My shoulder. Sa’afia was rocking me by my shoulder. It was daylight. I remembered this was a busy day. I grabbed my watch. I was due at work in twenty minutes. It couldn’t take less than half an hour to get there. I had a lot to do, including preparing for, and then having, the meeting with my boss and the cops.  I said, “ahhhhh!”

Sa’afia was dressed. She had a little tray in her hand. The tray had a green surface and a sort of white picket fence around it. She was being cute. She’d brought a cup of tea with a lot of milk, and a sort of deep-fried cake. She said, “I know it’s late. I was going to suck you off. To wake you up. Because you’re my little man. But I didn’t have the heart to wake you. You were asleep.”

“Did you just say I’m your little man?”

“Yes. Because you are. My little warrior man. Are you going to beat me for that?”

“Hell yes. Ah, actually, hell yes. Whenever your mum’s not home. And maybe sometimes when she is. She must know you deserve it.”

“Drink your tea.” 

I did. The bun, or cake thing, was good too. It seemed to be made of fat and sugar. “I’ve got to get going.”

“I know. Me too.”

“How’s your bum?” Sa’afia wore a tight white dress. She was immaculate. 

“I have bruises. Big, black bruises. And on my thighs. You’re a cruel man.” 

“Good. You deserve them. And more.” 

Sa’afia wiggled. “You got ten minutes to have a shower. Then you’d better go.” 

I smacked her arse, about twenty times, until I was sure that she meant it when she said it hurt. Then I had the shower. She left for work while I was still getting dressed, so I locked up when I left.