I need the crop.

The rough leather edge scratches my trembling breast,

white flight trails incipient on my skin.

“Harder,” my eyes implore, lips quivering.

My hair snaps back, your mouth on my neck,

a burgeoning teeth tattoo.

Tears well, I compel,

“Thank you, to feel you agai-,”

SLAP!

My clit twitches,

a sharp inhale, uneven exhale.

A rapid prodding under my chin

rollicks me up on my toes.

Your grin grows, my heart swells,

I need the crop more than you know.

A slithering S snakes between my breasts,

ensuing swift downward strokes to my slit’s tip.

Calves juddering,

I hold on for dear life.

I don't dare fall back,

even as you splay my weeping folds apart.

The coarse aril’s brim

unearths and pulls up my hood.

Whimpering, exposed,

eyes locked, my soul bared,

I need more pain, more pleasure,

more of your time and attention.

I want the crop, I need the crop.

“Face down, ass up, sweetheart.”

In position,

“I’ve missed you-“

SPANK!

The outline of the crop painted crimson on my left cheek.

The ragged hem abrading a parallel line downwards,

mushrooming red dots ooze to the surface.

You have marked me as yours,

now and forever more.