The Dirac Shop | NEON LIT

"Warya, close the register and help Khadija with the alterations."

My aunt's voice cuts through the empty shop. It's seven PM on a Thursday, and Dirac Palace—the biggest Somali clothing store in Columbus—is finally winding down.

"Haa, Eddo," I reply, flipping the sign to CLOSED.

Aunt Hawa runs this place like a general runs an army. Thirty employees, three locations, and a monopoly on traditional Somali clothing from Cleveland to Cincinnati. Every Somali wedding, every aroos celebration, every Eid—the women come to Dirac Palace.

And Khadija does the alterations.

I find her in the back room, surrounded by fabric and half-finished diracs. She's bent over a sewing machine, the needle dancing through green silk, and she doesn't hear me enter.

I take a moment to watch.

Khadija is forty-seven years old. A widow—her husband died in a car accident six years ago, leaving her with three grown children and no income. My aunt hired her out of pity, but she turned out to be the best seamstress in Ohio.

She's also thick.

Wallahi, she's thick.

Wide hips that strain against her dress when she sits. Breasts that press against the fabric when she leans over the machine. A belly soft and round, the kind that Somali men secretly dream about. She wears hijab in the shop, but the cloth can't hide the curve of her jaw, the fullness of her lips.

"Warya—don't just stand there." She's noticed me. "Come help me with these hems."

"Haa, Khadija."

I sit beside her.

The night is about to get interesting.

My aunt leaves at eight.

"Lock up when you're done," she tells Khadija, tossing her the keys. "The Osman wedding order needs to be finished by morning."

"Inshallah, it will be done."

The door closes. We're alone.

Khadija works in silence for a few minutes. The sewing machine hums. I sort fabric, trying not to stare at the way her body moves when she reaches for scissors.

"Your aunt tells me you need traditional clothes," she says suddenly.

"What?"

"For your cousin's aroos. The wedding next month." She stops sewing, looks at me. "She says you don't own a proper macawis."

"I've never worn one."

"Ceeb—shameful." She clicks her tongue. "A Somali man should know how to dress. Come—I'll measure you."

"Now?"

"You see another time?" She stands, crosses to a cabinet, pulls out a measuring tape. "Take off your shirt."

"Khadija—"

"Aammus. I've measured a thousand men for their wedding clothes. You think I haven't seen a bare chest before?"

I pull my shirt over my head.

Her eyes widen—just for a second.

"You exercise," she observes.

"Gym every morning."

"Good. Somali women like rag with muscles." She circles behind me, the tape finding my shoulders. "Not like these skinny boys who play video games all day."

Her hands are warm through the tape.

Professional.

But not quite.

"Waist," she announces, wrapping the tape around my midsection.

Her fingers brush my skin. Linger.

"You're very fit," she murmurs. "Your wife will be lucky."

"I don't have a wife."

"No?" The tape slides lower. "A man your age, with this body? The girls must be chasing you."

"They chase. I don't let them catch me."

"Why not?"

"I'm waiting for something better."

She pauses. Looks up at me.

"Something better than young, pretty girls?"

"Something real."

The air between us changes.

"I should measure your inseam," she says. Her voice is different now. Rougher. "For the macawis to fit properly."

"Okay."

She kneels before me.

The measuring tape slides up the inside of my leg. Higher. Higher. Her hand follows, steadying the tape.

She reaches my thigh.

Stops.

"Ilaahay weyn," she breathes.

I'm hard. Unmistakably, impossibly hard. My cock strains against my jeans, and from her position, she can see every inch of it.

"Six years," she whispers. "Six years since a man touched me. Six years since I felt anything."

"Khadija—"

"They think I don't have needs because I'm old. Because I'm fat. Because I wear hijab and pray five times a day." She looks up at me with desperate eyes. "But I burn, warya. Every night, I burn."

"Show me."

She stands.

Her hands shake as she reaches for her hijab. She pulls it off—dark hair streaked with gray tumbling free. Then her dress, unzipping in the back, falling to the floor.

She wears plain cotton underneath. White bra straining to contain her massive breasts. White underwear stretched across wide hips.

"I know I'm not beautiful—"

"Take off the rest."

She obeys.

The bra falls. Her breasts spill free—heavy, sagging, nipples thick and dark. The underwear follows. Her belly hangs soft and round. Her thighs press together. Between them, a thick bush of dark hair covers her mound.

"Two hundred and forty pounds," she says. "My husband used to tell me I was too fat. That I should diet. That he was ashamed to be seen with me."

"Your husband was an idiot."

I close the distance between us.

I kiss her.

She gasps against my mouth—shocked, overwhelmed. My hands find her hips, pull her soft body against mine. She moans as she feels my hardness pressing against her belly.

"Warya—" She breaks the kiss. "We can't—your aunt—"

"Is gone." I grip her ass—each cheek overflowing my hands. "And you've been burning for six years. Let me put out the fire."

"Xaaraan—"

"Everything worth having is xaaraan."

I lift her onto the cutting table.

Fabric scatters. Scissors fall. I don't care. I kneel between her thick thighs and bury my face in her pussy.

She screams.

She tastes like honey.

Sweet and musky, the taste of a woman who hasn't been touched in too long. I lick her slowly—teasing her clit, tracing her folds. She grabs my hair, pulls me closer.

"Haa—haa—don't stop—"

I slide a finger inside her. She's tight—impossibly tight—and wet enough to drip down my hand. I add another finger, curl them upward, find the spot that makes her shake.

"No man has ever—" She's gasping. "My husband never—"

"Your husband didn't know what he had."

I suck her clit into my mouth.

She comes.

Her thighs clamp around my head. Her back arches off the table. She screams something in Somali—old words, village words—and floods my face with her release.

I don't stop.

I lick her through it, lick her until she's begging me to stop, until she's too sensitive to take any more.

"Jooji—enough—" She pulls me up. "I need you inside me. Now."

I stand between her thighs.

My cock springs free when I undo my jeans. She stares at it, eyes wide.

"Subhanallah." She reaches out, wraps her hand around me. "So big. My husband was half this size."

"Forget your husband."

"I already have."

I push inside her.

She screams.

Her walls stretch around me, tight and hot and impossibly wet. She grabs my shoulders, nails digging in, as I slide deeper.

"Alla—you're filling me—dhammaan—completely—"

I bottom out. All of me inside her. Her soft belly pressing against mine.

Then I start to move.

Slow at first. Letting her adjust. But she wraps her legs around me, pulls me deeper, demands more.

"Dhakhso—faster—" She's clawing at my back. "I've waited six years—don't be gentle—"

I fuck her on the cutting table.

Fabric tears beneath us. The table rocks against the wall. She throws her head back and wails—a sound that echoes through the empty shop.

"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Coming again—ILAAHAY—"

Her pussy clamps down. She convulses beneath me, her whole body shaking. But I don't stop. I fuck her through it, fuck her until she's speaking in tongues.

"Inside me—" She's barely coherent. "Ku shub—fill me up—"

I let go.

I come inside the seamstress.

Flood her where her husband never satisfied her. She moans as she feels it—hot and thick, filling her womb.

We stay like that for a long moment. Connected. Breathing.

"The Osman wedding order," she finally says.

"What about it?"

"We should probably finish it." But she doesn't move. Her hand traces my chest. "Or..."

"Or?"

"Or we can do that again." She pulls me down for a kiss. "The order can wait until morning."

"What about my aunt?"

"Your aunt doesn't need to know everything." She shifts, wrapping her legs tighter. "Stay inside me. I'm not done burning."

I stay.

Three Hours Later

The shop is a disaster.

Fabric everywhere. Scissors on the floor. The cutting table pushed three feet from the wall. And Khadija—bent over the sewing machine, her dress hiked up around her waist, moaning as I take her from behind.

"Harder—" She pushes back against me. "I can take it—"

I grip her wide hips and slam into her. She screams, her hands scattering the silk she was working on.

We've done it four times now. The cutting table. The dressing room. Against the rack of finished diracs. And now here, bent over her sewing machine like something from the videos she confessed to watching alone at night.

"Coming—" She's shaking. "Don't stop—wallahi, don't stop—"

I reach around. Find her clit. Circle it while I thrust.

She shatters.

Falls forward onto the machine, her whole body convulsing. I follow her over, filling her for the fourth time tonight.

We clean up before dawn.

Reorganize the fabric. Fix the cutting table. Finish the Osman wedding order with thirty minutes to spare. By the time my aunt arrives, the shop looks pristine.

"Mashallah," she says, examining the completed diracs. "You two work well together."

"We've developed a rhythm," Khadija replies, not looking at me.

"Good, good. Khadija, I need you to stay late again tomorrow. The Hassan family just placed an order."

"I'll stay."

"And you—" My aunt points at me. "Help her. You're learning the business."

"Haa, Eddo."

She bustles off to the front of the shop.

Khadija catches my eye. A small smile plays on her lips.

"Same time tomorrow?" she murmurs.

"Same time every night."

"Xaaraan," she whispers.

"The best kind."

She turns back to her sewing machine.

But I see her smile widen.

Some alterations, it turns out, can't be measured with a tape.