The Suuq Seller | NEON LIT

The suuq smells like home.

Cardamom and cinnamon. Cumin and coriander. The scent of Somali spices filling the indoor market on Cedar Avenue, where grandmothers haggle and children run between stalls.

I come here every Saturday.

For the spices, I tell myself.

But mostly for her.

Her name is Amran. Fifty years old. A widow—her husband died of cancer three years ago, leaving her the spice stall they'd run together for two decades. She knows everything about every spice, every blend, every recipe.

She's also thick.

Two hundred and fifty pounds of Somali woman, dressed in a colorful dirac that barely contains her curves. Wide hips that strain against the fabric. Heavy breasts that sway when she reaches for jars on the high shelves. A round, pretty face that breaks into a smile whenever she sees me.

"Warya!" She waves me over. "I saved the best xawaash for you. Fresh ground this morning."

"Mahadsnid, Amran."

"Don't thank me. You're my best customer." She leans across the counter, her breasts pressing against the wood. "And my favorite."

I don't know if she flirts with everyone.

I don't care.

The Saturday routine is simple.

I browse. She recommends. We haggle—though she always wins—and I leave with bags of spices I don't really need.

But today is different.

"The suuq closes early today," she says. "Inventory. But I have some special blends in the back room. If you want to taste..."

"In the back room?"

"Private tastings." Her eyes meet mine. "For special customers."

I follow her.

The back room is small.

Shelves of spices. A small table. A couch that's seen better days.

She locks the door behind us.

"I've been watching you," she says. "Every Saturday. The way you look at me. The way you linger at my stall."

"Amran—"

"I'm fifty years old. I'm fat. I'm a widow." She crosses to me. "But I still have needs, warya. Needs that don't disappear just because my husband did."

"What needs?"

"Three years." She grips my shirt. "Three years of sleeping alone. Of burning. Of watching young men like you walk past my stall and wishing—"

"Wishing what?"

"That one of them would stay."

"I'll stay."

She kisses me.

Her mouth tastes like xawaash—spicy and warm. I grab her hips, pull her soft body against mine. She moans as she feels my hardness.

"Subhanallah—" She breaks the kiss. "You want me?"

"I've wanted you since the first Saturday."

"Macaan." She reaches for her zipper. "Let me show you what the suuq doesn't sell."

Her dirac falls.

Underneath, she wears plain cotton—functional, sensible, straining to contain her. I unclip her bra. Her breasts spill free—massive, hanging, nipples dark as coffee beans.

"Touch me." Her voice shakes. "Please."

I cup her breasts. Squeeze. She moans, head falling back.

"More—"

I suck a nipple into my mouth.

She gasps.

I worship her on the spice-room couch.

Her panties come off. Her belly is soft and round—years of sampling her own cooking written on her skin. Her thighs are thick and warm. Between them, dark curls glistening with wetness.

"Wallahi, I'm not—"

I bury my face between her thighs.

She screams.

"ILAAHAY—" Her hands grab my hair. "No one has—my husband never—"

I lick her slowly. Taste her—musky and sweet, like the spices that surround us. She bucks against my face, desperate sounds escaping her.

"Haa—haa—don't stop—ha joogin—"

I slide two fingers inside her. She's tight—three years tight—and soaking wet. I curl them upward.

"Coming—" She's shaking. "Three years—ALLA—"

She explodes.

Her thighs clamp around my head. She screams loud enough to be heard in the market. I don't stop.

I give her another one.

"Inside me—" She's pulling at my shoulders. "Ku soo gal—please—"

I stand.

Unbuckle my pants.

Her eyes widen at my cock.

"Weyn." She wraps her hand around me. "So big. My husband was—nothing—"

"I'm not your husband."

"Maya." She strokes me. "You're everything he wasn't."

I push her back on the couch.

I spread her thick thighs.

Position myself at her entrance.

"Tell me what you need."

"Adigaa," she breathes. "I need you. Fill me."

I thrust inside.

She screams.

Her walls stretch around me—tight, hot, wet. Three years of nothing make her grip me like she never wants to let go.

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

I start to move.

I fuck her in the back room of the suuq.

Surrounded by spices. The smell of cardamom and cinnamon mixing with the smell of sex. Her massive body bounces beneath me, breasts rolling, belly shaking.

"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me. "Harder—"

I pound her.

The couch groans. Jars rattle on the shelves. She screams with abandon—there's no one left in the market to hear.

"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Coming again—ku shub—"

She shatters.

Her pussy clamps down. I follow her over, flooding her where her husband never could.

We lie tangled on the couch.

Gasping. The smell of spices and sex filling the small room.

"Macaan," she whispers. "You're sweeter than xalwo."

"So are you."

"Come back next Saturday." She strokes my chest. "And every Saturday after."

"What about the suuq?"

"The suuq will still be here." She pulls me for a kiss. "And so will I. In the back room. Waiting for my best customer."

Three Months Later

I'm still her best customer.

Every Saturday, I browse the stall. Buy spices I don't need. Exchange small talk where anyone can hear.

Then the suuq closes.

And the back room opens.

The other vendors think Amran stays late for inventory.

They have no idea what kind of inventory she's taking.

"Xawaash," she moans every time, as I take her on the couch. Spice. "You're my favorite spice."

The suuq sells everything a Somali kitchen needs.

But what happens in the back room?

That's not for sale.

That's just for me.