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The Desert Rose

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”.

Mark Zolo in MoroccoThere was only one thing left needed for the desert journey… theme music.

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.

Mark Zolo in Morocco.


If you’re ever interested in going to Morocco check out my Men’s Guide to Morocco.


4 Responses to The Desert Rose

  1. splooge March 9, 2016 at 12:16 am #

    well the story got ruined. But either way your past work will always bite you. may as well keep trucking you always have instead of changing for them. it becomes a minor win for them, every inch theyll take.

    But tell us about the girl, was she morisco?jewish?french moroccan? was she one of those rich upper class ones?
    Hope you didnt get her knocked up lol

  2. splooge March 9, 2016 at 1:44 am #

    when will we get a datasheet on ireland?

  3. Ali S March 10, 2016 at 3:43 pm #

    I might have to stop reading this blog if it goes on like this. At least give some data about the girl so the horndogs here know what to look for in Morocco. Language issues? Was it a good lay?

  4. adulf March 11, 2016 at 6:43 pm #

    It’s a bit disappointing you don’t give any more data. As in, how did you meet this girl, what type of game you used etc. etc. The post could be summed up “Yeah, I fucked a girl”. Which is nice and good, but more data would be awesome, like swooptheworld does.

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