Weighed down and burdened by insatiable guilt,
I lay nude across the edge of the bed.
“Be hard on me,” I ask, looking only at the quilt,
humiliation, anticipation, and ‘rousal mixing with the dread.
The belt is unbuckled, withdrawn, and virginally used.
He strictly straps my fanny to a warm, burnished glow.
Though I cry real tears, I feel only loved, not abused,
and ache for a way to let my reciprocated love show.
He’s a man of few words, now does his talking only with the strap,
unlike that belt, that communicates through both bark and bite.
Then his fingers convey such love, tracing marks that resemble a road map,
that I must part my thighs, arch my back, and expose my sex to his sight.
Sweat glistens from bodies, we both labor for breath,
his cock springs from tight jeans, engorged like my clit.
Emily D. once wrote that she could count on love even after death.
Aloud I count the last strap-stroke/love-tap that won’t let me sit.
“You’re hard,” I exclaim, simultaneous with his, “You’re wet,”
confirming that we share the same appetite for kink,
thereby my sin and guilt, his retribution all seem like Kismet.
We are Siamese twins, joined in the same lascivious way we think.
He enters me from behind, hips slap where the strap just had.
We shared the best foreplay, and now sex that’s even better.
“I love it when you’re hard on me,” I groan, feeling wonderfully bad,
“And that you observe a law both in the spirit and to the letter.”
Just as I suspected, we are perfectly matched as sides of a coin,
E Pluribus Unum, Top and bottom, give and take, his head in my tail.
The discovery culminates in climaxes we simultaneously join.
“Promise me that you’ll always be hard on me, in me,” I softly wail.
“I promise,” he whispers minutes later, as we in afterglow bask,
still coupled like spoons put away in the drawer.
“Now, promise me your hand in marriage,” he’s unexpectedly moved to ask.
I answer, “If you’ll employ your hand by spanking me forevermore…”