Sa’afia was prepared to count “get your ass over here” as admiration, because she crawled towards me from the foot of the bed, pulled off the last of the covers and took my cock in her mouth. I put my hand on her head, holding gently since she wasn’t one of those submissive girls. I sighed comfortably.
Two hours’ sleep must have helped, but it was clear that church had made her feel good, in both the virtuous and cheerful senses. She took me deeper, and nodded her head on her hard mouthful, slowly and remorselessly. I don’t understand religion, but sometimes I benefit from it. Not because of that thought, I said, “Ah god.”
I was going to come very soon unless I stopped her. Sa’afia had gone to church dressed in my clothes, still groggy with our sex-induced sleep, presenting herself in white, sitting and kneeling and sitting again on command. With the tactile memory of my cock still in her. I strongly believed that I should never desire a woman for what she represents, but only for who she is. Anything else is insulting.
Well, I did desire her and like her for who she was. Still, that kneeling good girl in church, in white: that girl was kneeling and naked now, sucking my cock … That thought led quickly to another one: how long will it take me to recover when I come in her mouth? I reached under Sa’afia’s shoulders to take her breasts in my hands while she sucked me, and hoped that my unspoken enthusiasm for her breasts might help to overwrite whatever negative thing she had decided or been told about them. I decided that Sa’afia would want to stay to find out how long I’d take to recover, and I tightened my grip on her breasts and began to thrust more firmly, determinedly.
I said, at a critical moment, “Uh, Sa’afia, I -” But by then she knew I was about to come because I’d started. She took, swallowed and kept going, until my feet, shoulders and arms had all lifted off the bed and I could only make incoherent noises. She continued, making a fond noise you might make to a baby, until I lay back again and my cock had started to soften in her mouth.
One of my last thoughts before my autonomic responses took over had been in praise and thanks to the First Samoan Church of Los Angeles. I didn’t speak it aloud.