Houston Shipping Clerk
"She handles shipping containers at the Port of Houston—a thick ebony divorced Somali woman who sends cargo worldwide. When he needs to ship belongings to Somalia, she handles it personally. Some packages require special handling."
The Port of Houston processes millions of containers yearly.
Farah works the international desk—specifically, shipments to East Africa. She's the one you see when you want to send things home.
I need to ship my grandmother's belongings.
"To Mogadishu?" She looks at my list. Fifty-three years old. Two hundred and fifty pounds of logistics expertise. Ebony skin, office clothes, the efficiency of someone who moves the world. "Some of these items will need special clearance."
"She passed recently. I'm sending her things to relatives."
"Innaa lillaahi..." Her face softens. "Let me see what I can do."
She works miracles.
Cuts through red tape, finds faster routes, negotiates better rates. Within a week, my grandmother's belongings are on a ship to Somalia.
"Mahadsnid—thank you. I don't know how to repay you."
"Bring me coffee tomorrow." She smiles. "Good coffee. Not the break room garbage."
I bring her the best coffee in Houston.
Coffee becomes a ritual.
Every morning before work, I stop by her office. We talk about shipping, about Somalia, about the strange paths that brought us both to Texas.
"You're not from Houston originally," she says one day.
"Minneapolis. Relocated for work."
"Missing home?"
"Missing something." I look at her. "Finding something else."
"Ilaahay." She shakes her head. "You're persistent."
"I'm interested."
"In shipping?"
"In you."
"My husband left me for a younger woman."
We're in her office after hours. The port hums outside.
"Nine years ago. Said I was too focused on work. Too old. Too fat." She straightens papers that don't need straightening. "So I became more focused on work. If that's all I am, might as well be the best."
"That's not all you are."
"What else am I?"
"A woman who deserves to be seen. Not just useful."
"No one sees me. They see the woman who ships things. Who solves problems. Who makes cargo disappear across oceans."
"I see you."
"Come to the container yard."
It's night. The port is quiet except for distant machinery.
"I want to show you something."
She leads me through rows of shipping containers until we reach one—doors open, interior lit.
"My office. The real one. Where I come to think."
Inside, she's made it comfortable. A chair, a rug, photos of Somalia.
"Nine years of building walls," she says. "Shipping everyone else's memories home. Never receiving anything myself."
"Let me send you something."
"What?"
"Pleasure. Care. Whatever you need."
I worship the shipping clerk.
In her secret container. Her body is cargo I handle with care—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.
"Nine years—" She gasps as I undress her. "Nothing imported—nothing exported—"
"Tonight we trade."
I lay her on the container floor.
The port sounds distant. Her body is a vessel I want to explore.
I spread her thick thighs.
Navigate her pleasure.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—the container echoes. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I ship her to ecstasy three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—deliver yourself—"
I strip. She watches with those logistics eyes.
"Subhanallah—express shipping."
"Priority handling."
I push inside the shipping clerk.
She screams.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I deliver everything.
Her massive body shakes in the container. She comes twice more.
"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Complete the delivery—"
I release inside her.
We lie in the shipping container.
"This is insane," she murmurs.
"This is perfect."
"Haa." She laughs. "Perfect insanity."
One Year Later
My grandmother's belongings reached Somalia safely.
And Farah receives her own shipments now.
"Macaan," she moans. "My most valuable cargo."
The shipping clerk who moves the world.
The woman who finally received something for herself.
Priority delivery.