Sweet anticipation, like that of discovering a new, long book
fills my breast and knots my tummy, whenever you give me that look,
that stern one, with jaw set and eyes ablaze, that we both know so well,
the one that turns my knees to jelly, my defiance meek, and puts me under your spell.
Just like I love cuddling before a fireplace with a newly found tome,
I revel in the same trembling bliss, as when Mom used to warn, “Just wait ‘til your father gets home!”
I look forward to turning each page the same as being turned straight over your knee.
Part of me wants to get it over with, part desires it to be prolonged for eternity.
I long to be swept off my feet, ravished, taken, I thrill to every plot twist
or to twist around to watch my panties pulled right down.
I’m gratified by each character’s comeuppance even as I’m aroused by my own,
often wish that I could answer with thanks each author for his works,
just like you always answer with spanks to correct my faults or quirks.
I vividly recall closing book covers and clutching them to my heart,
happy, fulfilled, and teary-eyed, ready to give my life a fresh start.
I vividly recall clutching my heart-shaped butt, to rub the warmth and glow
feeling all those same pure feelings, the most contentment I could know.
So, upon reflection (of both the book in my mind and my bottom in the full-length glass),
I realize it isn’t about reading some words, or the sound slapping of my ass.
It is a need in me, a hunger, an ache, a very delicious kink,
whatever it takes to bring me up short and finally make me think.
As I love to be swept up off of my feet, ravished, taken, and possessed,
the means is not an issue; whether intellect is gently prodded or my derriere roughly caressed.