The Daycare Director
"She runs the Somali daycare where he drops off his sister's kids. The thick widow has been watching him for months. When he's late for pickup one day, she shows him special attention—the kind reserved for after hours and locked doors."
Little Suns Daycare is the best Somali childcare in Minneapolis.
Halal food. Somali language lessons. Islamic values. My sister sends her twins there every day while she works.
And I pick them up.
The director is named Basra.
Fifty-one years old. A widow—her husband died of diabetes seven years ago. She started the daycare with the life insurance money, built it into the most trusted name in Somali childcare.
She's thick.
Two hundred and forty pounds of maternal authority. Wide hips that fill her office chair. Heavy breasts beneath modest professional clothes. A round face that can comfort a crying child or terrify a delinquent parent.
I've been picking up the twins for six months.
She's been watching me.
Today I'm late.
Traffic. Work emergency. The usual excuses.
When I arrive, the daycare is dark. Only Basra's office light is on.
"Soo gal," she calls when I knock. "They're in the back room. Playing."
I find the twins. Help them pack their bags.
Then Basra appears in the doorway.
"Can we talk? In my office?"
I send the twins to the car. Lock them in with the heat running.
Follow her.
Her office is small.
Children's drawings on the walls. Photos of graduating students. A desk covered in paperwork.
"You're always late," she says.
"I'm sorry—"
"Don't apologize. Just explain." She sits. "Your sister works in St. Paul. You work downtown. Neither of you has time for these children."
"We're managing."
"Barely." She stands. Crosses to me. "I've been watching you. Six months. You're exhausted. Running on nothing."
"What's your point?"
"My point is that someone should take care of you." Her hand finds my chest. "The way you take care of everyone else."
"Basra—"
"Eddo." She corrects, then laughs. "No. Not Eddo. Not tonight."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean the children are in the car. The building is empty. And I haven't been touched in seven years."
She locks the office door.
"This is unprofessional," she says, reaching for her blouse. "I'm the daycare director. You're a family member of my clients."
"So?"
"So I don't care anymore." The blouse falls. "Seven years is too long. And you look at me like I'm still young. Still wanted."
"You are wanted."
"Wallahi?"
I answer by kissing her.
She undresses completely.
Heavy breasts sagging with seven years of loneliness. Soft belly. Wide hips. The body of a woman who's spent her life caring for others.
"I know I'm not—"
"You're everything."
I push her onto her office couch.
I worship the daycare director.
My mouth traces her body—every curve she's hidden behind professionalism.
"No one has—" She gasps as I spread her thighs. "My husband was the last—"
I bury my face in her pussy.
She screams.
In her office. In the daycare. Where children play every day.
"ILAAHAY!" Her hands grab my hair. "Seven years—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. Give her something she can't give herself.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—ALLA—"
She explodes.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—please—"
I strip.
Her eyes widen at my cock.
"Subhanallah." She reaches out. "My husband was—nothing—"
"I'm not your husband."
"No." She strokes me. "You're my late pickup. The best kind."
I push her onto the couch.
I spread her thick thighs.
Position myself.
"The children—"
"Are in the car. Locked. Safe." I meet her eyes. "Ready?"
"Haa."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
Her walls grip me—tight, wet, seven years tight.
"Alla—so big—you're filling me—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck the daycare director.
In her office. Surrounded by children's drawings. Her massive body bounces beneath me.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me. "Give me what I've been missing—"
I pound her.
The couch slides against the desk. She screams into her hand.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood Basra.
Fill her where seven years of emptiness lived. She moans as she feels it.
We lie tangled together, gasping.
"Macaan," she breathes. "Best late pickup ever."
"The twins are probably wondering."
"They're fine. Five more minutes." She strokes my face. "Come back tomorrow. After hours."
"My sister—"
"Can pick them up herself sometimes." She pulls me for a kiss. "Or you can keep being late. Our secret."
Six Months Later
I'm still picking up the twins.
Still late. Always late.
The office door locks. The children wait in the car.
"Macaan," Basra moans, as I take her. "My favorite family."
Little Suns Daycare teaches many things.
What happens after hours isn't in the curriculum.