I pushed Sa’afia so she tumbled back, falling on pillows, her eyes still on me. Air rushed out where she landed. She put her arms above her head and said, “whoo.” 

But if she stretches, the crease disappears.

I said, “You didn’t want to hear about your belly button before. Too late to ask now. Anyway, it was that crease I liked. And it’s gone.” I kissed where it used to be.

Then I kissed lower. Sa’afia sighed, after a while, and rested her hand on the back of my head. She was wet, and she pushed her cunt into my face and wriggled until she was comfortable. She felt it was important that I had access. Tongue access, lip access, tip of my nose access.

Such a helpful girl.

A minute or two later she rubbed her inner thighs against the stubble on my face, as affection and because she liked the roughness.

The hand on the back of my head pressed down, and then toyed with my hair and then ceased to do anything coherent. She was breathing hard. 

If I pinched her nipples, I knew, she would come. She smelled ready, and there was an edge, a sense of precipice, to her breathing. She scratched her thighs on my face. I liked her thighs. I was in a good place. Then I considered the way she was using my face to hurt herself. I thought about that for a second. I didn’t pinch her nipples.