Dugsi Dilemma
"He volunteers at the local dugsi—the Somali Quran school—to help with administration. The thick divorced teacher who runs the evening classes has been eyeing him for months. One night, after the children leave, she teaches him a lesson not found in any holy book."
The dugsi empties at eight PM.
The last of the children collect their Qurans, kiss them respectfully, and run off to their waiting parents. The small classroom—a converted basement in the community center—falls quiet except for the hum of fluorescent lights.
I stack chairs while Macallin Fardowsa erases the whiteboard.
"Mahadsnid for your help," she says without turning. "The children are so many now. I couldn't manage without you."
"It's nothing, Macallimad." Teacher. The respectful term.
"How many times do I tell you?" She turns, smiling. "Call me Fardowsa. You're not a child."
No.
I'm definitely not a child.
And neither is she.
Fardowsa is forty-eight years old—divorced, no children, dedicated entirely to teaching Quran to the Somali youth of Minneapolis. She's pious in public, always in full hijab, always dressed modestly.
But even modesty can't hide everything.
She's thick.
Two hundred and forty pounds of woman beneath those loose abayas. Wide hips that sway when she walks. Heavy breasts that strain against the fabric when she bends over students' work. A round, pretty face that belongs on a woman half her age.
I've been volunteering here for six months.
I've been watching her for six months.
"Stay for tea," she says.
It's not a question.
"Haa, Fardowsa."
She disappears into the small kitchen attached to the classroom. I hear water boiling, cups clinking. When she returns, she's carrying a tray with two small glasses of shaah.
"Sit." She gestures to the children's chairs, too small for adults.
We sit across from each other, knees almost touching in the cramped space.
"You're a good man," she says suddenly. "Volunteering here. Helping the children. Most young Somali men—they don't care about dugsi anymore."
"I had a good teacher when I was young."
"Who?"
"You."
She stills.
"You remember?"
"I was ten. You taught me surah Al-Fatiha. I had trouble with the tajweed—the pronunciation—and you stayed late to help me." I meet her eyes. "I've never forgotten."
"Subhanallah." She sets down her tea. "That was... fifteen years ago. You were so small."
"I'm not small anymore."
"No." Her eyes trace my body—shoulders, chest, arms. "You're not."
The air thickens.
"My husband said I was too fat," she says abruptly.
"What?"
"When he divorced me. Twelve years ago. He said I was too fat, too boring, too... cold." She laughs bitterly. "Cold. Because I wanted to finish before he did. Because I asked for more than two minutes."
"Fardowsa—"
"He married a twenty-year-old the next month. Left me with nothing but this—" She gestures at the classroom. "Teaching children who will grow up and forget me too."
"I didn't forget you."
"No." She looks at me. "You didn't."
She stands.
Crosses to the door.
Locks it.
"This is xaaraan," she says, turning to face me.
"I know."
"I teach children the Quran. I pray five times a day. I fast every Ramadan." She's walking toward me now. "And I've spent twelve years alone. Burning. Wondering what's wrong with me."
"Nothing is wrong with you."
"Then why doesn't anyone want me?" She stops in front of my chair. "Why am I alone in this basement while other women—prettier, thinner—find husbands?"
"Because Somali men are blind."
"And you?"
I stand.
Pull her against me.
"I see everything."
I kiss her.
She gasps against my mouth—shocked, overwhelmed. Twelve years of celibacy trembling in her body. Then she melts.
Her hands grip my shirt. Her mouth opens to mine. She moans as she feels my hardness pressing against her belly through all those layers.
"Alla—" She breaks the kiss. "We can't—not here—the dugsi—"
"The children are gone." I find the edge of her abaya. "It's just us."
"But Allah—"
"Isn't watching right now."
I pull the abaya over her head.
Underneath, she wears a simple dress. Beneath that, plain cotton underwear straining to contain her.
"I'm fat," she whispers as I unzip her dress. "I'm old. I'm—"
"Perfect."
The dress falls.
I unhook her bra. Her breasts spill free—massive, heavy, brown flesh capped with thick dark nipples. I pull down her panties. Her belly cascades in soft waves. Her thighs are thick and warm. Between them, dark curls cover her mound.
"Wallahi, I'm not—"
I drop to my knees.
She screams when my tongue finds her.
"ILAAHAY—no one has ever—my husband never—"
I lick her slowly. Worship her. Twelve years she's been alone, and I taste every one of them—the loneliness, the hunger, the desperate need.
"Haa—haa—don't stop—ha joogin—"
I slide two fingers inside her. She's tight—so tight—and soaking wet. I curl them, find her spot.
"Coming—" She grabs my hair. "In the dugsi—on my student—ALLA—"
She explodes.
Her thighs clamp around my head. She screams—loud enough that I'm grateful the walls are thick. I drink her down, every drop.
I give her another one.
And another.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at my shoulders. "I need you inside me—"
I stand.
Strip.
Her eyes widen at my cock.
"Subhanallah." She wraps her hand around me. "My husband was—nothing—"
"Stop talking about your husband."
"Haa." She strokes me. "Make me forget him."
I push her back onto the teacher's desk.
She gasps as her back hits wood.
The same desk where she teaches children the holy Quran. The same desk where she's spent twelve years being pious and proper.
I spread her thick thighs.
Position myself at her entrance.
"Say my name."
"Maxamed—"
I thrust inside.
She screams.
Her walls stretch around me, tight and hot and wet. Twelve years of nothing make her grip me like a fist.
"Alla—you're filling me—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
Slow at first. But she wraps her legs around me, pulls me deeper.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She's clawing at my back. "I've waited twelve years—don't be gentle—"
I fuck the Quran teacher on her desk.
Her massive body bounces beneath me. Her breasts roll with every thrust. She screams—Somali words, Arabic prayers, my name over and over.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Coming on my student's gus—"
She shatters.
Her pussy clamps down. She convulses beneath me. But I don't stop. I fuck her through it, fuck her until she's coming again.
"Inside me—" She's begging. "Ku shub gudaha—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood the macallin.
Pump her full on the desk where she teaches the holy book. She moans as she feels it—hot and thick, filling her where her husband never satisfied her.
We lie tangled on the desk.
Gasping. Her soft body beneath mine.
"This was xaaraan," she whispers.
"The best things are."
"What do we do now?"
"Now?" I kiss her forehead. "Now I volunteer more often. Help with the evening classes. Stay late to... help clean up."
"And this?"
"This happens every time." I pull her closer. "You've been alone too long, Fardowsa. Let me be here."
"Wallahi—you'd do that? For an old, fat teacher?"
"For the most beautiful woman I know."
She cries.
Then she kisses me.
Then she teaches me another lesson.
Six Months Later
I'm still volunteering at the dugsi.
The children love me. The parents trust me. The community sees a young man dedicated to his faith.
They don't see what happens after the children leave.
They don't see Fardowsa's abaya on the floor. They don't hear her screams as I take her on the teacher's desk. They don't know that the pious macallin spends her nights in sin.
"Macaan," she whispers one night, riding me in the darkened classroom. "My sweet student."
"I'm not your student anymore."
"No." She grinds down, taking me deeper. "You're my everything."
The dugsi keeps our secret.
Some lessons are too sacred to share.