Brampton Trucking Dispatcher
"She dispatches trucks across Canada from Brampton—a thick ebony Somali widow who knows every route. When he starts driving for her company, she keeps him on the best hauls. Some routes lead back to her."
Somali Star Transport has fifty trucks on Canadian roads.
Hibo dispatches them all. She knows every highway, every weigh station, every shortcut from Halifax to Vancouver.
I need a driving job.
"Clean license?" She reviews my application. Fifty-two years old. Two hundred and forty-five pounds of logistics command. Ebony skin, headset perpetually on, eyes tracking three monitors at once.
"Ten years clean."
"Mashallah." She assigns me a rig. "You start tomorrow. Long haul to Edmonton."
She keeps me moving.
Good routes, fair pay, challenging enough to stay interesting. Over the radio, her voice guides me across the country.
"Weather in Sudbury. Take the 17 bypass."
"Mahadsnid, Hibo."
"Just doing my job."
But she remembers my name. With fifty drivers, that means something.
"You're my most reliable driver," she says when I'm in Brampton.
"You're my most reliable dispatcher."
"Waas." She waves dismissively. "I just read maps and talk on radios."
"You keep fifty families fed. That's more than maps."
She looks at me differently after that.
"My husband started this company."
We're in her office after hours. The trucks are parked, the radios quiet.
"Built it from one truck. I handled the books. Then he died—seven years ago—and I had to handle everything."
"You've done amazing."
"I've survived." She leans back. "Fifty trucks. Fifty families depending on me. No time for anything else."
"There's time now."
"For what?"
"For you."
"You're on the road so much."
She's avoiding my eyes.
"I wait for your call-ins. Your voice on the radio. It's the best part of my day."
"Hibo—"
"Seven years. Seven years of being the voice in the radio. Never being touched."
"I'm touching you now."
My hand finds hers.
I worship the dispatcher.
In her office that controls an empire. Her body is cargo I want to haul forever—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.
"Seven years—" She gasps as I undress her. "I've sent everyone—"
"Tonight you receive."
I lay her on her dispatch desk.
Among route maps and manifests. Her body is the ultimate destination.
I spread her thick thighs.
Navigate to her pleasure.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—seven years of dispatching others finally receiving. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I drive her to completion three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—deliver yourself—"
I strip. She watches with those all-seeing eyes.
"Subhanallah—"
"Full load."
I push inside the dispatcher.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I haul pleasure into her.
Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.
"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Complete the delivery—"
I unload inside her.
We lie on her dispatch desk.
"You have a run tomorrow," she murmurs.
"I'll be back."
"Wallahi?"
"Always."
One Year Later
I'm still driving.
But every run ends at her door.
"Macaan," she moans. "My favorite driver."
The dispatcher who sends everyone on journeys.
The woman I always journey back to.
Home base.