Sa’afia put her hands on her head when I opened the door. She did it quickly, startled and vaguely guilty, though I hadn’t told her to have her hands on her head. I stopped and looked at her. Sa’afia was silent. She didn’t turn her head, but goosebumps appeared on her shoulders and upper arms. There were indeed bruises on her ass, from last night’s sex.

With the bed-making and the dodging of Ana, I must have kept her waiting  for nearly half an hour. Sa’afia had been patient. I wanted to apologise and explain the delay. But the best way to show my desire for her was to demonstrate it, not speak it. And the apology would only make me feel better, not her.

It would define her time waiting as wasted time, which would be boring and insulting. The best thing I could do was act as if she’d been set a trial, a small test, and she’d passed.

Or maybe it’d be more fun if she’d almost passed. There was the way she’d started when I opened the door. I walked to her and took a handful of her hair. “I saw that,” I said. “I told you to wait ready for me.” On the word “ready” I’d smacked her bottom, twice. Then, still holding my handful of her hair, I kissed her.

She said, “I could have got dressed and gone home.”

“No, you couldn’t.” More kisses. “But I’m very happy to see you.”

Sa’afia moved closer. “I’m happy to see you. But you’re overdressed.”

“I’m dressed. You’re naked. I mark you. You get marked. I stand. You kneel.”

“Mmm-hmm. Yes, I like that.”

“No, I mean you kneel. Get down on your knees. Now.”