The Djibouti Stopover
"A layover in Djibouti puts him in a hotel with a thick Somali-French businesswoman. She speaks French, Arabic, and Somali—and she teaches him phrases in all three while showing him how African nights are spent."
The flight to Mogadishu is delayed twelve hours.
Mechanical problems. Weather. The usual African airline chaos. They put us up in a Djibouti hotel—the Sheraton, nice enough—and tell us to wait.
I'm at the bar when she sits down.
"Un whisky, s'il vous plaît."
French. She speaks French.
But she's Somali. I can tell by the features—high cheekbones, dark skin, that particular beauty of the Horn of Africa.
She catches me looking.
"Vous êtes Somalien?" Are you Somali?
"Haa—yes. American Somali."
She switches to English. Perfect, with a French accent.
"I'm Amina. Djibouti-born, Paris-raised." She extends a hand. "What brings you through?"
"Family visit. Mogadishu. You?"
"Business. I consult for the port authority." She takes her whisky when it arrives. "The joys of international development."
She's thick.
Even in her business suit, I can see it. Wide hips that strain the fabric. Heavy breasts beneath her blouse. A soft body that speaks to good living—Parisian pastries, perhaps, or French wine.
"Join me," she says. It's not a question.
I join her.
We talk for hours.
About Djibouti—the crossroads of Africa and Arabia. About Paris—where she went to university and never quite left. About being Somali in the diaspora, always caught between worlds.
The bar empties. The night deepens.
"I hate hotel rooms," she says. "So lonely. So empty."
"Mine's the same."
"Perhaps we should combine them." She finishes her whisky. "For efficiency."
"What kind of efficiency?"
"L'efficacité du désir." The efficiency of desire. She stands. "My room is 1204. Come in ten minutes. Or don't."
She walks away.
I count to ten.
Then I follow.
Her room is identical to mine.
King bed. Neutral furniture. The anonymity of international business travel.
She's waiting by the window, the lights of Djibouti City glittering behind her.
"You came."
"You're not surprised."
"Non." She crosses to me. "I saw how you looked at me at the bar."
"How did I look?"
"Like you wanted to unwrap me." Her hands find my chest. "Like all that business attire was just packaging."
"Isn't it?"
"Oui." She starts unbuttoning her blouse. "Let me show you what's inside."
Her body is Franco-Somali perfection.
Heavy breasts in black lace. Soft belly that speaks to croissants and café au lait. Wide hips, thick thighs. Two hundred and thirty pounds of international woman.
"Magnifique," I breathe.
"Mahadsnid." She mixes languages like she mixes cultures. "Now your turn."
I strip.
Her eyes widen at my cock.
"Mon Dieu." She wraps her hand around me. "The American Somalis grow them big, n'est-ce pas?"
"Would you like to find out how big?"
"Oui." She drops to her knees. "Montre-moi." Show me.
Her mouth is skilled.
French technique, perhaps. Or just years of experience. She takes me deep, swirling her tongue, moaning around my cock.
"C'est bon," she purrs. "So good."
"Better in bed."
"D'accord." She stands, leads me to the king-sized mattress. "Show me what American boys do."
I push her onto the sheets.
I worship the businesswoman.
My mouth traces her body. Her throat. Her breasts. Her belly.
"Oui—haa—yes—" She moans in three languages. "Don't stop—ne t'arrête pas—ha joogin—"
I find her pussy.
Lick.
She screams.
"MON DIEU!" Her thighs clamp around my head. "ILAAHAY! No one has ever—personne—"
I lick her slowly. French men clearly don't do this.
"Coming—je jouis—ALLA—"
She explodes.
I don't stop.
"Inside me—en moi—ku soo gal—" She's pulling at me, mixing languages desperately. "Please—s'il te plaît—"
I position myself between her thick thighs.
"Prête?" Ready?
"Haa!"
I thrust inside.
She screams in French.
In Somali.
In sounds that transcend language.
"So big—si grand—weyn—you're filling me—tu me remplis—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck the Djibouti businesswoman.
In an international hotel. Between continents. Between flights.
"Plus vite—dhakhso—faster—" She claws at my back. "Give me everything—tout—"
I pound her.
The bed slams against the wall. She screams in a babel of languages—French prayers, Somali curses, English profanity.
"Coming—je jouis—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—remplis-moi—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood the Franco-Somali consultant.
Fill her in a Djibouti hotel while our flights to different destinations wait.
We lie tangled together, gasping.
"Magnifique," she breathes. "Macaan."
"What time is your flight?"
"Demain matin. Tomorrow morning." She shifts, straddles me. "We have all night."
"And after?"
"I travel often. Paris. Djibouti. Dubai." Her hand finds my cock, already stirring. "Sometimes Minneapolis."
"Minneapolis?"
"Oui. The Somali community there—I have contracts." She guides me inside her again. "Perhaps I'll need a... local consultant."
"What kind of consulting?"
"Ce genre." This kind. She starts to move. "L'efficacité du désir."
Six Months Later
She visits Minneapolis quarterly.
Business meetings. Port authority contracts. The official reasons.
The unofficial reason is me.
"Macaan," she moans, as I take her in her hotel room. "Mon amour somalien." My Somali love.
She speaks three languages.
She screams in all of them.