Somewhere beyond the hazy Martian horizon our camp lay hidden, nestled among the sand dunes.
There was something a little cheesy about travelling by camel (I’d have opted for a quad bike) but it was new experience, and our timing proved impeccable. Normally, Morocco’s Erg Chebbi dunes were crawling with tour groups of selfie-taking tourists, but it was January, the quietest time of year, and luckily for us there were only three of us as far as the eye could see: myself, my mysterious hijab-wearing lady friend , and our Berber guide. It was an ideal scenario, made sweeter still by a pre-departure pipe full of “Rif kif”.
Luckily I had already anticipated this, and armed with a speaker and the Lawrence of Arabia soundtrack, with the click of a button the sound of hooves and grunting dromedaries soon beat to dreamy Byzantine motifs.
“Ah, yes,” I thought myself, “Life isn’t so bad.”
After an hour’s ride we arrived at our camp.
“The sun is setting. Take pictures while I prepare dinner,” suggested our guide, and so we climbed the dunes to do just that.
For the occasion, my female companion had dressed in a beautiful black and gold Arabic abaya. It was a photographer’s wet dream…
That night, after a mighty feast, myself and my girl retired to my tent and lit some candles.
I also ignited my inner caveman.
“I have come to raid your village,” I joked, imitating an Arabic accent.
It was strangely arousing. Her lips parted and eyes beamed, subtly encouraging my this barbarous persona.
“We’ve burned your homes and slaughtered your men,” I continued, evoking the spirit of a Mongol horder.
I yanked off her hijab and pulled her hair. “Now, I will ravage you—you little Berber slut,” I growled in her ear. “I am your master and you are my slave. And in the end you will beg me for more.”
She yelped with excitement.
Unfortunately, I must stop there. I’d love to give more details, but in these days of internet witch-hunts, affirmative consent, and “rape culture” hysteria, I’d probably get myself into trouble.
All I will say is that I owned her like every women craves to be owned… to the point where I could make her cum on demand.
The next morning, I looked upon the land, and grunted contently.
If you’re ever interested in going to Morocco check out my Men’s Guide to Morocco.