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. 

Sa’afia said, “Someone can hear you? You’re in the office?”

“Yes. That’s absolutely correct.”

“Hah. Ok, the sticky item will be on the table, at six. And I better let you go.”

“Excuse me a moment.” I took off my jacket, made it into a tight bundle, and threw it hard at the door. It shut. “And Sa’afia.”

“Yes?”

“I expect you to be waiting for me naked. Standing naked by the table. Ready to get the stick across your slutty little ass. And for me to fuck you afterwards.” I heard her gasp. I hung up.

Authority is a complicated thing. I put my jacket back on and went to see the director. 

Sa’afia hesitated, or she pretended to. “Yes, sir.”

“That’s better. Now, what am I going to do if you don’t please me?”

“You wouldn’t spank me?” It was a tone of voice that went with batted eyelashes and other signs of utter sincerity.

“Sa’afia, you know I won’t. I’m not going to use my hand. What will I use?”

“The stick.”

I wondered what “the” stick was. It sounded promisingly specific. I said, “Now, do you think I’m pleased with you?”

She sounded very solemn. “No, sir.” She was laughing at me, and yet I knew that if I touched her she would shake. Just as I was both amused and excited by her. 

“So what are you getting?” 

“You’re going to give me the stick, sir.” 

“Exactly. Hang on.” The director had stuck his head in my office door, and mouthed, ‘my office’. He’d only heard me say, “so what are you getting”, which might sound like a probation officer thing to say. 

I said, “I’ll see you at six.” The director had left the door open, and I wasn’t sure how far away he was. I assumed I could be heard. “And that item we discussed -“

“The stick?”

“Yes. That item will be on the table for our meeting.”

I tried to look fierce. “I’ll spank you till you can’t sit down.” 

“Oh no,” she said. I thought she was mock-begging: ‘please don’t spank me’. She said, again, “oh no.”

So I said, “Look, there’s really no getting out of it. Of course I will.”

The game was wicked enough. So was the girl.

“Oh no. If I don’t please you, you should use a stick.”

“Oh.” We’d been playing some kind of game. Sa’afia had just  overtaken me. It’d still be a game if I had the right to punish her when I felt like it. It’d still be a game if I had the right to hurt her more than I could with my hand. But it’d be a much more serious game. 

I expected that I looked very white, just then. In the sense of being intensely focussed and pale. The opposite of blushing.

“Absolutely I will use a stick.” I kissed her. “Across your arse.” Sa’afia looked a little too untroubled. “And the backs of your thighs.” Still complacent. “That pretty little belly of yours.” Now she drew in a breath, but she was shiney-eyed. I frowned, since though this was good news, there was a lot to be thought and said about it. But I kissed her again and turned away. I’d have to get to work now, if I were to be able to get away at all.

When I reached the bottom of the steps, and turned back to wave, Sa’afia laughed again. Joyfully. “Oh god, look at you!”

I didn’t glance down. I thought about the ear structure of the African elephant again. I wasn’t noticeably erect, I guessed, by the time I got the gate open. I managed the walk to the van almost casually. I started the engine, and glimpsed myself in the rear-vision mirror. I rubbed my face, trying to get some colour back.

My heart was still thudding by the time I reached the Probation Service carpark.