I undid the catch of Sa’afia’s jeans and pushed them and her briefs down her thighs. Once I’d undone my zip and stepped close so my cock touched her, I pushed them further down so that she could step out of them. She hadn’t worn a belt.

I smacked her bottom again, hard, though she was a good and blameless girl who had done no harm, to give her something to contemplate while I condomed up. She was wet when I touched her folds, and while we joined she puffed like a weightlifter psyching herself for a snatch and lift. 

She said, “hooooooo”, when we paused. Then I said it too. I ground her, my soft brown mortar, and we made paste. A wet, sloppy paste. I did not stop, or speed up, for a long time. Eventually, I’m proud to say, Sa’afia screamed. The kind of scream that rattles windows, makes cats run for their lives and worries neighbours.

I decided not to come yet, and save it for later. I stroked her back and praised her. I said, shakily, “oh yes,” which was banal but at least it was something. She didn’t speak at all. She didn’t need to. She reached her hand back towards me and I held it. 

I don’t think that Sa’afia had ever been bent over a kitchen table, or perhaps any table, and fucked before. It added something that I was still dressed while she was naked. Men can be criminally, pathetically, negligent. Those things should not have been left undone for so long. She’d liked them. 

I decided that she’d spend a lot of time bent over that table. And a lot of time naked, in my clothed presence. Those seemed easy commitments to keep. They’d worked: there was white, girly foam at the front of my trousers. I hoped I could get it off with a wet cloth before I went to work tomorrow.

She wanted to finish her cooking, once we’d recovered. I refused to let her put her clothes back on. It turned out that she didn’t own any aprons. I let her wear my shirt.

My beautiful white shirt, for making curries. Greater love, or lust, had no man.