Ana shifted her weight, to press herself more tightly into me. We were turning each other on. She was still my damn client, though, and I had to stop this. I gave her ass a final squeeze and a pat, that could, maybe, just maybe, to justified as an act of affection and not lust. To show there were no hard feelings. Um, to show I had nothing against her. Um. Language, eh? Sometimes it tells the truth when you don’t want to. Anyway, I patted her goodbye and broke off the cuddle. 

I looked around, trying to arrange my thoughts. “Right. There’s a couch -“

But Sa’afia moved back in and held me tight for a few seconds. She looked into my eyes, smiling. The look was affectionate, mildly amused, and possessive. We lived in a world in which jealousy didn’t have much meaning, nor was it given much force where it existed.  But she was reminding me. I might be her Sir, but that was still a way of being hers, after all. 

I kissed Sa’afia. “Bed,” I said. “Soon.” Then I remembered that life was sexier when I set the rules, and the pace. “Go to my room. Take your clothes off. Wait for me at the foot of the bed. Standing up straight. Don’t you dare get in.” 

Sa’afia smiled. “Then I’ll see you soon.” If she’d doubted that I’d be coming to her that night, she no longer had any grounds for that. She looked at Ana, then me. “Goodnight, you two.” She went to my room. 

Ana was trying not to look as though she’d been listening. I’d given my instruction to Sa’afia quietly but I had no idea how much of it she’d heard.

“Okay, Ana. It’s the wondercouch for you. I’ll get you sheets and blankets and stuff. You can stuff those cushions into pillowcases.”

I let Sa’afia and Ana in to my apartment. I locked the door and then put the chain on. I don’t usually bother but I thought Ana would like to see it done. The world was shut out so it couldn’t get in, or not without a warrant or a sledgehammer, or both.

Canova’s Three Graces

Then we formed a three-way hug. We were like those statues of the three Graces embracing and dancing, except that one of the Graces was male, and he had his hands on each of the girl Graces’ arses.

We made noises like nuzzling animals, and with that I think we became lovers, in some sense, the three of us. It was a complicated kind of love. Sa’afia wouldn’t have sex with Ana, since Ana was a cousin, and a girl. I didn’t think that Ana objected much to having sex with girls, or cousins, or girl cousins, but she wouldn’t want to do anything that Sa’afia didn’t want. 

Though I wanted both Sa’afia and Ana, I needed to not fuck Ana. Not fucking Ana was important. I’d done so many stupid things and I was hanging onto what I still tried to think of as my professional ethics, though by the skin of my teeth. I’d decided that if I got through tonight, then I’d made my stand and I’d still be more or less a professional. So far.

Ana nuzzled in closer and kissed my neck. Then she squeezed my ass. I felt my cock stretch, and harden. Then I spread the fingers of the hand I had on her ass. I was exploring, loving the curved firmness of her.

I did the same, a fair and just king, with Sa’afia. She sighed too. Both girls pressed against me, so I was in a world of breasts and bellies and thighs, and thick black hair that smelled of apple shampoo and skin that smelled of chilli and cocoanut and soap, and two beautiful faces.

There was a short silence. Ana looked worried and Sa’afia looked guilty. I said, “Sa’afia? You were going to find a place for Ana to stay.” 

Sa’afia was horrified. She thought I was angry with her, and she hated that.

Ana frowned, defiant, and stepped in front of Sa’afia. “We tried. She tried, Jaime. But you said it had to be with people the cops didn’t know.”

Sa’afia put her hand on Ana’s hip and pushed her back slightly. “Jaime, all day today we thought the cops’d be looking for Ana tonight. So if Ana was going to stay with people, they had to be people the cops couldn’t get into trouble. Also, they couldn’t be friends or family. Because the cops would be able to find them easily, and we couldn’t do that do them. So we were still calling other people. Then you called and said you were coming over, and we waited for you.”

I nodded. “All right. So you were thinking..?” I already knew what Sa’afia was thinking. I just wanted her to wonder whether I was going to punish her, to be aware of her buttocks and thighs as vulnerable parts of her body while she thought and then spoke to me. That wasn’t something she’d had to worry about before, or not from a lover. I hoped, but I also felt sure, that she was enjoying the erotic novelty.

Ana interrupted, “So can I stay with you guys tonight? I mean, Jaime, we’re going to the Law Centre tomorrow. We can go together.” 

I considered. It occurred to me that in theory Ana could just go home tonight. But there was no reason to stop being paranoid just yet. Curnow was probably suspended, but he hadn’t been fired.

He was still a police officer, and it would be unwise to count him out. If he went to Ana’s, he might be intending to do a better job of framing her, or he might simply be angry and vengeful. That was no good. 

I said, “Ok. Ok. I have a very nice couch.”

Ana’s had cleared her plate of rohu curry and mopped it clean long before Sa’afia or I had finished. Ana did most things with enthusiasm, and eating was no exception. She’d be wanting more. Once Sa’afia and I had finished, several minutes later, Mr Shergill stepped forward, having reached a similar conclusion. He explained and praised Indian sweets: gulab jamun, kulfi, payasam and so on. 

I said, “So, you want dessert? Sa’afia? Ana?” 

Sa’afia shook her head and took my hand. She was ready to get home. To my bedroom. In spite of what I’d said about the rod. Or because of it. I considered which of those two it might be, and that put me off all thoughts of eating.

So I assumed we’d have a coffee while we waited for Ana. But Ana got Mr Shergill to repeat his description of kulfi, and then told him she’d have it next time.

“It sounds wonderful. Kulfi. I’m having that. But not tonight. I really should go to bed.” She said that so earnestly, looking up at Mr Shergill, that the man was briefly taken aback. Ana was a less subtle minx than Sa’afia, but she had a good teacher.  

So I gave Mr Shergill my credit card and a five buck note as a consolation, and we stood up and put our coats on. I went to the toilets while Mr Shergill processed the bill.

On impulse, I dropped a two dollar coin into the slot machine and puffed into the alcohol breath detector next to the condom dispenser. They aren’t very accurate, but I was, apparently, well under the legal limit. I’d taken in much less alcohol than I’d thought. I’d planned to get a taxi, but decided to drive.

I collected my card and a receipt from Mr Shergill, and joined the women at the door. I said, “So Ana, where are you staying tonight? We’ll drop you off first.”

That seemed to be enough attention for Ana for a while. I pulled Sa’afia’s face a little closer, by her hair, and whispered, “After I’ve punished you, tonight, where do you think I’m going to put the stick?”

Ana hadn’t heard what I’d whispered, but she stared at Sa’afia, hoping for a clue. After a few seconds Sa’afia blushed. So I couldn’t help pulling her back towards me. I kissed her cheek, and touched her skin briefly with my tongue, to feel the warmth. She turned to smile at me, and I mouthed, “You’re lovely.”

That was something I’d trained myself to say when I had the urge to say, “I love you,” and saying that would be a bad idea. Sa’afia took her hands off the table and pressed my cheek.

Even I sympathised with Ana when she coughed. “Ok. K, people. I’m here, ok?”

I said, “Sorry,” and disengaged from Sa’afia. “Ok, we’re back.”

Sa’afia took Ana’s hand, and some kind of cousinly communion went on. A waiter who’d hovered while Sa’afia and I were distracted closed in and and began taking away plates and glasses.  

It occurred to me that I’d noticed Ana’s jealousy early enough to avoid making her miserable. In fact I seemed to be far too clear-headed for a man who’d had five cocktails. They must have been exceptionally light on alcohol. Perhaps the barman had cheated us, but that seemed unlikely. It must have been one of the things Ana had been whispering while she placed her long and complicated order.  

That was one odd thing. The next happened after I said, “So, you want dessert?” 

I didn’t catch Sa’afia’s eye just then. She couldn’t spank Ana, partly because she now thought of spanking as sexual and she wouldn’t do sexual things with girls, or with her cousins. And she was submissive.

What do you mean, ‘harder’? I’m using both hands, aren’t I?

Once, having found my way into a threesome with two submissive girls (I damn near sabotaged it, with my own disbelief that something so wonderful was going to happen, if I let it), I’d tried to get one of them to spank the other. I’d thought it would be sexy, and how could it not be fun? But it had turned out to be almost impossible to get either girl to give the other anything but the lightest of love pats.

I’d persevered, but it had turned out to be as exhausting as trying to teach a cat to balance on its front paws. I’d realised that my attempts were only spoiling the mood. So I’d done my Homage to Brian Blessed act. Brian Blessed was a big burly, shouty, English actor, a bit like Oliver Reed without the vicious edge. My Brian Blessed act involve  lots of ranting and roaring and slapping. It brought the mood back to where it should be. Since then I haven’t tried making one submissive top another. Not all submissives are quite so averse to trying the other role, or at least play-acting it. But I knew that Sa’afia was. I’d just given Ana a completely empty threat.

But Ana wasn’t so sure she was safe from Sa’afia. “Aw no! That wouldn’t be any fun!” 

“Then behave yourself, Ana.” I said it as though I’d won a point. I wasn’t sure that I had.

Ana pretended to be shocked by Sa’afia’s slap on her arm. “Ow!” she said, not very convincingly. “Hey, you can’t smack me. You’re the only girl who gets smacked around here.”

Ana looked at me, then, to see my reaction. I said, “Ana, you definitely deserve a spanking. Beyond belief. But you know I can’t do it.”

“Why  n-“

“Ana, you know why not. And stop being a brat.”

“Brats get spanked. Sa’afia gets spanked. She showed me what you did to her bum. Aue!”

“Aue indeed. Sa’afia?”

“We’re cousins. We tell each other things.” 

“Hmmm.” Sa’afia realkised I wasn’t entirely pleased about that. She put her hands on the table in front of her, palms down, fingers interlaced, and stared down at her knuckles. The minx. So I said, “I’ll deal with you later.”  I was pretty sure she’d like to have that sort of thing said to her. And for it to be true. And she smiled, a little smug. 

I was worried that Ana would like hearing it too, a little too much. To Ana I said, “brat, you don’t get spanked by me. But Sa’afia isn’t your probation officer. She can spank you till you can’t sit down.”

I took Sa’afia and Ana to the Gurudwala Bangla Sahib, a Sikh restaurant near my place. It was my favourite cheap celebration restaurant, with dishes that were more like everyday Indian food than banquet meals, and therefore excellent, and low mark-up on the drinks. There was also an element of showing off, because I knew that when Mr Shergill, the owner, saw me come in with not one but two pretty girls, he’d come out to shake my hand, show us to our seats and generally make a fuss.

So Sa’afia and Ana were seated, properly overwhelmed by the formidable charm of Mr Shergill’s vast, genial, magnificently moustached and turbanned self. He knew exactly how magnificent he looked, and he was perfectly aware that he was doing me a favour.

I told Sa’afia and Ana the greeting was because I’d brought two amazingly pretty girls into his restaurant, and that Mr Shergill had an eye for that sort of thing. It sounded true, because one look at his waiting staff, all of them young Indian students from Cal State Long Beach, confirmed Mr Shergill’s appreciation of human beauty. Sa’afia and Ana were ebullient enough just then to believe that the greeting was for them, and in any case they were exceptionally beautiful that night. They glowed. Happiness and celebration suited them.

The truth was that Mr Shergill had started coming out to greet me when he learned that I was a probation officer, and his enthusiasm had been even greater once he realised that I was in Jock’s team. Jock had once done him a good turn, and it must have been something important. I was the undeserving beneficiary of his gratitude.

Anyway, Sa’afia ordered vegetarian, Ana went for fish, and I ate goat. I was paying for the meal, but Ana insisted that she’d pay for drinks. That meant she got to dismiss my wine request and go and have a long, whispered conversation with the handsome man behind the bar. He became very attentive to our table. Ana was pretty, and happy Ana was immensely engaging. And whatever she’d whispered to him had been interesting. He brought out a series of silly cocktails as the evening went on.

There seemed to be some sort of theme to it. Sa’afia and Ana kept getting cocktails with lots of cream, like brandy alexanders and White Russians. Not me, though. I was brought, in order, a piña colada, a Singapore Sling, a blue booty, and a drink that Ana had to go back and explain to the barman. 

I said I couldn’t see why it took much explanation, since it seemed to be just pineapple juice, something crimson, a bit of white rum and some cinnamon powder.

Ana grinned until her eyes closed. “It’s a pele fia mea. It’s a traditional Samoan cocktail.”

Ana was pushing for attention, so I pretended not to know those words, though Sa’afia had taught me them. The name means something like, “fuck me, darling”, and while that doesn’t sound too incredible as a name for a recent cocktail, there was no way a drink would get a name like that in a conservative place like Samoa.

But Sa’afia laughed, then pretended to be shocked. She smacked Ana’s arm.

The drive back from the office wasn’t as uncomfortable as I’d expected. Jock wasn’t happy with me. But I’d got most of what I wanted, and I knew that Ana would be ecstatic to hear the outcome, which was good in itself, and meant that Sa’afia would be pleased with me too, and wanting to please me.

Happy women make my marker and definition of paradise.

That sounds patronising. One part of it is. Many doms – I’m certainly in that group – take on subtle kinds of care for many of the women around them, not just the submissive women they’re involved with. I’m concerned that the women around me are happy, and I have a tendency to feel smugly pleased with myself when that seems to be so. That’s certainly patronising, or paternalistic, and although it’s a relatively benevolent strain of male chauvinism, I still try to keep myself aware and wary of it. 

Peace, comfort, flowers, food, sex: that’s where I want to be

The other part isn’t quite so patronising. It’s that I like a lot of the things that most women like, but I’m bored shitless by a lot of the things that most other men like. For example I can watch babies for hours, and talk about them, because they’re fascinating. I’m not as convinced as most women that babies are beautiful, but I am convinced that they’re clever, and watching them try things and figure things out is perpetually astonishing.

On the other hand I’ve watched a couple of the big, hugely popular sports games, and I had a massive failure of interest: I still had the television on at the end of the game, for form’s sake, but before half-time I’d be reading a book. I also have an empathy failure: try as I might, I can’t imagine the state of mind in which you’d actually give a fuck who wins or loses a sports game. (Unless it’s one you’re playing yourself, like beach baseball.)   

Womanotopia is the place for me.

So environments in which women are happy tend to be places where I’m happy too. So I was looking forward to getting to Kempff, Hsang and Cowper, where Sa’afia would be sexily happy and Ana exuberantly happy. 

I’d have to fend Ana off, of course, but I quite enjoyed the necessity. And she’d inspire Sa’afia. I guessed I’d take them both out to dinner. And drop Ana off and take Sa’afia home. 

Jock did ask me how I’d thought it went. I knew he was hoping I’d say it had gone well, so he could bawl me out and tell me how I’d broken a long-term relationship, and I had no idea of the consequences that would come from that, or how long it’d take to repair. So I said I’d thought it had gone terribly. It was a disaster that the police didn’t like us any more, and Dwane was still going to jail, so I’d fucked it up. Jock had grunted and held off his lecture, even though he wasn’t completely sure that I wasn’t winding him up. Which I was.

I’d driven on, two souls in a government car, one of whom respected the other, failing to communicate.