The Madrasa Mother
"She's the head of the PTA at the Somali madrasa—a thick widow who organizes everything. When he volunteers to help with the fundraiser, she shows him how she thanks dedicated helpers. Some gratitude is best expressed behind closed doors."
Hodan runs the madrasa like a general.
Every event, every fundraiser, every decision flows through her. Fifty years old. A widow. Her husband founded the Islamic school before cancer took him. Now she carries his legacy.
She's thick.
Two hundred and forty pounds of community authority. Wide hips. Heavy breasts. A presence that commands respect.
I volunteer to help with the Eid fundraiser.
She assigns me to her personally.
We work late into the night.
Setting up tables. Organizing donations. The madrasa empty except for us.
"Mahadsnid," she says as we finish. "Most people promise to help, then disappear."
"I keep my promises."
"Rare quality." She studies me. "You're different from the other volunteers."
"How?"
"You actually work." She laughs. "And you don't avoid me like I'm contagious."
"Why would anyone avoid you?"
"Because I'm the widow. The authority figure. The fat old woman who runs everything." She sighs. "No one sees me anymore."
"I see you."
She goes still.
"My husband was the community's hero," she says quietly. "When he died, I became... furniture. Part of the building. Not a person."
"That's not fair."
"Life isn't fair." She meets my eyes. "But sometimes, it surprises us."
She crosses to me.
"Tell me to stop," she whispers.
I don't.
I kiss the head of the madrasa PTA.
In the school her husband built. Where their children learned the Quran.
"Xaaraan," she gasps.
"Haa."
"This place is sacred—"
"So are you."
I pull her toward the supply closet.
The closet is cramped.
Just room enough for us.
She undresses with shaking hands.
Heavy breasts. Soft belly. Wide hips.
"Four years," she says. "Four years since he died. Since anyone—"
"Not anymore."
I worship her among the school supplies.
My mouth traces her body—every curve that's been invisible too long.
"No one has—" She gasps as I kneel. "Since my husband—"
I taste her.
She clamps a hand over her mouth.
"ILAAHAY!" Muffled screaming. "Four years—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. In her husband's school.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—ALLA—"
She explodes.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—please—"
I position myself against the supply shelves.
"Ready?"
"Haa."
I thrust inside.
She bites my shoulder to stay quiet.
"Alla—so big—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck the madrasa mother.
In the supply closet. Surrounded by prayer books and chalk.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me.
I pound her.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—"
I let go.
I flood Hodan.
In her husband's legacy. Where she's been alone for four years.
We collapse against the shelves.
"Macaan," she breathes. "Best volunteer I've ever had."
"More fundraisers to come."
"Many more." She kisses me. "And I'll need help with all of them."
One Year Later
I'm still the madrasa's best volunteer.
Setting up. Cleaning up. Everything.
And after everyone leaves—
"Macaan," she moans. "My dedicated helper."
Some service is sacred.
Some service is xaaraan.
I serve both ways.