Hafida the Moroccan (part one)

Hafida the Moroccan
by CJockey2 a.k.a w0odwizard

This is the story of my ex-wife, Hafida, whom I had married following a trip to her small home town in the south of Morocco. After reading this, you may think I'm being spiteful, but what the hell. She was no saint either!

We had only been married a few days when I found her arguing vehemently with her younger sister, Amina. Now, if Hafida is a quiet, seemingly shy girl, then by comparison, Amina is a mouse. I was very surprised then, when I found them engaged in a heated argument. I managed to quieten them down, but only by threatening all sorts of mayhem.

Hafida stormed out of the room, muttering and swearing, leaving me alone with the younger sister. Amina motioned me to sit down, and then, using her best (very broken!) French she managed to relate to me the reason why I had, at forty two, managed to marry her sister, an extremely beautiful twenty four year old Arab girl.

The cause of the argument was that Hafida had confided in Amina and had told her that she had married me solely to get out of Morocco, and get a European passport. She intended to leave me and find a nice young Arab guy once she had obtained said passport. Amina, apparently, had grown to like me in the three weeks I had been staying with the family, and was outraged that her sister was using me so badly.

Needless to say, I was shocked by this revelation, but even so, as I thought the situation through, I was still getting quite a good deal. Hafida, apart from being heart stoppingly gorgeous, is also, believe it or not, a great cook. I had popped her cherry on our wedding night, had witnessed her sexual awakening and had benefitted in no small measure from her ever increasing curiosity and sexual appetite. It would be five years before she qualified for a passport, so I would be getting my money's worth, so to speak. I could, I reasoned, live with the knowledge that I was just a pawn in her game. I also had a lever, an edge, as they say. If I divorced her, she would be shipped back home to Morocco, and her plans would come to nothing.

Knowledge is power, they say, and I now was well armed. Logic is not all though. Deep down I knew I felt angry, betrayed. Very flatteringly, Amina told me that had she known Hafida's plan before, she would have told me, and that she would have married me. These girls have a much different attitude to marriage than Western women. Hafida, she reasoned, was not only being a cheat, but was also depriving her of something beneficial. She had apparently, called down Allah's curse on her sister for deceiving me in the sacred ritual of marriage, so sparking a furious row!

A week later we were boarding the bus and heading for Europe. I had told Amina to say nothing to anyone, and, after I explained that Hafida was tied to me for at least five years to get her passport, and that I had no objection to Hafida's scheme, she shrugged her shoulders and agreed to tell no one what she had told me. She said I was mad to let Hafida use me like that, but she agreed to remain silent.

The journey from Hafida's town to London is quite a lengthy affair. First you must take the bus, or maybe a 'bush taxi' to Agadir, then an internal flight to Casablanca, then if you are lucky, an onward connection the same day to London. We, however, were not. Lucky, that is. We missed the London flight by half an hour. There was nothing for it but to book into an hotel and get the flight the next afternoon. This time we were lucky. A rather comfortable and not too expensive hotel had a room, and we booked in.

I was rather relieved. Most hotels in Morocco are shabby flea ridden things, charging a dollar a night, with all the cock roaches you can manage or two hundred dollar a night extravaganzas! This hotel, however, was clean, modern, and at ten dollars a night, cheap too.

We spent the rest of the afternoon shopping at the nearby airport mall, buying suitable clothes for Hafida. A jalaba is not the warmest item of clothing in the world, and February in Europe is somewhat chilly. We also bought some, shall we say, 'more adventurous' underwear for her, to replace the rather frumpy plain stuff she usually wore. Hafida was delighted and in high spirits when we returned to our hotel.

She was now kitted out as she thought a woman should be. Western style clothing, including bikini briefs, thongs etc., plus matching bras, some blouses, skirts (all ankle length) and a couple of pairs of shoes with modest heels.

The 'trying on' session back in our room was quite something. It was lovely to witness her child like enthusiasm and excitement as she unwrapped and put on each new item. As I watched her I couldn't help thinking about Amina. It could have been her beginning a new life with me, reaping the material benefits that her commitment to me would have brought her. Instead, it was Hafida who was harvesting the crop that deceit had yielded.

Looking back, it did seem a shame that Amina's honesty had not been rewarded, but there again, who's to know if that honesty was real, or was she just as hollow as her sister? I can tell you, however, that Amina married a local man, and remained with him (being mother to at least two of his children) for as long as I knew the family.

Enough of the semantics though! You want to hear about something else, right? Right. And so you shall. About seven thirty that evening, we went to find the restaurant, me dressed in jeans and a 't' shirt, whilst Hafida looked stunning in a cobalt blue, gold embroidered jalaba she had begged me to buy for her just before our wedding.

Again I was pleasantly surprised. There was reasonable (plain and simple) food at reasonable prices, and, unusually for a Moroccan owned hotel, wine. Waiters in monkey suits seated us at a corner table, took our order, and presented us with a wine list. Now, Hafida, being a typical small town girl, was not used to all this at all. Not only was she being waited on, but waited on by men. This to her was a revelation. At home, she and her sisters served family and guests alike, so having people bring her food and generally run around after her was quite an eye opener. As for wine, it was something she (a Muslim girl from the deep south of Morocco, remember?) had heard about, but had never seen, never mind tasted. When the waiter brought us a bottle of what was undoubtedly a cheap French table wine, she stared wide eyed at it.

I poured her a glass and motioned her to try it. She very hesitatingly sniffed it then sipped at it. She winced a little as she swallowed. Cheap and cheerful is the most generous description of it, but it had a very fruity initial taste to it.

Apparently she liked the stuff. Either that or she considered drinking wine a necessary western social skill that she must acquire in her bid for European citizenship. She downed a couple of glasses in quick succession and another couple during the meal. Needless to say, by the time we had finished, she was a little worse for wear, as they say. In fact as we stood up to leave the restaurant, she swayed and stumbled, motivating both I and the waiter to make a grab for her arms to prevent her from falling over.

We made our way to the lobby, Hafida supported on one side by me, and by the waiter on the other. A bellboy took in the situation, and pressed the call button on the lift for us and when it arrived, the four of us squeezed into it, Hafida giggling drunkenly.

In the conservative south of Morocco, she had never been touched by any males other than her father, or brothers. Here she was now, hemmed in by men, all of them in close physical contact, and none of them her father or brothers. I suddenly realised that Hafida's giggling was also probably due to the fact that whilst the waiter's left hand was supporting her by holding her left forearm, his right arm was curled around her waist. Not only was this outrageously forward, but was his right hand actually under her breast, touching one of those delicious (and forbidden to him) tits of hers?? And why was the bellboy's face so red? Could it be that in the close confines of the lift, he was embarrassed because his penis was rubbing against the lady's thigh, and his erection was causing a bulge in his uniform trousers?

All this was plainly visible in the reflection from the mirror like steel doors. Whilst I was standing behind Hafida, I could see over her shoulder, witnessing the events unfold as we travelled slowly up the building, in much the same manner as the waiters hand was travelling slowly up and over Hafida's chest.

Now, it is a well-known fact that Moroccan men consider westerners to be the scum of the earth, and the women who consort with them to be no better than whores. The two hotel staff, it seemed had this opinion of us, and so were treating us accordingly. The lack of respect they felt revealed itself in the gentle abusing of Hafida, whilst I, her husband stood next to her. I could hardly believe my eyes. Surely they must know I would be aware of what was going on? Or did they think I was as drunk as she was?

Suddenly, pictures of Hafida being sexually used by these two flashed through my mind. My imagination, always strong, was working overtime. I could see, in my mind's eye, the waiter thrusting into Hafida, using her, satisfying his lust with the body of the westerner's whore. I could feel my own cock stirring, my heartbeat increased just a fraction as an involuntary reaction to the erotic situation. An arrow of guilt shot through me, but, its sting was suddenly blunted by the knowledge that I was the victim of Hafida's scam, that my betrayal of her would be no more than rough justice.

My cock hardened further as I contemplated the situation. But what to do? What would happen if I did nothing? Would they continue? Where would it all stop? I looked at my young wife. Her eyes were darting from the waiters hand, (which was now holding her right breast) to my face. I smiled at her as though I had seen nothing, as though all were well with the world and nothing untoward was happening. She in turn shot a glance at the waiter, who simply stared back at her, the stony look on his face seemed to defy her to say or do anything.

The lift's control panel was just beside my right elbow, behind the bell boy. The floor indicator showed us to be two floors short of our destination. A fit of daring overtook me. Pretending to scratch my head, I raised my arm, brushing against the <STOP> button. The lift stopped.
'Oh!' I exclaimed. 'I hope we're not going to be stuck in here for long....' Hafida stared at me. So did the bellboy. I think he had seen what I had done.
'It will not be long Sir....this often happens....a few minutes at most....' Came the reassuring response from the waiter, his left hand releasing Hafida's arm and dropping down to fondle her left thigh. She said nothing. On the shiny door, the picture of his left hand as it curled around her thigh and moved up towards her pussy, sent a hot shiver up my spine. She squirmed slightly as she felt his fingers through the thin cloth. They were gently probing, testing her sense of resistance, putting her drunken sense of morality on trial.

Hafida was found guilty. She said and did nothing. She never even tried to move away from his touch. Her eyes closed. His hand pushed between her legs, gathering up a handful of the blue cloth as he cupped and squeezed her pubic mound in his palm.

....to be continued