Somali Queen In Ottawa Ch 15

I'd lost the love of my life and felt like life wasn't worth living. And then along came Fate, forcibly reminding me through tragedy that one should never take one's loved ones for granted. You never know when you might lose them. My name is Yasmin Hussein, and I'm a young Somali-Canadian Muslim woman living in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. What I'm about to tell you is a true tale of love and loss, tragedy and triumph. A dark day in the history of Ottawa, and a fateful day in my personal life.

My Haitian boyfriend Steve Salomon and I were feuding because he thought I could never accept him for being a Christian. Never mind that I'd broken one of Islam's most sacred rules by sharing my body and my heart with this charming, infuriating young man from another faith. Steve had lost faith in our relationship and I was heartbroken over losing him. After all we'd been through together, it seemed that our relationship was doomed. Unless a miracle happened, or something.

On October 22, 2014, a day that will live in infamy in the minds of Canadians far and wide, I was in a Tim Horton's near the Ottawa library downtown, sipping coffee while trying really hard not to think about losing the love of my life. Try as I might, Steve Salomon's soulful brown eyes and fearless smile haunted my thoughts. Damn the Haitian bozo for capturing my heart and then shattering it into a trillion pieces. Damn Steve to hell for seducing me, rocking my world, forcing him to choose between him and my Islamic faith, and then discarding me anyway after I chose him.

I sat there, looking at my iPhone, wishing Steve Salomon would get over that infamous Haitian pride of his and call me, his Somali sweetheart. As if he'd get over himself that easily. I had gone to class at Algonquin College earlier and decided to duck out early. Thus I found myself in downtown Ottawa, Metcalfe Street to be exact, a heartbeat away from Parliament Hill, when The Event happened. I was sipping my coffee when I heard shots fired, and panic gripped everyone inside the coffee shop. What in hell was going on?

Later, I would find out that a crazy white guy from Quebec who converted to Islam decided to launch a one-man attack on Parliament Hill, and he left a courageous Canadian soldier dead before he was taken out by the authorities while storming the halls of Parliament itself. I'm glad the Canadian authorities took out this creep. Nutcases like him give Islam a bad name. I saw more police cars than I ever thought possible that day. Like everyone else, I was huddled someplace supposedly safe while all of downtown Ottawa was on lockdown, per orders of the Mayor and the Chief of Police. Doesn't get more official than that.

You got no idea what it felt like, trapped inside that little coffee shop downtown, surrounded by panicked and paranoid strangers. All of whom were looking at me funny because, well, when there's rumors about a terrorist attack, people always look at the Muslims. We're the first ones on everybody's list of suspects. And as a Hijab-wearing Somali gal who happened to be drinking coffee and eating an egg sandwich in the coffee shop that day, I was Muslim with a capital M.

Later, when things calmed down and the police finished clearing the bloc and started letting people go home, I boarded the first bus heading to the east end from Mackenzie King Bridge, across from the Rideau Center. I grabbed the 95 bus and rode it to Saint Laurent Station, then decided to walk to the home that Steve and I shared in Vanier. I'd been staying at my friend Ayaan's place near Baseline Station since Steve Salomon and I split. Now, though, after the day I had, I wanted to go to the only place that ever truly felt like home.

I walked through the Saint Laurent Mall, and walked toward Donald Street. I was starting to relax somewhat, for this area of Vanier is full of Arabs and Somalis, my people. There's a mosque near the end of the street, and it's right next to a Lebanese Christian church. Who says Muslims and Christians can't get along? I was about a hundred meters from the Masjid and the Arab Christian church, walking up that hill, when I got accosted by a pair of gangly white guys. Although barely out of their teens, they glared at me with an age-old hatred in their blue eyes.

Terrorist bitch, one of them, a tall white dude with red hair, said angrily. He spat on the ground, and took a menacing step toward me. His buddy flanked me, blocking my escape. Even though I was outnumbered, a woman alone against a pair of racist bozos, I refused to bow my head or surrender. I am a proud Muslim woman and this means that I bow down only to Allah, the one true God. I looked at the two racist white dudes defiantly, and told them to go to Hell. I braced myself for what was to come. I'm a tall, curvy young woman and I've got some strength in me. If these two creeps thought I'd go down easily, then they definitely picked on the wrong woman.

Right before the two creeps could pounce on me, a loud masculine voice called them out. I looked up, and guess who I saw? Big and tall, dark-skinned, masculine and roughly handsome. A presence as uplifting as the sun clearing through dark clouds, bathing the world in its light. My chocolate prince. My Haitian king. My sweetheart Steve Salomon. Except that was nothing sweet about him as he told the two skinny white dudes that he would break their necks if they laid a hand on me.

The two pale bozos looked at Steve, then at me. Emboldened by the arrival of my sweetheart, I struck out, smacking the punk nearest me hard across the face. Stunned, the dude mumbled and turned beet red. As his buddy moved to interfere, Steve bodily slammed into him like a charging lineman tackling a quarterback. The fool went down like a sack of potatoes. As the one I just smacked rubbed his face, wincing in pain, I gave him something to cry out. Swiftly I lashed out with my foot, and got him right in the family jewels. The bozo doubled over and fell to his knees, moaning in pain.

Hello beautiful, Steve said to me, and my heart skipped a beat. My boo flashed me that fearless smile that I knew so well, and all the anger and frustration I felt toward my favorite infuriating, argumentative, charming Haitian dude melted like ice in the sun. My boo, I said happily, as Steve pulled me into his arms and kissed me. I hugged him tight, and then we walked home, hand in hand. Our apartment is near where Donald Street intersects with McArthur, right before the Loblaw's.

Once we got there, Steve Salomon and I sat down and talked. My boo went on and on about how much he missed me and how sorry he was for what he'd done. Steve heard about that crazy shooter on Parliament Hill and how lots of white people in Ottawa were saying bigoted things about Muslims, and he was worried about me. Oh, the Christian dude is worried about the safety of his Muslim girlfriend. I was overjoyed to hear Steve say that but let him squirm for a moment. My fun, you know?

Grinning, I told Steve all was forgiven. Smiling, Steve told me he wanted to order me some food, and welcome me back into our home. I glared at Steve angrily. I love this guy but I swear, sometimes I could smack him for his foolishness. I just got home after days spent away, and my Somali pussy has gone without the feel and touch of his lips, his fingers and his magical Haitian dick for far too long. I'm hungry alright but not for food, I told Steve, and lucky for him, he understood what I meant.

Smiling wolfishly, Steve grabbed me and then practically ripped my clothes off. Groaning like the horny slut I am, I let go as Steve took control of me, laying me on the kitchen table, and burying his face in my boobs as he began fingering my cunt. I moaned softly as I felt Steve's fingers invade my pussy. Steve kissed a path from my tits to my thighs, and spread them wide. I'm hungry, Steve said, and began licking my pussy like a hungry man. Guess he missed me, eh?

I'd gone without my man's touch for far too long and Steve and I definitely made up for lost time. My sexy Haitian stud licked my pussy and fingered it until I cried out, and even then, he continued flicking his tongue over my clit and fingering my cunt until I came not once but twice. I shuddered and writhed, orgasmic for the first time in what seemed like forever. Steve grinned and told me I hadn't felt anything yet.

Moments later, I was happily returning the favor by kneeling before Steve and sucking his long and thick Haitian dick with gusto. I flicked my tongue over Steve's foreskin and pulled it back before giving his dick a long lick. I massaged his hairy, dark balls as I sucked his dick, and Steve moaned deeply. Guess I still got the magic touch. Steve looked at me through hooded, hungry eyes as my Hijab-covered head bobbed up and down in his lap. I'm real good at sucking dick. And my boo knows it. When Steve came, I happily drank every last drop of his seed.

Wonderful, I said, looking up at Steve while wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Steve grinned, and pulled me on top of him. He fastened his mouth to my left breast while gently caressing the right one. I straddled him, and swiftly impaled my cunt on Steve's hard dick. Steve continued sucking on my tits but his hands went elsewhere, roaming all over my curvaceous body. The Haitian stud gripped my hip with one hand and smacked my thick, round Somali ass with the other as he slammed his dick into my cunt. I giggled happily and kissed my boo full and deep while I rode him for all he was worth. Steve kissed me passionately, and we made love like this, roughly and passionately, as is our custom.

After going at it like this for a while, Steve put me on all fours and smacked my big brown butt while slamming his thick dick into my cunt. Yanking off my Hijab, my naughty Haitian stud grabbed my long, lustrous black hair and pulled my head back while fucking me roughly. I hadn't seen Steve get this aggressive in a long time. Guess he missed me more than he let on. I loved this side of him, though. Rough sex is totally my thing. That's why I backed that big ass of mine up, grinding it against Steve's groin. The Haitian stud fucked me real good until he came, and then we lay like this, stinking of our own juices, on the floor.

Welcome home my queen, Steve whispered into my ear. I looked at my favorite Haitian stud and smiled. It's good to be home indeed. That day, Steve and I swore that we would never let anything come between us again. I am a Somali-Canadian Muslim woman and I love my Haitian Christian boyfriend more than life. I absolutely mean that. Fate recently shocked me to my core and reminded me of what matters most.

When I was huddling in that coffee shop, surrounded by white Canadians who viewed me suspiciously because of my skin color and my Hijab, with a shooter on the loose, all I could think of was whether I'd ever hold my sweetheart Steve in my arms again. We're back together and I thank the Most High for His blessings. There's only one God and He's big enough for Jews, Christians and Muslims. No need to fight one another in His name. Steve and I love each other and we're going to be together until we die. I swear it. Wish us luck, though. We are going to need it.