Across my lap,
I deliver slap,
After slap, after slap,
My hardened palm,
Stinging quivering cheek,
She gasps, and moans,
But cannot speak,
Though she need not,
I can hear each thought,
As I deliver blows,
I sense her shiver,
From head to toes,
Encompassing her exposed whole,
There lay open,
Heart and soul,
“Will he stop soon?”
“Will there be more?”
“If I say stop, will he ignore”
“Will he continue, again and again?”
“Will there be pleasure, after pain?”
“A tender kiss? A slipped in finger?
Or just stop,
To let the stinging linger?”
“Does he enjoy, this show of nerve?
Or does he feel that I deserve,
Some punishment, for something deep?
Just why do these thoughts creep,
And seep into my concious mind,
As he wails away on my behind?”
Me, I sense each and every wonder,
As I strike her with an inner thunder,
My imprint marked upon her skin,
I share her questions from within,
Punishment? Or gift? Or is it neither?
When will I stop?
…… I don’t know either.