Sa’afia froze. Immobility is not affectionate. Then she hit my shoulder, hard, with her fist. She said, “you’re with me. Can’t you forget about fucking Ana for a fucking second?”
There’ll be more later today. But I’m out of time. Sorry.
Update: I’m still out of time. For now. Here’s a pic.
We lay together in Sa’afia’s bed. Sa’afia lay mostly on top of me, her legs straddling my right thigh. I’d rested my hand, in affection and something like ownership, on her bottom, cupping her and savouring the residual warmth and two hotter welts raised by the rod.
She’d stood, taken my hand and led me here and complained gravely that I was overdressed. I’d taken my clothes off, lain down and pulled her on top of me. For a while we were equals, in an affectionate fog.
`The rod was at the foot of the bed. Sa’afia had carried it with us, not because I’d told her to – I hadn’t – and she’d placed it within reach. It exuded promise and power. But for now we wanted to cuddle.
Sa’afia was telling me about her childhood, some of it spent in Los Angeles and some spent in Samoa. She’d been born in American Samoa, but her family home had been in the State of Samoa, in a village near Taga on Samoa’s second main island, Savai’i. This didn’t mean much to me at the time. I’d never been to any of the Polynesian islands. I took her word for it that it was a beautiful place.
Stupidly, I imagined some Gauguin-flavoured fantasy with a river pool and lots of girls naked as Sa’afia, washing their hair in the water and singing traditional songs. I had no idea what traditional songs would sound like. I imagined something wild and fluid, like a mermaid might sing in a movie. I hoped they’d sing to me.
But talk about family reminded me me of a duty. I said, “So Ana’s father. Does he live in Samoa, or does he live here? In LA?”
Her boyfriend turned up about then. He was in love with the world too, but not enough to want to hug me. He looked at me. He was twenty too.
He gave me a quizzical smile. He thought I was probably okay, but I was a complete stranger he’d first met with an armful of his girlfriend. Even young men in love and in love with the world are unlikely to be sure of that stranger.
I sort of disengaged his girl, gently and with compliments, and she headed back to him. I said, “It’s beautiful here. Have a great night, you two.”
“It is a very beautiful night. Where are you from?”
I told him, and said, “Take care. Take care of her. Eccies are great, aren’t they?”
The girl looked at me, open-mouthed. “How did you know I was on eccy?”
[The end. Back to the Probation Officer’s Tale tomorrow.]
But I was walking near the restored Old Bridge a little after one in the morning, the drink and drugs part of a Mostar night.The bridge was still crowded, lovers looking down into the river, some drunk tourists looking for whores, skinny old men with grey moustaches. They wear baggy trousers, the pants they wore when they were younger and bigger men.
And their hats are grey. Fedoras, I think, with black sweatbands. The men get skinnier as they get older. The women get fatter. There’s nothing wrong with that. I just don’t know why.
A beautiful girl emerged out of the crowd, dancing and walking towards me from the darkness. She looked at the mist shining round each of the bridge lamps, dandelion spheres of light. She was entranced by them. She was trying to dress like a scary goth, but she looked like a girl in her mother’s clothes. She was twenty, blonde, ridiculously pretty, sweet-faced and struck by the beauty of everything around her.
She veered my way and into my arms. I was wearing black pants with hose and a russet-red frock coat, in the manner of Van der Decken, the captain of The Flying Dutchman. I had my reasons, which seemed perfectly good at the time.* So I stood out a little, though though not quite as much as the lamp posts.
She said something questioning, which I didn’t have the language for, but I guessed she was asking permission to put her arms round me. Anyway, she did, and then leaned in, getting Cleopatra black eyeliner on russet silk. I hugged her back, keeping my hands well clear of her ass because I didn’t think this was driven by lust.
Not even though I was dressed as an eighteenth century Dutch sea-captain and had such fine legs. Maybe If she’d been a girl stowaway pretending to be a cabin boy, then she’d have been overcome by lust. I said, “Ah, you’re lovely.”
Because I’d spoken English she said, “lovely, lovely. Ahhhh. Beautiful.”
* I was looking for a girl wearing a hooped green crinoline dress and no knickers. I hoped she’d have some sort of thing going for romantically cursed members of the Dutch merchant marine. Mostar has everything. Sometimes.
Taking a break from the Probation Officer story.
I’m leaving Mostar this afternoon. It was a beautiful city once, before evil nutcases started killing people for evil and stupid ethnic and religious reasons. The bridge over the Neretva river was one of the most beautiful things in the city and for a hundred or so miles in any direction. So evil morons blew it up, with, I expect, a passionate sense of righteousness.
Every so often I’d be sitting in the sun of the new peaceful Mostar, having a rakia in some coffee shop. Rakia made of fermented fruit, and it will burn a couple of layers of the skin of your mouth or throat every time you have a sip. And leave claw marks all the way down the throat. So it’s wonderful. You can relax, eye off girls, and talk about not talking about politics with people who speak English.
But if you’ve in a shop and you look behind a hanging cloth, or you’re in a market and you happen to see behind a piece of three-ply wood that catches the wind, you’ll see bullet holes in the stone or the old wood. And you can only hope that whoever tried to kill someone there, just a few years ago, missed. But it takes away some of the summer cheer.
Écrasez l’Infâme. In particular, écrasez religion, all of it, including the supposedly harmless stuff that gives cover to the murderous stuff. And the ideologies that work like religion, like communism and fascism. Fuck them all. Fuck ethnic nationalism, too.
On the other hand, they’ve rebuilt the Old Bridge. Using as much of the original stone as possible. Hope, I suppose.
Sa’afia stayed on her knees, still working my cock when there was no more come, cleaning me and keeping my cock as firm as I could be, after coming into that comfortable, clinging place.
Sa’afia sucked and licked for about twenty minutes, while I slowly, pleasurably softened. Finally, though my cock was still a little fat and complacent, it lolled out of her mouth.
I leaned down and, my hands still in her hair, tilted her face up so she looked at me. Sa’afia wanted to please me, and she’d wanted to see if she could drive me, for a while, out of my own control.
She was smiling, and there was no doubt or need for reassurance in her face.
I kissed her forehead and the broad tip of her nose. I said, “I think – ” Then I said, “I don’t think anyone has ever – ” Then I kissed her again, and said “I’m keeping you.”
I didn’t really make any decisions. I’d assumed that I was going to break off and do other things before I came. I’d thought that while I striped her ass with that rod I’d stand where she could turn her head and watch my erection, and then feel it inside her, when her skin was still hot and hurting and I fucked her.
But then I felt the urgency of that sensation at the base of my spine, or somewhere deeper, made up of sugar and need. I dropped the rod and put both hands on Sa’afia’s head. The rod bounced and rebounded on the hard floor, but I’d forgotten it while it was still making its racket. I was supposed to growl something at her, threatening to punish her if she didn’t swallow every drop. But that had never been something that I really cared about, and anyway I didn’t have time.
Instead, looking down on the black shine of Sa’afia’s hair and the warm brown of her shoulders, my eyes wide as a cat’s at twilight, I made incoherent noises, gutteral at first but higher pitched with the rush into Sa’afia’s mouth.
Sa’afia coughed once, and then swallowed and kept swallowing.
I said, “good girl good girl good girl good girl,” over and over, while my body took over. I came in my Sa’afia. My? Well, perhaps she was.
I was laughing, towards the end, because of happiness, pleasure and awareness of how ridiculous we were, but mainly me. I mostly enjoy being ridiculous.
Can’t say I like many porn images of face-slapping. They’re not affectionate, and they creep me out. But lions are sexy beasts.
At the time smacking Sa’afia’s face was still pretty shocking. In the last few years there’s been a fashion for hard face-slapping. It’s an internet thing, and the internet doesn’t come with a notice about not trying that at home.
I know that a lot of submissive women have tried being slapped, and some of them like it a lot. But I’ve never been able to bring myself to go beyond a firm-but-not-very-hard slap, plus some theatre to make it seem harsher than it is.
I said, into Sa’afia’s shocked silence, “You please me very much. I want you always to know that.”
The odd thing about this conversation, which maybe seems a bit lovey-dovey on the screen, is that my cock didn’t soften at all. I’m sure Sa’afia stayed wet, and that she dropped another two floors below the basement, further into submission about a second after the slap.
I pushed back into her mouth, as deep as I could go, my pelvic bone to her lips. When she started to cough I stayed for a couple of seconds before withdrawing. I gave her a second to recover, but no more. I started to move, not too deeply but hard, before she’d completely calmed.
Before the slap I’d let her set the pace but now I took the lead, fucking her mouth, holding her head by that handful of her hair.
She wanted to be taken hard now, out of her control. And out of my control, up to a point. How did I know that? Well, desire ruled both of us, and we knew that. I’d had a different set of plans when we’d started, but I was going to come in her mouth. And soon.
Today’s real post will be along in exactly ten minutes. I just want to put up these pictures of lions.
And this story is a little heartless, but note the date. Tragedy plus time. Anyway, I bet you wondered.
Sa’afia made a noise. Something with both growling and squealing in it. Then she put up her hand. “Armission a heak?”
I said, “All right. Oh.” I withdrew my cock so it bobbed about just inside her mouth.
“Thank you.” Her lips touched me when she spoke. I liked that.
I said, “In fact, we’ll change the rules for a bit. You can speak when you want to, from now until I say otherwise.”
She nodded. “Thank you. You said you liked hurting me.”
“Well, only in certain ways -“
“You don’t need to be defensive. I mean, you don’t. I just wanted to reply. Because I love it when you hurt me. You know, the number of times I’ve said that to anyone is … zero. I love you hurting me, and that must make me just as weird as you are. Do you know what I like best about you hurting me?”
I frowned. “Well, I don’t know. Um, you get an adrenalin rush, and that intensifies what you’re feeling, so that makes it sexier? Um.”
“Darling, at least I know something about neurochemistry. You shouldn’t even try. No, what I love best, sir, is how much you love it. And that you think you’re being terribly wicked, and – Well, you love that. You really love it; it’s like … glee. And I love pleasing you. That’s what makes me what I am, doesn’t it?”
“I’m glad you are what you are.”
“Well, so am I. Now. Not before, but now. And I’m really glad that you don’t leave me in any doubt about whether I please you.”
“Mmmmm.” There was history to that last remark. Someone had left her in doubt. Probably the same lover who’d been so lukewarm about having her mouth on his cock.
I stroked Sa’afia’s mouth and ear, and then smacked her cheek.