The Khat Connection
"Khat—or jaad—is the leaf Somali men chew at social gatherings. She runs the underground supply in Minneapolis, a thick widow whose late husband started the business. When he becomes a regular customer, she offers him a taste of something more potent."
The jaad arrives on Wednesdays.
Fresh from Kenya, smuggled past customs, distributed through a network that every Somali man in Minneapolis knows but no one talks about. The leaves that keep the mafresh gatherings going, where men chew and talk and pretend they're back home.
The woman who runs it is named Luul.
Forty-eight years old. A widow—her husband built the network before a heart attack took him. Now she controls the supply, the distribution, the money.
She's thick.
Two hundred and thirty pounds of underground entrepreneur. Wide hips. Heavy breasts. Sharp eyes that count money faster than any bank machine.
I became a customer six months ago.
Tonight, I'm at her apartment for a private pickup.
Her place is nicer than expected.
Penthouse in a Cedar-Riverside high-rise. The money clearly flows.
"Soo gal," she says, letting me in. "Your order is ready."
"Mahadsnid."
"You're different from my other customers." She leads me to the living room. "You don't chew at the mafresh. You take it home."
"I like privacy."
"So do I." She gestures to a couch. "Sit. I have a proposition."
I sit.
She sits beside me.
Too close.
"My husband was in this business for twenty years," she says. "I learned everything from him. The suppliers. The customs routes. The distribution."
"Impressive."
"What I didn't learn was how to be alone." She turns to face me. "Three years since he died. Three years of running this network, surrounded by men who want my business but not me."
"What do they want?"
"The connections. The money. They think a fat old widow is just a placeholder." She laughs bitterly. "They don't see me."
"I see you."
"Wallahi?"
"You're brilliant. Dangerous. Beautiful." I meet her eyes. "And I've been finding excuses to order more than I need just to see you."
She stills.
"Warya—"
"I don't want your business. I want you."
She kisses me.
Sudden. Desperate. Three years of loneliness crashing against my lips.
"This is dangerous," she gasps. "I have enemies. People who would use any weakness—"
"Then this stays between us."
"Xaaraan—"
"Everything in your business is already xaaraan." I grip her hips. "What's one more sin?"
She laughs despite herself.
"Fair point."
She pulls me toward the bedroom.
Her bedroom is lavish.
King-size bed. Expensive sheets. The profits of an underground empire.
She undresses quickly—a businesswoman used to efficiency.
"I'm not young," she says. "Not thin. Not what men want."
"You're exactly what I want."
Heavy breasts. Soft belly. Wide hips. The body of a queen of the underground.
I push her onto the expensive sheets.
I worship the jaad queen.
My mouth traces her body—every curve that commands an empire.
"No one has—" She gasps as I spread her thighs. "Since my husband—"
I bury my face between her thighs.
She screams.
"ILAAHAY!" Her hands grab my hair. "Three years—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. She tastes like power.
"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 hand around me. "My husband was—nothing—"
"I'm not here for comparison."
"No." She strokes me. "You're here for business. And this is the best deal I've ever made."
I push her onto her back.
I spread her thick thighs.
Position myself.
"Ready?"
"Make it worth my time."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
Her walls grip me—tight, wet, three years tight.
"Alla—so big—you're filling me—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck the underground queen.
On her expensive sheets. In her penthouse. Her massive body bounces beneath me.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me. "Give me everything—"
I pound her.
The bed slams against the wall. She screams and screams.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—fill me—"
I let go.
I flood the khat kingpin.
Fill her where three years of emptiness lived. She moans as she feels it.
We lie tangled on the expensive sheets, gasping.
"Macaan," she breathes. "Better than any jaad high."
"Same time next week?"
"No." She pulls me for a kiss. "Every night. Move in."
"Won't people talk?"
"They talk anyway. Let them think you're my bodyguard." She smiles dangerously. "They won't be entirely wrong."
One Year Later
I live in the penthouse now.
The network thinks I'm security. The customers think I'm muscle.
Only Luul knows what I really am.
"Macaan," she moans, as I take her. "My best investment."
She smuggles leaves from Kenya.
I smuggle myself into her bed every night.
Different merchandise.
Same satisfaction.