The Halal Butcher
"She runs the halal butcher shop on Lake Street. The thick widow slices hilib (meat) with expert precision. When he comes for a special cut after closing, she shows him what else she knows how to handle with skilled hands."
Saido's Halal Meats has been on Lake Street for twenty years.
The best hilib in Minneapolis. Every Somali family shops here for Eid, for weddings, for the weekly dinner that brings everyone home.
Saido runs it herself.
Fifty-six years old. A widow—her husband taught her the trade before cancer took him. Now she wields the cleaver, runs the shop, employs six young Somali men who do the heavy lifting.
She's thick.
Two hundred and fifty pounds of butcher. Arms strong from twenty years of cutting meat. Wide hips that fill the space behind the counter. Heavy breasts beneath her bloodstained apron.
I've been shopping here my whole life.
She's been watching me grow up.
Today I come at closing time.
"Warya!" She looks up from cleaning. "We're closed."
"I need a special cut. For my mother's birthday dinner."
"Your mother's birthday was last month."
I smile.
"Fine. I just wanted to see you."
She sets down her rag.
"Wallahi, don't joke."
"I'm not joking."
I've been building to this for weeks. The extra visits. The lingering conversations. The way her eyes follow me when she thinks I'm not looking.
"You're young enough to be my son," she says.
"You're not my mother."
"Xaaraan—"
"Everything worth having." I step behind the counter. "When did you last have someone who wasn't here to buy meat?"
She's quiet for a long moment.
"Fifteen years," she finally says. "Since Mustafa died. This shop is all I have."
"That's not enough."
"No." Her voice breaks. "It's not."
I lock the front door.
She undresses in the back room.
Where the meat hangs. Where the knives are sharpened. Where twenty years of hard work have sculpted her body.
"I smell like blood and fat," she says. "I'm not—"
"You're perfect."
Heavy breasts. Soft belly. Wide hips. Arms thick with muscle.
I push her against the cold steel table.
I worship the butcher.
My mouth traces her body—every callus, every scar.
"No one has—" She gasps as I kneel before her. "Mustafa never—"
I bury my face between her thick thighs.
She screams.
In the back room. With the meat hanging around us.
"ILAAHAY!" Her hands grab my hair. "Fifteen years—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. She tastes like salt and hard work.
"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 wraps her strong hand around me. "Mustafa was—nothing—"
"I'm not here to compare."
"No." She strokes me with butcher's grip. "You're here to satisfy."
I push her onto the steel table.
I spread her thick thighs.
The table is cold. She doesn't care.
"Ready?"
"Haa."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
Her walls grip me—tight, wet, fifteen years tight.
"Alla—so big—you're filling me—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck the halal butcher.
On her steel table. Where she's cut a thousand animals. Her massive body bounces beneath me.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her strong legs around me. "Give me everything—"
I pound her.
The table shakes. The meat swings on its hooks. She screams and screams.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood Saido.
Fill her where fifteen years of emptiness lived. She moans as she feels it.
We lie tangled on the cold steel, gasping.
"Macaan," she breathes. "Best customer I've ever had."
"I'll need regular deliveries."
"After hours?"
"Always after hours."
She laughs—genuine, free.
"The shop closes at seven. Be here at seven-fifteen."
One Year Later
I'm still her best customer.
I come for hilib during business hours. I come for something else after.
"Macaan," she moans, as I take her in the back room. "My favorite cut."
The halal butcher knows how to handle meat.
She handles me even better.