Hamilton Factory Supervisor
"She supervises the night shift at a Hamilton steel factory—a thick ebony Somali widow who commands men twice her size. When he starts working under her, she shows him industrial strength. Some lessons happen off the floor."
Dofasco's night shift runs on Yasmin's command.
Thirty years in steel. She started sweeping floors, now she runs the line. The only Somali woman supervisor in the plant's history.
I'm the new hire.
"Listen and learn." She hands me safety gear. Fifty-five years old. Two hundred and fifty pounds of industrial authority. Ebony skin, hard hat, the presence of someone who's earned every inch of respect. "This job will kill you if you're stupid."
"I'm not stupid."
"We'll see."
She watches everything.
Every move I make, every shortcut I consider. Her eyes miss nothing.
"You're sloppy," she tells me after a week.
"I'm learning."
"Learn faster." She demonstrates proper technique. "Like this. Feel the rhythm of the machine."
"You make it look easy."
"Thirty years of practice." She steps back. "Now you."
I work hard to impress her.
Extra shifts, extra attention, extra everything. She notices.
"You're trying too hard," she says one night.
"I want to be good."
"Good takes time. You're burning out to prove something." She studies me. "What are you proving?"
"That I belong here."
"You don't need to prove that to me." Her voice softens. "You need to prove it to yourself."
"My husband worked this factory."
We're in the break room. Night shift crawls on.
"Started the same year I did. Died on the floor—2011. Heart attack." She stares at her coffee. "I've been running his shift ever since."
"That's incredible."
"That's survival." She looks at me. "You remind me of him. Young, eager, trying to impress."
"Did you impress him?"
"Eventually." She almost smiles. "We married after five years. Twenty-three years together before he died."
"And since then?"
"Work. Just work."
"Come to my office."
It's 3 AM. The factory hums around us.
"I've watched you for three months. You're good. Better than good." She locks the door. "And I'm tired of pretending I don't notice more than your work."
"What else do you notice?"
"That you look at me. Really look." Her voice catches. "No one has looked at me since he died."
"I see you."
"Then see this."
She removes her hard hat. Unzips her coveralls.
I worship the supervisor.
In her office overlooking the factory floor. Her body is industrial strength—ebony curves, heavy breasts, powerful belly.
"Thirteen years—" She gasps as I undress her. "I've run this shift—"
"Tonight you're off duty."
I lay her on her desk.
Where she plans production schedules. Her body is the most important project.
I spread her thick thighs.
Work her to perfection.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—thirteen years of supervision cracking. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I process her pleasure until she's satisfied. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—forge inside me—"
I strip. She watches with those boss's eyes.
"Subhanallah—"
"Heavy duty."
I push inside the supervisor.
She screams.
"So full—" Her powerful legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I give her the full shift.
Her massive body shakes. The factory rumbles below. She comes twice more.
"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Complete the pour—"
I release molten inside her.
We lie on her desk.
"Shift's almost over," she murmurs.
"Best shift I've ever worked."
"Haa." She laughs. "Insubordinate. I like it."
One Year Later
I got promoted.
She's still my supervisor. In more ways than one.
"Macaan," she moans in her office. "My best worker."
The supervisor who commands respect.
The woman who commands my heart.
Industrial love.