At some point I wrapped my belt round and round Sa’afia’s wrists and held them tight, high above her head. Sa’afia stared up at me, unblinking, while we fucked, crashing through for what might be our last time. I couldn’t look away.
Sometimes Sa’afia screamed, still staring at me, wrenched by another orgasm. We’d lost track of hers. I was delaying. When I came we’d have finished, and I feared whatever would happen when we were finished.
It’d be prosaic. Eventually Sa’afia would get up. Usually, she’d try to wear a towel to the shower and I’d keep tugging it off her, telling her to carry the towel. Then we’d help dry each other, and we’d pull clothes onto our still-wet bodies, joking and embracing while we moved back to ordinary time. We might have a cup of tea, or discuss something, but eventually we’d go our separate ways. But when we did that this time, I’d be alone.
But Sa’afia lifted her legs, clasping me with her feet touching my hips. The sensations changed, and sugar surged within me. I cried out incoherent noises as I came in her, so intensely that it almost hurt. Then I lay on her, letting her take my weight, and we puffed like long distance runners.
She held me. I wanted to tell her, again, that I loved her and that she should stay with me. Anything else would just be silly. But I knew it would do no good and only spoil the memory. Sa’afia wasn’t my girl any more. She was the fiancée of some Samoan Minister, who offered her more than I did and who was possibly a better man and certainly a luckier one than I was.
So I lay, still unwilling to move, while we sometimes kissed and my cock ticked slowly soft inside her.