Sa’afia pushed her lips forward with her mouth slightly open. It wasn’t a pout. It was an expression she formed sometimes, when she focussed inward, on her own sensations. I wanted to kiss her, my abstracted girl, but it wasn’t the moment.

I smacked her again, the flat of my hand landing hard on sweetly feminine flesh, mostly targeting the softer, more sensitive skin of the undercurves of her bottom. She wanted it to hurt. I knew that like I knew that  her heart was racing and her cunt was wet, and that she’d hate anything that reduced this to playfulness. Not now.  

I kept the smacks hard and made sure they landed on more or less the same spot on each cheek, low and central. Sa’afia was having trouble holding still.

After a dozen hard smacks she closed her eyes, to concentrate on  and appreciate each impact. She made her sound of discomfort somewhere after the second dozen. My hand stung by then, and her skin was burning.  

I wasn’t going to stop because she was making pain noises. What she wanted was important to me, in reality, but she had to feel that it had no weight at all. I gave her four hard smacks in a row on her left side, purely to show her that it hurt more that way, then repeated on her right. Her discomfort sound continued right through that part of her spanking, and she didn’t stop vocalising for several seconds after I stopped to let her catch her breath.

I reached my left hand a little further down her belly, to pinch and then stroke the folds of her cunt. Soft, her outer lips were, and puffy. I said, “You know where my fingers are going next? Don’t speak.”

It was possible that Sa’afia wouldn’t be home when I arrived. Or that the front door would be locked. Or that she’d be waiting for me, but she’d be dressed and ready to chat about something or other until I edged her decorously to her bedroom. But I expected her to be waiting in the kitchen, obedient, naked, a little apprehensive, and wet.

If she weren’t standing where and how I’d ordered her, it’d be an important rejection, and it’d hurt like hell, actually. But I felt confident – surprisingly so in retrospect – that she’d be waiting, and there. I trusted her lust, and her courage to get what she wanted.

I stopped the van outside Sa’afia’s place. Maybe it was a shame I’d met Ana first. Love can be arbitrary. I couldn’t come up with reasons why Ana was more worthy of passionate love than Sa’afia. I didn’t know why, except that Ana needed me, and there was something in her liveliness and grace that called me. I didn’t understand my love for Ana, but that didn’t take a damn thing away from its power.

The one thing I could say for myself, as I locked the van and walked to Sa’afia’s door, was that I’d never used Sa’afia as a substitute for Ana. I’d never thought of Ana when Sa’afia and I fucked. Whatever happened between us when we were together, dressed or not, was full-blooded (hah!) and full-hearted. It was ours, between Sa’afia and me. Monogamy didn’t matter to me. But focussing on the person you’re with, that mattered to my sense of what was right.

Sa’afia and I hadn’t talked enough, but that would have to change soon. When we did talk we’d find out what we wanted from each other later. The things I said when I didn’t lie to her about love might hurt her, as she might hurt me. I could hurt her physically, with a stiff cock and the knowledge that I was turning her on, but I’d hate to hurt her heart. Maybe, though, we liked the power and the sex, and that was what we wanted to keep and explore. 

I reached the gate. The print of Minnie Mouse, a little crumpled, was stuck in the doorjamb. 

Sa’afia was waiting for me, ready or not, naked or not.

I opened the door.

I drove to Sa’afia’s with tomorrow’s underpants, socks and shirt riding shotgun in the bucket seat. I’d left last night’s shirt with her, with instructions to get the curry traces cleaned out of it, but I didn’t expect ever to wear that shirt again. 

Man’s business shirt, above sub-pudendal inter-gracile fossa.

Sa’afia worked the same hours I did, and she’d had no chance to do more than leave it to soak. Or rub it with soap or spray it, or whatever she preferred.

I was a bucket man, myself, with a bit of oxygen bleach in tepid water. Though, truth be told, mostly I just expected stains to wash out or fade over successive washes. I’d put salt on red wine stains and hope for the best.

I bet Sa’afia had opinions on that. If we ever got tired of fucking and discovering each other, we could have that chat about doing the laundry. Anyway, I brought along another shirt for tomorrow.  

Trojan horse, with Trojans. And lubricated wire coathangers, apparently.

In any case, I was going to give her last night’s shirt. She’d looked good in it. Once I’d given it to her, when she wore it she’d look more than good. She’d look mine.

Sa’afia would know what shirts mean, so her wearing it for me would be an admission, affirming my acquisition and her acquiescence. A man’s shirt might look innocuous, but as a gift to a woman it’s a Trojan horse. 

In the same spirit I’d stopped by a chemist and brought a new pack of condoms and a toothbrush. To say that when I visited I fucked her, that I intended to go on visiting and fucking her, and we should be prepared for that. And to say that I stayed the night, thanks. I was going to let Sa’afia see me leave them both in her bedside drawer.

Or maybe I should put them some place her mother wouldn’t look.