Bisexual Men of Barrhaven Ch. 03

"Alright, Shazia, sign up some more clients for Mastercards, then we can talk about getting you more hours," said my manager, Rod Carling, as we stood in front of the Super Center. Dude had gone outside for a cigarette break, and I apparently caught him in a bad mood. Actually, that's not accurate. Rod is honestly kind of a dick. A lot of the minority women at work seem enamored of his so-called good looks, but I can see the wickedness in his frosty blue eyes. Thanks but no thanks.

"Okay," I replied as nonchalantly as I could, and I walked away. My name is Shazia Shakhawat, Shay to my friends, and I'm a cashier at a certain Super Center in the Nepean suburb of Ottawa, Ontario. I hold a bachelor's degree in Commerce from the University of Ottawa, and speak English, French and Urdu fluently, but this lousy job is the best that I can do. It's a tough economy, what can I say?

Before you accuse me of lacking ambition, or whatever, please consider my circumstances. I am twenty seven years old, divorced and estranged from my parents, who live in Vancouver, B.C. I owe the Canadian government a small fortune in student loans, and they've started garnishing my wages. I always thought that a degree in commerce would open doors for me after graduation, but I was dead wrong. In Ottawa, it's not what you know but who you know.

How else would you explain my roommate, Chelsea MacLeod? I've known Chelsea ever since I moved to the City of Ottawa for school. This short, pretty, blonde-haired white chick is like my polar opposite. She has a diploma in accounting from Algonquin College and somehow landed a job with the Canada Revenue Agency. I can't even land an entry-level position in my field and this chick gets a cushy government job. Sweet. Real sweet.

"Shay, he had absolutely no right to speak to you that way," said a deep masculine voice. I turned around and found myself looking at a tall, broad-shouldered and muscular young man with chocolate skin and a smooth shaved head. Clad in a sky-blue shirt and black cargo pants, the dude looked like he meant business. Ibrahim Abrefa, our store security guard is one fine brother, if you ask me. Back off, he's all mine.

"Oh, I don't take it personal anymore, welcome to my life, Ibrahim," I replied, and I patted the big guy on the shoulder before returning to work. I'm at the express line, close to the door. This means that the customer service managers are a heartbeat away from me, and these bitches can see my every move. This is just peachy. I don't like scrutiny. Not one bit. Still, I've got bills to pay so I have to grin and bear it.

"Sir, the item was on sale yesterday, the price has been changed, sorry," I said to a tall, chubby white dude in a trucker hat who stood there sweating buckets in a Hawaiian shirt, flanked by his girlfriend or wife, a tiny Filipina woman. The two of them glared at me the way a wolf pack glares at that poor deer that's limping while the rest of the herd scampers away. This is definitely not going to go well.

"We'll see about that, young lady, can I speak to your manager?" Mr. Sweaty Old Dude says, his voice almost a hiss. Oh yeah, I can see where this is going. I nod and call the manager. Moments later, Rod arrives, and doesn't look pleased. He smiles at the old white dude, who smiles back, and then a few words are exchanged, for the two of them are apparently old buddies.

A few moments later, Rod glares at me and I am told to let the matter drop. The T-shirt that Mr. Sweaty Old Dude wanted to buy cost eleven dollars yesterday, and seventeen bucks today, according to my scanner, but on my manager's say-so, I let him pay yesterday's price. Like I said before, in Ottawa, it's not what you know but who you know.

"Sorry about that, Mitchell, she's new," Rod says, and he and Mitchell exchange dap, as though they are cool and upbeat young black men instead of a pair of middle-aged white guys. I barely stop myself from rolling my eyes as I hand Mr. Sweaty Old Dude/Mitchell his receipt. Across the room, Ibrahim the security guard is watching the exchange, and shakes his head. I smile at him and shrug. I appreciate his concern, but I can handle myself.

"Sir, can I see a receipt for this item?" Ibrahim asks Mr. Sweaty Old Dude, and Mitchell looks at him as though he's got two heads. Ibrahim doesn't back down. The tall, dark-skinned young guy from West Africa isn't intimidated by portly middle-aged white dudes, or anyone, really. I smile as an uncomfortable-looking Mitchell searches for the receipt, and finally produces it. Ibrahim looks at it slowly, and I smile, for I know exactly what he's doing.

I smile at Ibrahim, who winks at me. The time is eleven forty eight and I decide to take my lunch early. I say loudly that I'm punching out, and then notice Ibrahim looking at me. I nod in gratitude, and after clocking out, I pull my dark coat over my blue work-shirt and head for the exit. I stop right in front of Ibrahim, who tries to look casual and fails miserably. The brother is happy to see me, and I can tell. What he doesn't know is that the feeling is mutual.

"See you at Shawarma," I whisper, and Ibrahim smiles, and I head out. I wait near the front of the store for a few moments, and overhear Ibrahim talk to Ravi, the old Indian greeter, and he informs him that he's going to lunch early. Moments later, Ibrahim emerges from the store, his dark blue security jacket unzipped, and a baseball cap on backwards. Not a bad look if you ask me.

"What's up?" Ibrahim says casually, and I smile and link my arm with his as we make our way through the Super Center parking lot. We walk past a bunch of little stores, and finally reach the Shawarma restaurant, sandwiched between a real estate office, and a dry cleaning business. As we walk together, I notice people staring at Ibrahim and I, and I don't care.

Alright, you don't see a lot of South Asian ladies stepping out when it comes to dating and whatnot, because, well, they're brainwashed. In places like India, Pakistan and Bangladesh, the men are free to marry whoever they want, while the women are not. Even here in the City of Nepean, I've seen South Asian men with white wives, and even black wives. Yet whenever I walk around with Ibrahim, people from my part of the world stare hostilely at us.

Alright, I won't sugar-coat anything. There is a strong bias against people of African descent among South Asians. There, I said it. I was born in the City of Bogra, Bangladesh, and moved to Vancouver, Canada, with my parents, almost twenty years ago. Growing up in Vancouver, I saw how a lot of Indians, Bangladeshis and Pakistanis treated the black Canadians in our lovely town. Their racism and bigotry disgusted me. Many of my people are close-minded and it sucks.

I respect the men of my culture but make my own decisions about who I get involved with. I've already played the role of the dutiful, traditional Bangladeshi Muslim daughter. I married Imran Nawaz and it didn't work out. We simply weren't right for each other. I learned from my mistake. My life is my own. My parents blamed me for the divorce, and think I'm too westernized. Whatever.

"Salaam, guys, will it be the usual?" says Ahmad Sassine, the old Lebanese man who runs the Shawarma restaurant, and he smiles at Ibrahim and I as we enter. I greet him happily and nod, and Ibrahim takes care of our bill. Two plates of white rice with hummus, potatoes, chicken and beef, with lettuce, tomatoes and pickles. Yum. I absolutely love Lebanese cuisine. It's simply to die for.

"Shukran, thank you my friend," Ibrahim says to a smiling Ahmad as he pays for our meals with his Scotia Bank debit card. My favorite guy returns to our table, and I greet him with a kiss. Ibrahim always seems surprised when I kiss him. I guess he's still not used to the bold and fearless gal that I am. I like to take the lead. If you don't like it, sue me.

"Thanks for checking that damn bastard back there," I say with a smile, and Ibrahim nods graciously, then gently squeezes my hand. I am so thankful to have this wonderful young man in my life. Ibrahim is an international student from the City of Kumasi, Ghana, and he's taking up civil engineering at Carleton University. He's twenty two. Yes, I am painfully aware of the difference in our ages. No, I don't care.

In spite of it all, we truly connect. You see, Ibrahim and I are both outcasts. I'm a divorcee who's estranged from her parents, quite the taboo in South Asian society. Ibrahim is an outcast of a different sort. You see, my favorite stud isn't just a big and tall, ambitious young black man who makes white people uncomfortable with his masculine presence. Nope, he's also bisexual. Yeah, it surprised me too.

"My parents came to visit out of the blue, and caught me and my former roommate Rashid doing the nasty," Ibrahim told me, point-blank, early on in our relationship. I consider myself fairly open-minded as far as sex and relationships go, and I didn't see that one coming. Ibrahim is tall and very masculine, with a deep voice, and a cocksure attitude. Oh, well. I guess a lot of the stereotypes about gay guys and bisexual men are untrue.

"That must have been awkward, hope you got your nut before they busted you," that was my reply to Ibrahim. The brother just burst out laughing, and I laughed as well, and noticed the dimples in Ibrahim's cheeks. I remember thinking right then and there that I wanted to fuck him, and squeeze them cheeks while doing so. What I want, I tend to get. I delighted in hearing Ibrahim tell me of his sexual exploits with men. Turned me on, you see.

"Rashid was mighty fine, tall and skinny, and really dark skinned, with one of those thick Nigerian snakes for a dick," Ibrahim said, and he went on and on about what he and his former boyfriend used to do together. Some women would have been disturbed to hear their man talk about how much he enjoys sucking dick or having a big dark dick in his ass, but not me. Man to man sex is a turn-on for me. I love the male body and can't get enough of it.

In my lifetime, I've only been with three men. The first was Imran Nawaz, my former husband. Lame in the sack. I endured two years of lousy sex and psychological abuse with him. Thanks but no thanks. The second was Ryan, a random white dude I met one night at the Honest Lawyer bar in downtown Ottawa. Decent, but nothing to write home about. Ibrahim on the other hand, is a man who sets my world on fire.

"You got something there," Ibrahim whispers, interrupting my little trip down memory lane by brushing his hand against the corners of my lips. I smile as he leans closer and licks my lips, and then kisses me full and deep. I close my eyes as I kiss Ibrahim, and hear people walk into the restaurant, but I don't care. I'm in the moment, and I just go with it.

"Your lips taste sweet," I reply to Ibrahim, once we come up for air. I look at my sweetie, who gazes longingly at me. There are quite a few other people in the store now. An old black lady with an equally old white man, a Hijab-wearing Arab gal who seems to know Ahmad the owner, and a short white chick with hair painted purple. All four gaze at Ibrahim and I, like we're Martians or something. Go figure.

Ibrahim and I don't pay the gawkers any heed, and continue to eat our meal and enjoy ourselves. Soon time's up, and we head back to the Super Center. The next couple of hours go by fairly quickly, and soon it's three o'clock. I'm all ready to go, but Ibrahim has to wait for his replacement, an Iranian security guard named Salim, who's a bit late. At three fifteen, Ibrahim and I finally leave the Super Center, and head home.

"Damn it, Shazia, you've been driving me nuts all day with them Yoga pants," Ibrahim whispers into my ear, grabbing my ass as soon as we reach my house. I grinned and pressed my ass against Ibrahim's groin, and felt his hardness press against me. I barely made it to the living room before Ibrahim unleashed a sexual cyclone on me. One that I was most definitely ready for...

"Don't tell me, my man, show me," I retorted, and Ibrahim pushed me onto the carpet, and yanked down my pants. I laughed as my man smacked my ass, and then kissed it. I love it when Ibrahim plays with my ass. The sight of my big Bangladeshi booty in Yoga pants drives Ibrahim nuts, and it's precisely why I wore them today. Seeing me walk back and forth in front of him was pure torture. Yeah, I'm bad.

"Ride my face, my queen," Ibrahim said, and he lay flat on the carpet, with his tongue sticking out. Shaking my head, I climbed on top of my man and straddled his face. Sometimes, a gal's just got to feed a horny brother, I swear. I squatted over Ibrahim's face, literally dangling my pussy inches from his lips. Groaning in frustration, Ibrahim stuck his neck out. I laughed and finally sat on him, and I felt Ibrahim's tongue slide into my cunt.

"That's the spirit," I cried out, as Ibrahim grabbed me by the hips, holding me firmly into place as he began eating my pussy with gusto. After such a long and tiresome day at work, what's more pleasurable than to ride your man's face, and feel his tongue in your pussy? Yeah, that's what I thought. I was overjoyed when Ibrahim shifted gears and began licking my ass instead. Lucky for him I'm a clean gal. I showered in the backroom earlier.

"Love the taste of your ass," Ibrahim said, and I laughed as he propped me up on all fours, spread my ass cheeks wide open and went in for some major licking. I love the feel of Ibrahim's tongue in my ass. My man wormed his tongue in there, and let it settle in. I squirmed on top of Ibrahim's face, smothering him with my thick ass as I rode him.

After about half an hour of this, I was ready for more. Much more. I went straight for Ibrahim's dick. Been salivating at the thought of sucking him off all day. I discretely checked out the print of Ibrahim's dick in his cargo pants at least three times at work today. Dude smelled like he'd been out all day, but it didn't bother me none. What can I say? I like my chocolate prince, and the way he smells and tastes. I grabbed Ibrahim's dick with both hands and stroked it, then I took his dick head into my mouth.

"Now that's what I'm talking about," Ibrahim said, and he smiled and sighed happily as I began sucking his tasty dick. My man's masculine musk was wonderfully intoxicating. I like to sniff a guy's balls while sucking him off. It's just a thing that I love to do. I know what Ibrahim likes, and fingered his bum while sucking his dick. Drove him absolutely nuts, and soon, my man was squirming.

"Got something for you," I paused to say, and I reached into my fallen purse for a special item. I never leave the house without my favorite dildo. It's shiny and green, made out of hard plastic, and doesn't set off metal detectors. I've flown from Vancouver to Ottawa with it, without any problems. I pulled my fingers out of Ibrahim's ass and pushed the dildo inside. My man groaned, but otherwise didn't protest.

Like I said before, I know what Ibrahim likes. With my lips wrapped around his dick and my dildo embedded in his ass, guess what happened? Ibrahim's dick got harder than a rock. I worked that dildo deeper and deeper into Ibrahim's ass, and soon my man's moans turned into outright screams. I love tickling Ibrahim's prostate. It's his sweet spot, you know.

"Oh yeah, fuck yeah, I like this stuff," Ibrahim muttered, and I knew then that I had him right where I wanted him. At my complete mercy. I milked Ibrahim's dick until he shuddered violently, then looked at me with that wild, out of control look in his eyes. I saw his lips tremble, saw his handsome features contort, and then I knew he was about to give it up. I tasted his manly juice, and it was absolutely yummy.

For the rest of the afternoon, Ibrahim and I fucked over every inch of my townhouse. My favorite was when he bent me over the kitchen counter, and fucked me while spanking my ass. I absolutely love the rough stuff, and Ibrahim let me have it, spanking my ass while slamming his dick into my pussy. I hurt oh so damn good from Ibrahim pounding away at me.

"Need you in another hole of mine, sweetie," I said as I rolled off of Ibrahim, with a sore pussy, I might add. Ibrahim looked at me and smiled, then glanced at the fridge. Now, in porno flicks and poorly written erotica, there's always a bottle of KY Jelly handy when a couple decides to have some bum sex. Well, in real life, you've got to improvise and use what's handy.

"Get the butter, and let's see about pleasing that ass," Ibrahim said, playfully slapping my ass as I made a beeline for the nearby fridge. I grabbed the bright yellow bowl of butter, and smiled to myself. Ah, the things we are going to do. A few moments later, I assumed the position. Ibrahim got behind me, and I shook my ass from side to side, like a pendulum of temptation, knowing it would drive him absolutely nuts.

"Don't keep my ass waiting, big daddy," I said teasingly to Ibrahim, holding my ass cheeks wide open for emphasis. Taking a deep breath, Ibrahim dipped his fingers into the bowl of butter and smeared some of its contents on my ass. I watched as Ibrahim applied the butter on his dick, and then rubbed his dick against my bum.

"Here comes the freight train," Ibrahim said, and I swear, I rolled my eyes upon hearing something so corny. If I wasn't horny as hell, I might have stopped the proceedings just for that. As it were, my pussy was dripping and I desperately wanted Ibrahim's fuck stick in my ass. The bastard pressed his dick against my asshole, but didn't go in yet. I turned around and glared at him.

"Ibrahim, stop fussing and do your damn job," I all but hissed at my man, and Ibrahim held his hands in mock surrender. Seriously, I hate it when he does stuff like that. I'm horny as hell and desperately want him inside of me, and Ibrahim thinks he's being cute by teasing the hell out of me, and not the fun way. What the fuck?

"My bad," Ibrahim said, laughing, and then he gripped my hips and pushed his dick into my asshole. I licked my lips as Ibrahim began to slowly, gently work his dick into my asshole. I totally dig anal sex. Lots of women love it and are afraid to admit it. Not me. I get down the way I like and don't give a fuck who knows. What I do and who I do it with is my business.

"Now that's more like it," I said, and a feeling of utter contentment washed over me as Ibrahim pushed his dick slowly into my ass. Anal sex is so damn different from regular sex, I swear. As I said before, lots of women do it but few admit to it. The taboo nature of anal sex and all that. Why is that? Oh, for the same reason lots of guys enjoy having their asses filled with a dildo but can't admit so in public. My Ibrahim and I? We're anal sex enthusiasts!

Much later, Ibrahim and I lay there, reeking of our own juices, among other things. I lay next to my man, smelling of sex, and a thousand other things, and I didn't care one bit. When you're with the right person, you can finally be yourself and stop being self-conscious about the little things. Ibrahim kissed me on the forehead, a gesture I found half corny and half romantic, because that's the kind of mood I'm in after sex.

"Can't get enough of that ass of yours," Ibrahim said, and the big goof grabbed me and kissed me, then started patting my rather thick derriere. Yup, Ibrahim is such a romantic. A wickedly fun idea sprang into my mind, and I decided to pay him back for teasing the hell out of my horny ass earlier. I kissed Ibrahim, and then got up, knowing his eyes were on my ass the entire time.

"Good, then you won't mind this very much, my dear," I said, and I bent low, as in inches from where Ibrahim lay, and then, I let one rip. That's right, I farted, inches from my man's face. It was a big one too. Loud, and it filled the living room with its own distinct aroma. All that Shawarma I had for lunch gave the fart a real pungent smell. Hmmm.