve laughed as I spread my plump ass cheeks wide open for him. Steve used butter to lubricate my asshole, and then pressed his hard dick against my backdoor. I licked my lips in anticipation as Steve pushed his dick into my asshole. Gripping me by my wide hips, Steve buried his big Haitian cock up my Somali asshole just like he said he would. I sighed happily as I felt Steve's dick fill up my anal canal. A man of his word, that's my boo.

Steve and I went at it, happily indulging in the pleasures of butt fucking. We had been at it for a while until, well, nature called. No, I didn't have to shit. That would have been awkward and messy. I farted instead. Yup, that's right I farted right on Steve Salomon's dick, as it was lodged up my asshole. I turned around and looked at Steve, smiling sheepishly. Oops, I blew it again.

Sorry I farted on your dick, I said, and Steve laughed so hard that, well, he squeezed one out too. That's right, my boo farted as well. Steve and I just laughed away all awkwardness, and continued fucking. Until he came, blasting my asshole with a torrent of hot, masculine cum. I cried out, squealing in delight as I felt Steve's hot cum flood my bowels. Maybe it's because as a Muslim woman I was taught that anal sex is dirty and forbidden, and I love breaking the rules, but I really, really love backdoor sex. And all that it entails. I pushed back against Steve, grinding my big butt against his groin. Steve sighed happily, and we remained locked in a tight embrace.

Steve and I ate brunch much later, with the smell of his dick, his cum, my pussy and my ass lingering in the kitchen as we ate. While eating some of the tasty liver and onions I prepared, Steve slid his hand under the table, thrust a finger into my cunt and brought it to his lips. I love everything Somali, the Haitian stud said with a wry grin. I smiled, shaking my head in disbelief. I kissed Steve, amazed at the depths of this man's sinfully sexy wickedness. Even after all this time together, my Haitian stud keeps his favorite Somali woman guessing. And I wouldn't have him any other way.