I was at home. Sa’afia hadn’t called me all day. That wasn’t like her. 

I missed her. And, because I’m a shallow man, I’d thought she’d be all warm and affectionate and loving and sexy, because I’d got her cousin out of some major trouble, and … Well, I was expecting her to be telling me how clever and brave and good I was, and demanding to fuck me till I ran out of puff. N’ stuff. It wasn’t compulsory for her to say that, and even then I had an inkling that my infinite taste for being praised wasn’t entirely adult. But I heard nothing from her at all, and that lasted long enough to move from being disappointing to being actively strange. 

So I called her and invited her over, with a guarantee to cook her something Indian, probably malai kofta and rice and parathas. I wasn’t really expecting her to accept, because her mother was home. But I’d hoped it’d be a cheerful conversation-starter. 

It fell flat. She said she had to look after her mom, and she let her end of the conversation die.

I tried a couple of other openers, like what she thought might be a good job for Ana to go for, and if she wanted to see the new Star Trek film, a topic we’d touched on before, and that allowed us to be pretty damn hilarious about Bill Shatner’s awesome toupee. 

Those fell flat too. She seemed distracted. 

“Uh, Sa’afia, are you okay?” 

She said she was fine, in the voice that means she is far from okay. 

“Well, have I massively pissed you off, and if so, one, I’m sorry, and two, is there anything I can do to unfuck up whatever it is that I’ve fucked up?” 

“What? No, you’re fine; you haven’t done anything wrong.” This was in the tone that said I’d done something terribly wrong, and that only an oaf would fail to know, or pretend not to know, what it was.

I tried one more starter – “So you’re missing out on amazing malai kofta; what are you having for dinner?” – and when that fell flat I felt the need to get off the phone, about as urgently as she wanted this conversation to end. So I said, “Okay! Talk to you soon!” 

And I hung up. So I was out of her misery, or she’d put me out of mine. I stared at my phone. I wanted to call her back, but I knew a second conversation, just then, wouldn’t go any better.

What, I wondered, the fuck was going on?

Ana called me in the afternoon. She told me she’d been fired from Chicken Licken, because her boss hadn’t liked his employee getting threatened by cops outside his kitchen. She’d explained that those were corrupt cops, and she hadn’t been charged with anything, while the cop who’d harassed her was likely to get fired. But the branch manager still fired her. She’d brought cops and dishonor down on the good name of Chicken Licken.

I said, “Okay. That’s fucked up.”  

“What should I do? Can I get the bastard?”

“You could force him to take them back. Maybe. Jane, you know, Law Centre Jane, she could take it on.”

“Would I get my pay while I was off work?”

“I don;t know. You’re a casual worker. Government’s gone to a lot of effort to make sure you don’t have much in the way of rights. You really want to know what I think?”

“Of course I do, Jaime.”

“I think the odds are stacked against you. Even if you won, you’d waste so much time and mental energy with it, with the case and everything, that … It wouldn’t be worth it if you won. And you’ve got a bit less than one chance in two of winning. Ask Jane, but that’s my estimate.”

“That’s what I thought. But it’s so not fair. They’ve got no reason to fire me.”  

“True. But another thing that’s true is, you always hated that place anyway. Why don’t you get a better job?” 

“I can’t do anything else! I’ve got no skills.” 

“You’re doing all right at school. You can manage a till.”

She made a dubious noise.

“Of course you can manage a till. Anyway, if you don’t know how, I can get someone to teach you. You can at least get a shop assistant job. Or … I don’t know. But come in on Friday, and we’ll go through the jobs in the paper together. I’ll get you a resume. And I’ll happily tell anyone they should hire you.”

“Would you?”

“Of course I’ll say you’re bloody wonderful.”

“Awwww…”

“Though probation officers aren’t necessarily a good look, as references go. So you think of two or three other people who’ll say good things about you. Then you show up to an interview looking all bright and sassy, and you’ll do fine. The pay’ll be better and you won’t have to breathe in chicken fat all the time.”  

“Aue, that place stank. Yeah, okay. Good riddance. We’ll look at jobs on Friday?”

 “You bet. Come in at …” I checked my appointments. “Eleven.” 

“I’ll take you for lunch, afterwards.” 

“No, you won’t. You can’t afford to spend your money until you’ve got another job. But I’ll take you out to lunch.” 

“You know, Jaime? I’m being serious this time. I think I’m in love with you. I love you.” 

That hit me. Because I felt a bit unloved by Sa’afia. I said, “No, you don’t!” 

“No, I do. I am.”

“No, I meant, you can’t say things like that. To me. I can’t hear them. I’m sorry.” 

“Aren’t you at least fond of me?”

“Yeah, I’m fond of you.”

“Well then, do you love me?”

“Girl, you’re dangerous. No more of this, okay?” 

“Aue.” I could imagine her face when she said that, half sad and half teasing. “All right. I’ll see you on Friday at eleven?” 

“Yes. Bye, Ana.” 

I hung up, though she had more to say. I scowled, annoyed with myself. I’d lost that round when I’d said she was dangerous. That told her what she wanted to know. 

Here’s a recap of the story so far.

I was working as a probation officer in LA, near Palm Beach. I had a client, Ana, who was 19 to my 23, so we were both a bit sillier than we should have been. One day Ana discovered two things, one of which is that I fancied her, while the other was that I wasn’t allowed to have sex with any clients, and I didn’t intend to break that rule. So I was safe sex, or at least safe teasing. I didn’t much enjoy being her safe guy, but that was my job.

One day I happened to meet Ana at a party. It turned out that we had mutual friends. Her cousin Sa’afia was with her, and I paid Sa’afia a lot of attention partly to keep Ana off me. But that turned into genuine lust and liking for Sa’afia in no time. We went to bed, and over the next months we developed a cautious not-quite-declared kind of love.

I’d discovered that the police, one officer in particular, were harassing Ana to get at her father, who was a drug dealer who – they thought – owed them money. Things came to a head with a rape threat, and I guessed that an attempt to plant drugs on her would be the next step. And I’d managed to put a stop to that and get the most corrupt officer suspended, and probably fired.  

The night that officer, Greg Curnow, was suspended, I felt it wouldn’t be safe for Ana to go back to her apartment. Sa’afia hadn’t had time to organise an alternative place for her to stay, so Ana spent the night with Sa’afia and me at my place. She slept on the couch while Sa’afia and I went to bed together. 

Some time in the middle of the night, Sa’afia had sucked me off. And in the morning she’d fucked me, but she seemed to be angry. I had no idea why. I’d called her since, and she still was angry. 

So I shelved that problem and went to work on my other clients, the ones who weren’t Ana.

Now read on.

Jock was back in his office when I got back. With the door shut. I figured he was intending to make me sweat. It took a while to understand that he wasn’t going to talk to me at all that day. He wasn’t hiding. Jock doesn’t hide. But he had nothing to say to me. 

I called Sa’afia. She was pleased with my news about Ana, but not pleased, separate from that, to hear from me. No, her mother was back. And yes, that’s right, she’d be staying with Mum tonight. I called her my blossom possum, and when that got no reaction I tried peril squirrel, then combat wombat. Sa’afia liked rhyming compliments, or at least she got them. But I didn’t get a laugh or an endearment back.

I wasn’t her little man, just then. I had no idea what she meant by that particular endearment, but I missed being it. 

I lurched through the rest of that conversation, without burning any bridges. I felt relieved by the time I’d steered to the end and it was time to hang up, and immensely worried about that feeling of relief. What the hell was going on?

The rest of the day I spent dealing with clients I haven’t mentioned here before, and probably won’t mention again. A guy called France, for example, had got drunk and tried to hold up a paint shop with an ancient shotgun that might, or might not, have gone off if he’d actually pulled the trigger. Or it could have gone off and killed someone if he’d just bumped it. Or it’d have blown up and killed him. He was lucky that no-one had pushed the issue one way or the other. He was lucky, also, that when he’d collected his $80 and run out of the shop, straight into a police floodlight, he’d laid down when they’d told him to. 

I’d interviewed him and I knew enough about why it had happened: metamphetamine, greed, anger and stupidity, mostly, though I could have written about family trouble, homelessness, his being bullied and raped, and I’d have been telling the truth when I said those things too. But he was going to get five years and serve three, no matter what I said. I had his and two other pre-sentencing reports to write.

So I typed. 

Jane Siebel got Ana to tell Maynard about Greg Curnow’s harassment, leading up the rape threat and his planting drugs in her room.

Ana took a long deep breath, and began to speak. She spoke about being afraid, but she let her anger show. She told the story coldly, giving dates and locations, when she could, and mentioning when there were witnesses who’d be prepared to back her up. She kept the emotion reined in. It wasn’t hidden but it was background. It’s odd that people are most credible when they fake their emotional state. Ana was acting much calmer and colder than she was, or any reasonable person would be under the circumstances, and that worked. I was surprised she knew to do that. I was proud of her.

Maynard listened to her story once, and then he took her through it again, this time being aggressively skeptical, interrupting her and trying to push her into contradicting herself. This isn’t how a male police official is supposed to be dealing with a young woman who was, among other things, reporting a sexual crime. I wasn’t happy with him but Jane didn’t intervene. So I followed her judgment and kept quiet.

I had warned Ana that Maynard’d be likely to do something like that, and explained why: it wouldn’t mean he disbelieved her or wanted her to go away. He’d be making a quick judgment on whether he had a credible complainant he could call on in Court if Curnow didn’t resign quietly.

Ana kept her answers simple and she stayed consistent. He couldn’t get a contradiction or an angry retort out of her. I was already on her side, but I was pretty sure I’d have been won over if that was the first time I’d heard the story. When Maynard said, “huh” and leaned back in his chair I could see that Ana was physically shaky, but her story hadn’t been shaken at all. We sat in silence for a few seconds. I had an odd feeling that Maynard wanted a cigarette. 

Jane took over then, and we began the dealing that meant Curnow wouldn’t be back in a uniform or getting paid, before he was discharged from the LAPD. 

All this only took half an hour, though it seemed as if we’d covered a lot of ground and been in that room for much longer. Maynard switched his phone back on and stood up. He nodded at Jane, and left. He was clearly going to have to do something that would make Jane and I happy, so he might as well be rude about it.

Once he’d gone Jane leaned over and gave Ana a hug. She’d have her under for wing for a few hours, while they got a court order saying that Curnow had to stay away. 

Jock made no comment. He said I’d see him at the office, later. Which meant he wasn’t setting up a meeting. Then he and I both drove to the Probation Service. I had no idea what mood I’d find him in when we got there.

I went to the kitchen while Ana skipped past me in the corridor, trailing her blanket and a towel I’d given her. Sa’afia had made coffee, and tea for me since I don’t drink coffee. She was building a pile of buttered toast.

 I gave her a cuddle, since I’d decided to ignore her earlier moodiness. There was an instant of resistance, and then she relented and held me like she wanted to. There was still something wrong but there were things that weren’t wrong as well. I’d go hunting for it later, that wrong thing. For now we didn’t have time. 

I brought out prosciutto and a cheese, white as the moon, whose name I’d forgotten. And loganberry jam made by my aunt. And milk and orange juice. When Ana came back, wet-haired, towel-wrapped and demanding knickers from Sa’afia (who’d bought emergency supplies yesterday afternoon, my clever girl and good cousin), I gave Ana mushrooms to cook, and went to shower myself.

When I came back, shivering a little inside my suit – Sa’afia and Ana had used all the hot water, but a cold shower was probably a good thing for a man who’d had as little sleep as I’d had – I heard earnest talk in the kitchen. I considered backing off for another couple of minutes to let them sort it out, but then the talk stopped, so I walked in. 

Ana and Sa’afia were in each other’s arms, and I supposed some sort of reconciliation was happening. I watched them from the door for a few seconds since they were beautiful, but then I entered noisily, whacked Sa’afia’s arse and demanded tea and toast and mushrooms. 

Ana looked around at the room, mildly alarmed, then looked up at me. At least she’d seen me before. I said, “You have to get up, little monster. We’ve got a busy day.”

Ana rolled over onto her back, decorously taking the blankets with her. She yawned, frowning. “Why’d you call me a monster?”

“I like monsters.”

“Mmmp.” She decided to accept that that was an answer. “Oh. Law centre. Cops. Oh god.”

“Yes.”

“Are you coming with me?”

“Of course.”

The blankets, and Ana, launched themselves at me. I caught her, carefully. “Thank you.” She shook her head. In a more serious tone, she said, “no, everything. thank you.”

An armful of Ana is never a bad thing. I held her for a few seconds, trying not to touch any bare skin. Then I pulled back and patted the blanket on her shoulder, trying not to dislodge it, and feeling like an utter fool. I said, “That’s ok. But it’s shower time. Then get dressed, and I’ll put out some breakfast. Shower. Now.”

I left. I I didn’t look back.

I let Sa’afia have first shower, put on a robe and went to wake Ana. She needed to be up and ready for the meeting at the Community Law Centre.

It was still semi-dark in the living room.

Ana lay on the couch, on her front with an arm around her pillow. The blankets had wrapped themselves around her thigh, and most of her back and side was out in the morning air.

Her face was turned towards the door, her eyes closed and her mouth open. Her back rose and fell, golden brown, as she breathed.

Men shouldn’t look at undressed, sleeping women they’re a little bit in love with. Especially the ones they shouldn’t be a bit in love with. I might have been sexually exhausted, but beauty is dangerous, and it is not forgettable. Ever. Anyway, perving at girls is creepy.

But I couldn’t call Ana from the door to wake her up. I had to make sure she really did wake up and get up. So she’d be pretty much naked, suddenly disturbed, and there I’d be, trying to have a conversation about breakfast, showers and law centres, with the naked cousin of my girlfriend. It would be bad if Ana minded, and perhaps worse if she didn’t mind.

I walked over and pulled the blankets gently back over to cover her. Ana snuffled, and her mouth opened and closed, but she didn’t wake. I touched her shoulder through the blanket, and rocked her gently till her eyes opened.

I hadn’t taken Sa’afia anally, or even talked about it, so I didn’t know how she’d react. Under the small, polite pressure of my fingertip she gazed down at me, with a certain kind of haggard intensity. I’d seen that look before, so I pressed my finger down, making her  little ring yield and open, and pushed down into her to the second knuckle. That was my first entry into her ass.

Sa’afia squirmed harder, and made a little sound. I whispered in her ear that I’d cane her for this tonight. I still wasn’t sure what “this” was, but she knew. And later, when I’d caned her, I’d fuck her with my cock up her ass. So just a few seconds later Sa’afia came, massively and loudly. And when I praised her for coming so well, and kissed her, she kissed me back.

She’d probably be staying with her mother that night, so I wouldn’t really cane her that evening. And I wasn’t going to fuck her ass tonight. Or any other night, at least not without a bit more conversation about that first. But I’d seen that the idea had excited her, and that was enough for now.

And she wasn’t angry at me any more. Whatever it was, I’d have to find out about it later. 

I didn’t know anything, except her mouth, and my cock. The middle of my body was no longer touching the bed. My fingers pressed and twisted into the sheets.

IHer nipples brushed against my thighs. It occurred to me, as the sweetness built up in me, and I was ready to release, that I should warn her that I was about to come. But it was hard to make words, and anyway it must be obvious enough. I made noises in the back of my throat, gutteral noises, as I felt myself reach all points of no return. I came.

There was a second’s interruption in the rhythm. She drew back for long enough to swallow the first release, then she sucked and swallowed smoothly, and continued. I laughed, just for the happiness of it.

She kept sucking, still pleasuring me. She made a loving, nasal sound. It seemed she loved my cock.

I’ve tended to find it surprising when women like my cock. Or, I suppose, when women like cocks in general, since there’s nothing special about mine. Anyway, I don’t mean I’m surprised by women liking the way my cock makes them feel when things go well. That happens. It’s more that some women, or many women, get angry about cocks in particular, when they feel angry at bad male behaviour. 

I’ve had girlfriends who can get up from our bed, perfectly happy or better than that. But when they met up with girlfriends they’d chat over coffee and biscuits about men and how crap we are. In these conversations cocks feature prominently (I was going to write “come up”; the language will have its way). So some, or many, women distinguish between the pleasure of fucking, in which cocks also feature prominently, and the cock that does the fucking. Cocks become a symbol for selfishness, stupidity, arrogance, and so on. So even lusty women who love sex with men can have an attitude to cocks that ranges from ambivalent to slightly hostile. Well, some men do some horrible things to women, involving cocks, so there it is. 

Anyway, I was being mouthed and tongued by someone who loved cocks, or my cock in particular. It was tenderness, and I was surprised by it. She stayed on me, loving and cleaning me, until I began to soften in her mouth.

I took a long time to soften, and I understood that she wasn’t going to stop while I was still hard. I think, though it isn’t a gentlemanly thing to do, that I’d fallen asleep again before she had finished.