Black Femdom: Carleton University

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“How did you meet your spouse?” That’s the question every couple has been forced to answer since the beginning of time. My name is Amina “Mina” Kanu-Dumont, I’m a young woman of Gambian descent living in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. I was raised Muslim, but consider myself a secularist these days. I am the happy wife of Marcus Dumont, the devoted mother to precious Tiffany, and how my boo and I met is truly one for the ages. Get ready to laugh and maybe cry, and cringe, ladies and gentlemen. You were warned.

September came and I greeted it with mixed feelings. I was starting my fourth and final year in the Accounting program at Carleton University. So much happened during that fateful summer. I marched with Black Lives Matter in Ottawa to protest the death of a Somali man at the hands of Ottawa police in Hintonburg. I broke up with Colin Woodson, the young man I’d been dating since I finished high school. I thought that Colin and I were meant to be, and then he cheated on me and ruined everything.

From the beginning, the odds were against Colin Woodson for a variety of reasons but I thought we would make it. For starters, we came from different worlds. I was born in the City of Lamin, Gambia, and moved to the City of Ottawa, Ontario, with my parents Ismail and Fatima Kanu during the sixth summer of my life. I’ve lived here ever since and consider myself as Canadian as anyone. Being a five-foot-ten, chubby, big-bottomed and very dark-skinned Black female in a land that worships skinny white girls isn’t easy, but my parents raised me to be strong and love my blackness.

Colin Woodson, the blond-haired and blue-eyed lothario destined to break my heart was born in Uxbridge, England, and moved to the City of Ottawa, Ontario, with his mother Colleen Woodson a decade ago. We began dating shortly before our first year at Carleton University. I was crazy about him. Interracial relationships are never easy, especially given that Colin’s mother and her less than enthusiastic attitude towards our being together. Still, we stuck it out, and would have made it if it hadn’t been for Colin screwing up.

“How could you cheat on me with Khadija?” I shouted, confronting Colin about his infidelity, having discovered steamy texts and nude photos of my best friend Khadija Malik in his iPhone. The kind of punks who cheat on their significant others have one thing in common. They never think they’re going to get caught and they almost always do. We were sitting inside the Starbucks located near the Ottawa public library downtown, one of our favorite spots, and Colin sat opposite me, a frozen smile on his pale face, which I once found so handsome.

“Mina, Khadija was a one-time thing, she meant nothing to me,” Colin said, and he looked at me with those blue eyes I once found oh-so charming, and I seethed with rage. Before I could stop myself, I slapped Colin hard across the face, causing him to flinch and spill his Espresso all over himself. Rising to my feet, I grabbed my purse and got ready to go, but got in one last parting shot.

“Hope the bitch was worth it,” I shouted at Colin, and he looked at me like I had two heads. Everyone inside the Starbucks stared at me, and I didn’t care. I walked out of there, and hopped on the first bus I saw. Thus ended the longest romantic relationship of my adult life. In one fell swoop I lost my boyfriend and my less-than-trustworthy best friend. I felt like I was in hell. Life sucked. What’s a gal to do? I had to move on.

Ladies and gentlemen, it sucks being single when you’ve been in a relationship for so long. Nostalgia gripped my heart, and the school year was just beginning. Life was forcing all sorts of changes on me. I had been at Carleton University for almost half a decade, and it was a wonderful time for the most part. Even on this racially diverse campus you’ll encounter a few jerks and a few fake-smiling, passive-aggressive racists, but by and large, my experience was a positive one.

That fateful morning, I lined up at the Tim Horton’s on the first floor of the University Center Building with my fellow peons, and got myself an egg and cheese sandwich, a bottle of lemonade and hash browns. I sat down and ate my meal, and then went to take the service elevator to get to the fourth floor. There was a tall, burly black dude in a construction worker’s helmet and blue overalls pushing a heavy cart, and I had to squeeze by in order to get into the service elevator.

“Good morning,” said the construction worker, and I looked at him and smiled. The dude was tall, easily six-foot-three, handsome and well-built, with dark brown skin and stylish dreads. Cute butt, I thought. There was a lot of construction going on at school, especially around the Mac Odrum Library and the Loeb Building. I personally couldn’t wait for them to be done, because they’re kind of in the way, you know?

“Fourth floor please,” I said to the construction guy, and the brother smiled and nodded, and punched the fourth button, and the fifth one. I stood there, and checked ankara ucuz escortlar my cell phone. My cell phone provider has lousy reception when it comes to basements, and I’d been meaning to switch companies or at least get a better plan. As the elevator reached the third floor, I heard a loud, metallic noise, and the elevator stopped.

“Oh damn, looks like we’re stuck,” the construction dude said, and I sighed deeply. I should mention that I am slightly claustrophobic, and began to hyperventilate almost immediately after the elevator stopped moving. I absolutely hate the confines of these hellish machines. The last time I got stuck in an elevator, I nearly passed out. I swore to never use them again. Of course, given the way the world is set up, that’s really not practical. I tolerate the service elevators at Carleton University because they’re big and roomy, not small and tight.

“What the fuck? Open the door!” I shrieked, and I started banging against the elevator doors with my fists, to no avail. The construction worker looked at me, shook his head and slowly let go of the cart handles. I knew I was having a spaz moment and needed to calm down, but knowing something and doing it are two different things. To make things worse, the sandwich and hash brown I’d just had at Tim Horton’s didn’t seem to agree with my stomach, and then the stomach rumbling began.

“Ma’am, calm down please, it’s going to be alright, I’m Marcus, and I’ve been in such a situation before, just relax,” the construction worker said, and he held his hands up. I nodded and forced myself to calm down, and when I opened my mouth to speak, I was about to introduce myself to the dude, and then the unthinkable happened. Looking back on that day, I laugh. A very funny series of unfortunate events, some might say. I didn’t laugh then. It’s not funny when it happens to you.

At a certain point in life, all of us have had our bodies betray us and fail us. The human body is fallible. That’s just a fact of life. I don’t care what anyone says. Sometimes you think you can keep working and you fall asleep. Other times, something more serious happens. For me, I accidentally let one rip. That’s right, I farted. Girls fart too. Deal with it, men! We’re not perfect, alright?

“Oops, I’m sorry,” I said sheepishly to Marcus, suddenly wishing I could fall through the elevator floor and vanish like a ghost. Marcus looked at me, pure disbelief on his face. I started mumbling incoherently, and that’s when the elevator doors opened. I took a deep breath, and all but bolted out of there. There were several people in front of me, but I cut through all of them and made a beeline for the Atrium. I ran and didn’t stop until I reached the library, which was a good distance away. Yeah, it was that kind of morning.

A week or so later, guess who I ran into while waiting for the number four bus at the Rideau Shopping Center? I just had lunch at Creole Sensations, this quaint little Haitian restaurant located in the Vanier area, and took a bus to Rideau. It was eleven forty five in the morning and I needed to be at Carleton for my one o’clock Micro-Economics class. My professor, a lady named Catherine something or other, is one tough broad and I didn’t want to be late during the first few weeks of school, you know?

“Hello, mademoiselle, you look really familiar,” came a deep, masculine voice. I turned around and saw a disturbingly familiar face. That of the construction worker from the service elevator at Carleton University. I looked at him and smiled, and suddenly remembered his name, which he revealed to me a few seconds before I farted and bolted, pun unintended.

“Uh, hello there, um, small world,” I said, and Marcus looked at me and flashed me a knowing smile. The number four bus came, and like a gentleman, Marcus nodded at me and I curtsied, and got on the bus. Once inside, I showed my brand new high-yellow U-Pass card to the bus driver, a middle-aged white man in a blue uniform, and headed for the middle seats, my favorite.

“Don’t worry, the coast is clear this time, mademoiselle, I don’t foresee any mishaps,” Marcus said, and he sat opposite me, a wicked smile on his face. On that day, he wore a red silk shirt, black silk tie and black silk pants. The brother looked good, I must admit. Thinking about that time in the elevator, I no longer felt embarrassed. In fact, I was oddly cheerful about it.

“Alright, Marcus, is it? Let’s try this one more time, I’m Amina, from Gambia,” I said, extending my sleek, well-manicured hand, which Marcus shook. Thus we were properly introduced, without any funny business. Marcus and I talked for a bit, and I was surprised to hear that he studied Sociology at Carleton University, graduated in 2013, and then went into the trades, because that’s not what he wanted to do with his life.

“My parents, God bless them, are typical Haitians, all strict and all, they pushed me to study Sociology at Carleton even though I really wanted to do construction work, they flipped out ankara ├╝niversiteli escortlar when I went to Algonquin College afterwards,” Marcus said, shaking his head. I looked at him thoughtfully, and wondered whether I might have seen him around campus a few years back. Probably, but I didn’t know him then.

“Brother, go for what you want, always, I know I do,” I replied with a smile, and Marcus nodded. Marcus told me about his passion for construction work, the cool people he met in the trades, and how much fun he was having working for the construction contractor Ellis Don, which had sites all over Ottawa. The brother was doing good, I could tell. Always a good thing to see, I guess.

“We should keep in touch, for, ahem, networking purposes,” Marcus said with a wry grin as the bus reached Somerset. I grinned and shook my head, then told him my number. Smiling, Marcus typed my number in his phone, and nodded cockily like a real smooth operator. I swear, brothers and their swagger. I smiled at him, waiting for him to say something slick. When Marcus didn’t, I looked at him questioningly.

“Well, don’t be a stranger,” I said, and Marcus smiled and nodded, then he got up, shook my hand, wished me a good day, and then walked away. I watched Marcus as he made his way to the front of the bus, and got off at the next stop. Cute butt, I thought, and smiled. What? A gal can’t check out a guy’s ass? Guys check out women’s butts all day and every day. Turnabout is fair play if you ask me.

“What’s up, cutie? I just want you to know, I enjoyed inhaling your fragrance in the elevator the other day,” those were the very first words that Marcus Dumont, my future husband texted me, right after I gave him my number. For a moment I sat on the bus, looked at the text, read it and reread it, and shook my head, and then I smiled. Wow, I’m a gassy woman who just met a cute guy who likes my farts. It’s weird, but also kind of funny, don’t you think?

“Um, thank you, you’re cute but kind of weird,” I replied, ten minutes after Marcus sent his text. I like to make the fellas wait for my replies to their texts. Keeps them guessing and on their toes. It’s a woman thing, don’t ask. The bus arrived at Carleton University, and I got off and began walking toward the U.C. Building. I had a big smile on my face by the time I made it to my first class in Southam Hall. What can I say? This brother was something else.

Considering the awkward, downright circumstances during which we met, it’s a miracle that Marcus and I went out at all, let alone got married. Marcus asked me out, and out of curiosity and boredom, I accepted. We went to grab a bite at Creole Sensations, a nice Haitian restaurant located in the east end of Ottawa. There, over a sumptuous meal of white rice, brown bean sauce and goat meat, I got to know the handsome Mr. Marcus a bit better.

“I miss Carleton sometimes but going to Algonquin College for construction training was the best choice I ever made,” Marcus said, as he sipped his lemonade. I looked at him and nodded approvingly, for he seemed like a man who was quite comfortable with who he was. There are so many pretenders in this world, both male and female. People aren’t content with what they have, and wish for something different, but mainly to please others. Marcus wasn’t like that, I could tell.

“I’m graduating with an Accounting degree next summer, and I want to work for the government or a private company,” I said to Marcus, who smiled and looked at me. I frowned, wondering what he was looking at. Gently, Marcus brushed his hand against mine, an oddly forward gesture considering we were just getting to know each other. I held his gaze, and Marcus smiled cockily, and licked his lips, a gesture which registered with a certain part of my feminine anatomy.

“Amina, we just met but I’ve worked in plenty of government buildings and I can tell you, with your combination of class and sass, they won’t know what hit them,” Marcus said, and I looked at him thoughtfully, and smiled, as I bit into a forkful of goat meat. I really like Haitian cuisine, by the way. It combines the best of the old world and the new world in my sincere and honest opinion.

“You sure have a way with words, cutie, thank you,” I replied coyly, and Marcus grinned and winked at me. The small Haitian restaurant was packed with people, mostly older black guys who occupied the few tables around us and talked about politics. Names like Aristide and Duvalier kept popping up, and sounded familiar, but I didn’t interrupt their discussion to ask them. Nope, I was more interested in the handsome young Haitian man who sat opposite me.

“I honestly think it was fate, how we met,” Marcus said, smiling wickedly, and I burst out laughing. Seriously, did this guy think that I fart in front of guys faces as a conversation opener? Must be the most disgusting technique I’ve ever heard of. Still, it was pretty much. I laughed, and actually, I laughed so hard that I almost choked on my goat meat, ankara vip escortlar and Marcus reached over and clapped me on the back, something my mother used to do when I had such difficulties.

“Yeah, something funny happens to my body whenever you’re around,” I replied, coughing slightly, and Marcus smiled. Yeah, every couple has their own unique terms and private messages with each other, and this was ours. Still, I found Marcus friendly and funny, and able to just roll with it when it comes to a lady’s imperfections, unlike some guys I know. That’s why I started seeing him. When my girlfriends and others would ask about how Marcus and I met, I’d tell them we met at school and left it at that…

Marcus and I embarked on a relationship which was destined to change my life. It’s amazing how you see the world differently when someone dynamic and strong comes into your life. Marcus is the last of a dying breed, to me. A handsome, masculine black man who respects black women, has a university degree ( and a college degree ) and works hard for what he wants. How such a fine specimen has remained single for so long puzzled me, but I was determined to keep him.

“Amina, it’s the twenty-first-century, my little brother Etienne is dating a white lady named Nikki, and she’s nice, I don’t have a problem with interracial stuff, whether it’s a brother with a white chick, or a sister with a white dude,” those were Marcus’s words to me after I told him about Colin Woodson, my ex-boyfriend. I was pleased to hear him say that, because, well, as you may know, interracial relationships are a complex topic in today’s black community.

“I’m glad you’re such a grown-up about this, I’ve dated white dudes, and I still love my brothers, I can admit that still feel a bit of a wince inside when I see a brother with a white chick,” I admitted, and Marcus grinned and shook his head. We were walking around Confederation Park, on a sunny day in late September. I love this park, located right in the middle of downtown. A sea of green in an otherwise bleak world of gray concrete and dull, metallic black and blue. Yay for greenery.

“Women are so complex,” Marcus said, stroking his goateed chin and laughing at my statement. I looked at him, smiled, and not for the first time I noticed how full and sensuous, how utterly kissable his lips seemed. That’s why, well, I did something uncharacteristically bold, and planted a kiss on Marcus lips. That’s right, the campus chick surprised the macho construction worker by kissing him first. How about that?

“We’re complex and you like it that way,” I said, and Marcus shrugged, and this time, he kissed me. Laughing like a couple of lovebirds, we linked hands and walked to the Rideau Center, where we grabbed a bite to eat. If I was honest with myself, I was actually starting to fall for Marcus Dumont. The tall, handsome brother from the island of Haiti was having all sorts of effect on little old me. The question is, could he handle my other side?

Alright, folks, I’ve got something to share with you. I haven’t been completely honest about certain aspects of my, well, self. My ex-boyfriend Colin Woodson introduced me to BDSM, and I discovered that I am a dominant. I am just a tiny bit sadistic. I like to tie guys up and smack them around. I like to torture their dicks and balls, and I like to trample them. Colin was submissive to me, and we had a lot of fun together. I haven’t had the chance to “top” anyone else since we split. I really like Marcus, but I can’t see a prim and proper, macho Haitian guy like him getting into my kind of action. Or would he?

The first time we had sex was quite fun, and impromptu. Marcus and I were coming home from the movies, having seed Suicide Squad a bit later than everyone else. I liked the scenes featuring Will Smith’s character the antihero hitman known as Deadshot, though the rest of the movie was just okay. Marcus and I went back to my place on Ogilvie, and then, well, we did the doo.

“You are frigging hot,” Marcus said to me, grinning, as we made out on the living room couch. I sat on Marcus’s lap, and I was a bit nervous about it since I’m a big woman, but Marcus didn’t seem intimidated by my curvaceous loveliness. Nope, the brother slapped my thick, wide ass and fondled my tits while sticking his tongue down my throat, and I liked his way of doing things. Oh yeah, Marcus can totally get it.

“Thanks, now don’t stop,” I said, and I threw my head as Marcus unclasped my bra, and freed my large breasts, which he gently caressed and massaged with his big, surprisingly gentle hands. Off came my knee-length skirt, and Marcus looked at me. Usually, I felt a bit nervous about getting naked in front of a guy, mainly because, well, I know I’m not this western world’s ideal of beauty. Colin used to bug me about my weight, and he made me try all these different diets. When Marcus looked at me, I saw wonder in his eyes.

“Beautiful,” Marcus said, and he kissed a path from my lips to my neck, and finally suckled at my breast. His hands slid between my thighs, and I gasped as his fingers slipped into my pussy. Rubbing my clit with his thumb, Marcus thrust his thumb and middle fingers into my pussy. The brother locked eyes with me, and I smiled happily. Marcus was in my sweet spot, and we both knew it.

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