Djibouti Shipping Agent
"She clears cargo through Djibouti's port—a thick ebony widow who knows every regulation. When he arrives with a complicated shipment, she offers expertise. Some clearance is very thorough."
Djibouti's port never stops.
The gateway to Ethiopia, the door to the world. Zahra clears cargo—any cargo, any complication. Her agency has solved the impossible for twenty years.
I arrive with a complicated shipment.
"American?" She reviews my documents. Fifty-three years old. Two hundred and forty pounds of customs expertise. Ebony skin, professional dress, the patience of someone who's seen every shipping disaster. "Medical equipment to Ethiopia?"
"Through the new corridor."
"Mashallah—complicated. But not impossible." She starts making calls. "Give me a week."
A week becomes three.
Complications, delays, solutions. She navigates all of it, meeting after meeting, call after call.
"How do you do this?" I ask.
"Twenty years of relationships." She files another form. "My husband started this agency. I perfected it."
"Where is he now?"
"Gone. Eleven years. Left me the agency and the problems."
"You solved every problem."
We're celebrating—the shipment finally cleared.
"Eleven years of solving everyone's problems." She raises her glass. "Never solving my own."
"What's your problem?"
"Loneliness." Direct, like everything about her. "Eleven years of competence. No one to share it with."
"Share it with me."
"My apartment. Tonight."
Overlooking the port she serves.
"You've been patient for three weeks," she says. "Respectful. Appreciative."
"You saved my shipment."
"I save everyone's shipment." She moves closer. "But no one saves me."
"Let me try."
I worship the shipping agent.
In her port-view apartment while Djibouti works below. Her body is the real cargo—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.
"Eleven years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Kow iyo toban—"
"Tonight we clear different cargo."
I lay her against the window.
The port she commands below. Her body is more impressive than any shipment.
I spread her thick thighs.
Begin the inspection.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—eleven years of customs expertise finally receiving personal attention. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I process her manifest until she's cleared. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—dock your cargo—"
I strip. She watches with those inspector's eyes.
"Subhanallah—heavy container."
"Priority freight."
I push inside the shipping agent.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I unload everything.
Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.
"Fill me—" She's begging. "Complete the manifest—"
I release inside her.
We lie overlooking her domain.
"Your shipment left today," she murmurs. "You could have left with it."
"I have more shipments coming."
"Wallahi?"
"Many more. Regular deliveries."
One Year Later
All my shipments run through Djibouti now.
Through Zahra.
"Macaan," she moans as another cargo clears. "My best client."
The agent who clears everything.
The woman who cleared my heart.
Manifested.