Marriage Scam

According to immigration officials, marriages of convenience between Canadians and Cubans has become a significant problem. In a quality assurance exercise in 2011, officials contacted a sample of Canadians who had married and sponsored Cubans. About one-third of those relationships had ended soon after the new spouse's arrival in Canada. Fraud and misrepresentation were often cited as the reason, resulting in many broken Canadian hearts and fleeced pocketbooks. The scams were perpetrated on both Canadian men and women, typically those with significant financial means.

How does it happen? As one John Doe, 56, put it: "It's the allure of the Caribbean. It's the novelty of a young woman showing attention to an old guy like me. You do things sensible people don't do. My friends had warned me to be careful, but I never listened. I have myself to blame."

Stories like John Doe's have resulted in some legal changes. Under more recent immigration rules, sponsored spouses must remain married for two years before receiving permanent resident status in Canada. It can be revoked if they are found guilty of marriage fraud, but the process is lengthy and costly.

In my own personal situation, I have a half-sister (we have different last names, hers was Jacqueline Twist, mine is Brian Burley) who I dearly love who was scammed by a good-looking Cuban by the name of Ernesto Acebo. While she -- with much expenditure of effort and money and with my behind-the-scenes financial, moral, and emotional support (I never met Ernesto) -- was able to extricate herself, it was only after paying off the scumbag to the tune of $100,000 sent to a Cayman bank, and after suffering a broken heart. Fortunately she found a great Canadian guy by the name of Harold Logan a year after the breakup and now is living a happy life as Mrs. Jacqueline Logan -- but I have always resented the pain that she was put through.

Given the statistics and my personal situation, you might wonder what I, a recent wealthy divorcee, forty three years of age, was doing in Cuba and how I could fall for a Cuban woman? I guess my answer is -- the heart wants what the heart wants.

*********

It was my third trip to Cuba for business purposes. While business opportunities for a wealthy capitalist like myself are not that great (significant understatement) in Cuba, it is a good place to meet businessmen from South America, who are some of my best customers and partners. On this particular trip, the first after my divorce was final, I planned on taking at least a week's vacation at one particular beach town that I had had investigated by professionals. Things worked out even better than expected in my Havana meetings with Argentinians and Chileans, and I concluded the work part of my trip two days early.

I made it to Varadero the night of the day that I concluded my business. I was looking for a relaxing time, but also wanted to check out the possible activities and importantly including -- if fate smiled on me -- the local pussy. I arranged for a few charter fishing trips, participated in some water sports, went golfing at one of the few golf courses in Cuba, went on the only excursions in the area that were offered to tourists, and on the prowl went to different restaurants and after-dinner clubs at night. I was delighted that I was approached by many decent looking Cuban women, and even had the pleasure of spending the night with a nineteen-year-old "unofficial" prostitute, but no one really floated my boat; that is until about four days into my trip when I ran into Zamira.

I saw Zamira at what passed for the most popular "club" in Varadero. Zamira was spectacularly good-looking, better than I expected. It soon became obvious that most of the single men in town would kill for a legitimate chance at Zamira, especially since she never had to buy her own drink; but it was also quickly evident that she was what we in North America would call ambitious -- even "high maintenance." I bode my time the first night there, but made sure to come back early a second night after I paid for reliable information that she would be returning.

With my seemingly rudimentary Spanish, and being sure to flash my Rolex watch (my fake one -- it's identical in appearance to my real one except for zirconia stones instead of diamonds; I'm not stupid enough to wear a real one in a place like Cuba where someone could comfortably live the rest of their life on what they could sell it for), I offered to buy Zamira a drink. She pretended to be a little standoffish, but quickly changed to coquettish when I flashed a roll of American dollars when offering to buy her the drink of her choice.

While I'm a decent looking guy, and in very good shape for someone who is forty four and gets his exercise in a health club rather than working in a manual-labor job for a living (and luckily never having ruined my knees or other body parts playing Canadian football for eight years), Zamira is in a different league in the looks department. She could probably best be described as a more refined, bigger-busted, version of a young Selma Hayek. In view of her obvious "ambition," however, I didn't think that I was wasting my time even though she was only twenty one, especially since she loved to dance and I was actually a decent practitioner of Latin dances including the Salsa and Habanera. Learning them was one of the only positive things from Jacqueline's relationship (if you could call it that) with Ernesto.

By the end of the evening, while we were dancing the Habanera at a slower pace and with more body contact that is conventional, I got the feeling that Zamira was warming up to me. We kissed as we parted after the last dance that night.

Zamira worked for her brother in what appeared to be the most upscale local business in Varadero, and I was able to talk her into acting as a local tour guide for me the next day, ending up at an out-of-the-way beautiful beach. Seeing her in a bikini -- very unusual beachwear in Cuba -- was enough to make a eunuch spontaneously ejaculate. After we went to dinner that night she seemed more than willing -- maybe even anxious -- to accompany me to my suite at the Hotel Royal Hicacos Resort & Spa, the most upscale hotel in Varadero.

Tenderly removing Zamira's clothes as we lightly kissed in my suite was one of the most erotic activities of my life. It was like unwrapping what you hoped would be your best Christmas present ever times 1,000. Her olive skin glistened in the moonlight streaming through my suite's skylight, and it was almost like a halo was framing her gorgeous hair and face. Her body was the most spectacular in my experience, seemingly having been cloned from Aphrodite and then enhanced -- especially in the breast department.

Very unusual outside of North America, Zamira even had a sparse bush -- not natural, instead mostly shaved. I gently laid her on my king-sized bed and started licking and fingering. Apparently Cuban men don't give a lot of oral or even foreplay because at first she was a little apprehensive, but quickly got with the program. After her third orgasm compliments of my tongue, lips, and fingers, she turned from prey to predator.

After giving my rock hard cock a couple of perfunctory licks, just to make sure that it was to her liking, Zamia mounted me cowgirl and proceeded to fuck my brains out as she pulled my chest hair, bounced up and down like on a bungee cord, and swore a blue streak in Spanish. She seemed to have perfect control of her pc muscles, which allowed her to milk every milliliter of cum out of my throbbing cock as I grunted like a sty full of pigs and she let out a scream that would make a Banshee proud.

Over the next seven hours I sucked more tit and fingered more clit than I had in an average month, even when I was married, and we fucked three more times. We both had to sleep in with a "No Molestar" ("Do Not Disturb") sign on the door. When we got up at noon and Zamira called her brother to tell him that she'd be late for work (she already was), from her reaction and what I heard from her end of the conversation he did not appear to be too perturbed.

After work the next day Zamira met me for dinner. She was bubbly and effervescent and encouraged me to stroke her beautiful thighs under the table, hidden by the checkered tablecloth. We went for a stroll after dinner, enjoyed a couples' massage at the Hotel, and then retired to my room for another fabulous fuck, after which we both were still so tired from the previous night's marathon session that we passed out more than slept.

The next morning Zamira got up early enough to make it to work on time, and even to eat breakfast. Unfortunately for her -- maybe not -- her breakfast time was taken up, however, by me getting into the shower with her, lifting her up, pinning her backside against the shower stall tile, and then proceeding to fuck the shit out of her.

By the time that I had to leave Varadero I had had seven of the best twenty fucks of my life. Zamira was a walking (and fucking) fantasy.

Since Zamira spoke essentially no English, in Spanish she pouted "So, Brian; now that you've had your way with me are you just going to leave me here, never to see me again?" as I packed my rental car for the trip back to Havana.

In seemingly the best Spanish that I could muster -- I know that I got a couple of words wrong, but she got the message -- I replied "Actually, no, Zamira. You're what every man looks for in a woman; beautiful, sexy, smart, passionate, and interesting. Could you see your way to a relationship with someone old enough to be your father?"

"If that someone fucks as well as you do," she whispered into my ear and then got a big grin on her face.

"I have your email address," I retorted while grasping her arms -- her brother's business had one of the few Internet hookups in Varadero even though it was rudimentary -- "and I'll be contacting you early next week."

"You'd better," she grumbled as she smashed the marvels on her chest against me while trying to touch my tonsils with her tongue.

************

When I got back to Ottawa, I spent a significant amount of time in deciding how to approach the situation with Zamira. I concluded that it was unlikely that I'd find a better fuck anywhere; and that she also would be good for my business when dealing with Spanish speaking executives who were my best customers and partners. Therefore I sent Zamira an email asking if she could come to Havana two weeks hence to be my companion when I met with some Brazilian businessmen and their wives. I promised to make the arrangements for her transportation and to make any payments necessary to her brother to hire someone in her place while she was gone.

Her enthusiasm for my offer came through in the flowery language in her email only a few hours after she would have received my email. I made the travel arrangements for her, talked with her on the phone -- a technically difficult conversation -- and was excited to see her when I flew to Havana two weeks later.

As we had arranged, Zamira met me at the airport. As we took a cab to the Iberostar Parque Central, the best hotel in Havana, I explained to her the entertaining we would be doing with three Brazilian businessmen and their wives.

"I don't have the proper wardrobe," she complained. "My best clothes will look like peasant clothes compared to Brazilian fashion."

"Not to worry," I smiled.

"What?" she asked and then playfully punched me. "What?"

"Will you be nice to me when we get to the hotel?" I asked.

"You bastard," she giggled, and then playfully punched me again. "What?"

"Patience is a virtue," I replied, and then said, "Oh look over there," pointing out the window.

Both Zamira and I were almost wetting our pants in anticipation, although probably for different reasons, when we got to our hotel room. I took a beautiful summer-weight gown that I had ordered from New York City out of one of my suitcases and held it up to her. "I don't really know what dress sizes are in Cuba, but I'm quite certain that you're a size six in North America, and that's what size this is."

Zamira shrieked in enjoyment. "I've got to try it on," she giggled, grabbing it and heading for the bathroom.

I held her arm. "No, right here," I chuckled.

"You pervert," she replied, but then quickly shed her dress and put on the new one. It fit her almost perfectly, and she was obviously pleased when she looked at herself in the mirror.

"How did you know what size to get?" she asked, truly puzzled.

"Well, Selma Hayek -- do you know who she is?"

"Of course, a beautiful Latina actress," she laughed.

"Well, Selma is a size four and you're shaped just like her only with a bigger bust, so I thought that a size six would be perfect."

"Thank you so much," she gurgled as she planted kisses all over me.

As I groped her and started to find the zipper for her dress she pushed me away and said "No you don't; I'm not taking the chance that you'll ruin this dress; I'll take it off myself."

She was naked, with the dress properly hung up, in no time flat; and shortly after that I was laying on my back and groaning as she energetically seemed on a quest to rip my dick off. "My God this woman can fuck" was my last conscious thought before I went comatose after ejaculating two weeks' worth of cum into her pulsating pussy.

When I fully regained cognizance I pleased Zamira even more by taking out two more new dresses from my other suitcase, not quite as classy as the first but likely more fashionable than any other dresses she had ever worn, as well as some fake gem necklaces. "I thought that these -- they're not real gems mind you -- would go well with the outfits."

She was like a little kid at Christmas and would have gleefully fucked me again except that we had to meet the Brazilians in ninety minutes and there were things to do in preparation. After she had tried on all three dresses with three different combinations of necklaces I calmed her down and sat her on the couch in my suite with a folder in hand.

"Zamira, in this folder is information about the people we are to meet, including the wives. There are little capsules of their personalities. It would only be human nature for them to be jealous of your looks, so I've listed a number of things that you can say to them that will endear you to them -- or at least prevent them from disliking you. You will need to be a little humble, but I'll bet that you're naturally a good actress and can pull this off," I said with a smile.

"An actress like Selma Hayek?" she chuckled.

"Exactly," I chuckled back.

Zamira was actually quite enthusiastic as we looked over the photos of the three wives, their backgrounds, and possible flattering comments; she even added some good suggestions of her own. After an hour of study and discussion, it was time to get ready.

"Want to shower together?" I asked with a diabolical smile and raised eyebrow.

"You'll get all the sex you can handle tonight," she giggled as she jumped off the couch and ran to the bathroom. "I need to have some personal time to look my best, and having your hands and dick all over and in my body won't allow that."

When she came out of the bathroom twenty five minutes later -- leaving me only five minutes to shave and shower -- it was worth the wait. She looked spectacular. "WOW!" was all that I uttered, eliciting a big grin from her.

Dinner with the Brazilians went better than could be expected given the gawks by the men, with commensurate negative reactions from the wives, when they first saw Zamira. However, Zamira played her part almost perfectly and by the end of the evening two of the wives seemed to actually like her, and the other was at least being cordial.

When we got back to our suite I complimented Zamira; "You were a wonderful hostess; I hope that it wasn't too unpleasant for you."

"It was fun playing Selma Hayek," she giggled as she carefully hung up her dress and put her fake emerald necklace in a jewelry bag. "Now about your need to put your cock someplace wet, snug, and warm..."

I again went to sleep exhausted but completely satisfied, with Zamira's head on my shoulder.

After breakfast the next morning I gave Zamira the equivalent of $500 US, half in pesos, the other half in convertible pesos. "Make sure that the wives have a good time today while I'm in my business meetings; for two of them it is their first trip to Havana."

Zamira's eyes got big -- she stuffed the money into a new clutch that I had brought with me from Ottawa, gave me a memorable kiss, and took off like an excited school girl on a field trip.

My meetings with the Brazilian businessmen went very well, Zamira seemed to keep the wives adequately entertained and me well-fucked, and when the Brazilians left after four days and three nights Zamira and I went on a three day holiday.

Our holiday concluded, I bought Zamira a suitcase for her three new dresses and accessories, which she oh-so-carefully packed. We had a passionate kiss goodbye at the Havana airport before I flew back to Ottawa and she took a limo back to Varadero. "So, will we see each other again or am I just a sex toy?" she pouted after our kiss.

"In addition to the best sex toy in history you are also a wonderful hostess and helped my business greatly this trip. It's only fair -- now that it's getting warm in Ottawa -- that I have you visit me there. Get a visa," I grinned as I stuffed hundreds of dollars' worth of convertible pesos into her bra.

"You bastard," she giggled, stuck out her tongue, and then pretended to storm off, although she turned and blew a kiss goodbye after she got about twenty meters away.

Since money can easily grease the skids for securing tourist visas in Cuba, it was only two weeks later that Zamira visited me in Ottawa. Obviously never having traveled outside of Cuba before, she was wide-eyed when she got to Canada. I was surprised when she greeted me in English, and spoke more English than I had ever heard her before.

"How did your English improve so much?" I asked.

"After I met you I started English classes -- five nights a week," she beamed. "My instructor says that I learn quickly. This is the first time that I've tried to speak mostly English with you," she said. Although her Spanish accent was thick, her words were understandable. We spoke mostly English during her week visit. I made sure that she was busy during the four days that I had to work, she accompanied me to three business dinners, and the rest of the time I took her around, showed her the sights, and -- fucked her brains out!

************

Things moved fairly quickly between Zamira and I after her first trip to Canada. She acted as my hostess during two more business trips to Cuba to meet with South American customers or partners. During these trips it was obvious to her that I spoke fluent Spanish; she probably was perplexed as to why I pretended that my Spanish was not too good during previous meetings with her, but she never said anything about it.

On Zamira's second trip to Ottawa (on a tourist visa), after an animal sex session as we lay sweating in bed I pulled some documents and a ring with an enormous stone out of my bedside table.

"Zamira -- I have here three documents and a token," I said as she lay on her side resting her head on one hand and with her elongated nipples glistening with perspiration in the moonlight beaming through the skylight in the master bedroom of my mansion. This was undoubtedly not the most romantic way to approach this subject, but it was very practical.

The first document that I handed her, written in both English and French, was entitled "Canadian Marriage Application," filled out with her and my names and indicating a date for the marriage of three days hence. I had a sheet attached to it that translated the relevant parts into Spanish, although she was learning English so fast that for this relatively simple document she might not have needed that.