poem

threesome

lurvspanking9 Comments

there once was a girl who liked sucking
far more than she actually liked fucking
when she bounced in the sack
splayed out on her back
the problem was which to attack

for the cock it was hard
all veiny and large
tasty truncheon meaty and throbbing

but the pussy was wet
pink lips soft as velvet
creamy sauce so juicy and dripping

they fought for her mouth
while neglecting down south
naughty fingers slipped and got frigging

but that was too greedy
scolded for being so needy
bare bottom turned red with hard spanking

she got what she wanted
no longer so haunted
humiliation freed through pleading

the moral of her tears
was to overcome her fears
learn submission wasn’t so daunting

A Free Offer and a Poetry Surprise

lurvspanking4 Comments

Welcome my spanko friends. First of all, I’d like to thank all of you who commented on my post last December and offered condolences for my wife’s death. It’s has been three months now and I am coping okay. This past weekend I went down to Sanibel Island, Florida to scatter some of her ashes on the beach where we vacationed this past August. Today, March 1st, is her birthday and I wrote a poem for her. I posted it along with pictures on my blog.

Not this one. No, not that one either.
Not a blog that any of you know about, well, with two exceptions.
Before I get into that, y’all need a bit of history. So kick back, relax in your leggings/fleece/flannel or nothing at all, while I try to wrap this up in under a thousand words. 😉

I started blogging in 2006 focusing on women’s rights, abuse, rape, mental health; all the negative things that happen in our societies worldwide. I wanted to shine the light on abhorrent behavior through ‘Truth is Freedom’. I gradually built an audience, started posting poems and fiction as well as essays, and found myself posting every single day. In fact, I kept a 30-day buffer of completed daily posts so that I had time to write my first novel at work. But I consider myself a poet first and foremost. A fiction writer second. And I’m a damn good poet.

1. The first blog. 02/2006 to 02/2012. 450 posts. Now private because I was getting thousands of spam comments every day.
2. The next blog. 09/2006 to 02/2012. 130 posts. Public but not mine.*
3. The next blog. 10/2006 to 02/2012. 007 posts. Now private. Contains most of my poetry at 1000+ poems in seven folders.
4. The next blog. 07/2009 to 01/2017. 020 posts. Public but not mine.*
5. The next blog. 09/2009 to present. 620 posts. This very spanking blog you are reading.
6. The next blog. 07/2010 to 01/2012. 013 posts. Now private. About my poly phase.
7. The next blog. 07/2016 to present. 580 posts. Public, under my real first name, with poetry and fiction.
8. The next blog. 05/2017 to present. 030 posts. Public as Byron Cane, erotica author.

As you can see, I’ve been blogging for 15 years – with many breaks – but have kept my fictional spanking life walled off from my real life. Until now.

*This is the exception. The two starred* blogs don’t belong to me, but her, Dewy Knickers, who also blogs as Bawdy Wench, who is Rose, who is part of us as multiple personalities. She’s not linking, but will see how it goes with me first. She is on the poetry blog however if you dig on the sidebar. She wants you to have to work to find her and her book.

And as an aside, I’m proud to be a multiple personality, and damn proud of Rose. She’s fucking amazing, as a writer, a poet, a woman and as my friend.

And we could fucking care less about trolls… other than diced and fried for breakfast.

The poem is “My Wife’s Ashes’ and is posted on my other writing blog, There Are More Poets Than Stars in The Firmament. Please click the highlighted title of the poem and you will be taken to the post. If you feel moved to comment, but don’t want to link your D/s blog to my vanilla blog, then feel free to comment on this post instead. Thank you and please take some time if you can to explore my other writing. There are quick link pages at the top of the blog and categories in the sidebar.

Now to the FREE OFFER!!!!
Interested?
Well, it’s not here. Not there.
It’s right here instead..

Happy Reading my spanko friends.

Stay safe, stay healthy, stay strong.

It’s not a moral failing

lurvspanking7 Comments

Two personal posts in a row, it must be something in the air! Actually, this week’s prompt, Sad, for Wicked Wednesday, is very apropos. Even since the clocks moved forward an hour 10 days ago, I’ve been struggling with depression.

There are two definitions of ‘Sad’. ORIGIN: Old English sæd ‘sated, weary,’ also ‘weighty, dense,’ of Germanic origin; related to Dutch zat and German satt, from an Indo-European root shared by Latin satis ‘enough.’ The original meaning was replaced in Middle English by the senses ‘steadfast, firm’ and ‘serious, sober,’ and later ‘sorrowful.’ It also is an abbreviation for “seasonal affective disorder”, which is something many people who grew up in northern latitudes suffer.

For me though, being depressed doesn’t mean sadness. It’s more feeling empty; no emotion, no desire, no cares. Strangely enough though, it doesn’t impact me when I’m working, only when I’m at home; but that is when I have time to write. Which I am not. Writing.

The best expression of how depression feels is in this poem I wrote over a decade ago.

“D is for Depression”

it’s called the blues
not the music
but the soul
crushing despair
despair that grabs hold
and lingers
like a fungus
that grows on the tiles
in the bathroom of hell
you try bleach
you try scrubbing
til your fingers bleed
but it keeps
coming
back
over and over again
it’s called the blues

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Now a Major Motion Picture: The Wedding Games

lurvspanking11 Comments

From Vladivostok they came
to play a wedding game
a case of vodka the prize
with competitive eyes
they rushed
and they popped
when to everyone’s surprise
up flipped their skirts
the groomsmen smirked
so the bride declared a tie
and ordered them birched
so all they got
for bursting their balloons
was to forfeit the knickers
and abstain from the liquor
but the boyfriends did rise
[to the occasion]
and after the toasts
made the most of the roast
that their girlfriend’s behinds had become

so let that be a lesson
when playing silly games
if the camera is rolling
keep your underwear from showing
and never
ever
piss off the bride

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

The cruelty of nostalgia’s whip

lurvspanking5 Comments

This week for Wicked Wednesday, the prompt is Time Travel and, despite the plethora of fictional treatments, is something that is impossible. Without getting into the mathematical formulae that deal with the one-way arrow of time — nor the multiverse concept spawned by quantum mechanics — the oft-used example goes thusly: “If time travel were possible, then why are we not overrun by future iterations of advanced lifeforms either enslaving or lecturing us about what pathetic beings we are?”

But missy wrote about a type of time travel we all practice in her recent post, “Blame it on the Boots”, where she explains about her passionate {if not kinky} love affair with boots. In her post she travels back in time as she writes this passage: “The first time we visited Italy together, we drank too much wine and found ourselves in a lovely leather shop in Montepulciano. Here we bought my first pair of summer boots, beautifully soft, handmade, with leather soles.”

In our minds, the arrow of time does not exist. Memory serves as an instant reminder and flagellator of all the mistakes we’ve ever made. It takes an effort to realize there were many more good times than bad. Which brings me to the photograph below that was taken in the summer of 1981, in Como, Italy, through the narrow wooden doors opening upon the public street.

Como, Italy 1981

It was a long time ago and, someone else, another personality who took the picture. I see my past through their eyes and it makes me wonder about the impermanence of nostalgia. Memory is fickle and not to be trusted; the only path forward is to exist one moment at a time and revel in the sharp sting of leather upon flesh.

boots drum under whip
the cobbler would know the sound
cypress sway gossip
pink cheeks suffused by lover
Tyrrhenian Sea glistens

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

It wasn’t always like this

lurvspanking8 Comments

I wonder if you saw me
the ex
in the queue at school
salt-hazed vehicles
lumbering through the drop-off zone
waved forward by paddle wielding tyrants
or did you speed by
oblivious
perhaps texting

are you still married to your job instead of a spouse

clouds of polar bear killing exhaust
coat the sooty snow
except those under-powered electrics
slipping through the slush
tires spinning
spray thwacking brightly colored rubber boots
rendering tropical flashes against the salted ice
the parents — sorry — the mommies pretending not to notice the elementary children carbon-shaming them
my personal failure to be environmentally pious enough
was one — of many — reasons we split possessions
I admit for years I seethed

would you be horrified to learn my butt’s sore this morning

just the memory of the hard spanking I got
before I buckled in the sprogs
and started the meter
makes me grin at the teachers
with a maniacal expression
it wasn’t your fault
until I met someone who wouldn’t put up with my shit
I never knew how unhappy I was
at being in control
so you see
the person who needed forgiveness
was myself
not you
because without you
I wouldn’t be here
in my happy place
wiggling with desire
knowing the kids will be gone for the weekend
and I’ll be royally fucked
and whipped by Monday

don’t you wish you’d tied me up and taken out your frustrations on my body

so thank you
for letting me go
if I say I saw you today
it will be the cane
or the belt
hopefully both
over and over again

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Here be Dragons!

lurvspanking17 Comments

beneath the down, warm slick ridges yield to pressure, fingers tracing the lines written with rattan
curving up the slope, straining for the summit, plunging off the crest deep into the shadowed depths
the geography of your body is a cartographer’s dream, all thoroughly explored by disciplined surveying

paper crackles when I step
an old Esso map
creases worn thin
a souvenir of our last road trip, back when we had few responsibilities and fewer cares, our only goals to fuck
then fuck some more

sliding under the covers, morning cock crowing, driving forward between the parted hillocks
remembering the first time we plunged into Terra Incognita, the dark tunnel resisting eager efforts
the hiss you make now, reminds me of the hot springs, a memory of long ago when a map still excited us

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Why do I need my Dom to spank me?

lurvspanking4 Comments

because…
it makes me feel safe, loved, wanted
cherished
it lets me escape the kids, the boss, the overdue bills, but
being honest
[he requires that of me… the beast]
because…
I surrendered that choice to you willingly
my pain is now yours to bestow
whenever you feel the need
to own me
and make the during
as deliciously humiliating as possible
until I beg for it to be over
and you stop
every time
right before my safe word tumbles to the floor
and shatters our understanding
that it’s the before
before the act of spanking
when
I tingle
I shiver
I gush
because…
I’m happiest when you growl
threaten
order me to submit… there is no ‘or else’
only promises kept
and my bottom thrust nice and high
I’m seldom dry
when you lecture
and scold
I’ll pay any price to lift
the disappointed shadow
in your eye
so
over I go
heeding your mastery
your skill at spanking
your naughty submissive
until she cries
with relief
words of forgiveness
wordless echoes of respect and love
ring louder than
the spanks now stopped
and after
after the canes and paddles and brushes
are put away… temporarily
your humbled sub needs
the very best part of spanking
as the heat transmogrifies
to aching soreness
your punishing hand
soothes reddened flesh
and reinforces why
I ignore those
who send me links
and toll-free numbers
and question my femininity
with ever more strident
disbelief
but
because… I trust you
and know I’m a better woman
when you dominate me
that is why
I need to be spanked

[Preferably every morning, lunchtime when possible, and every single night so that all my tension and doubts and fears are washed away by your determination to keep me safe from myself]

“But Master! You know everything!”

lurvspanking5 Comments

Do I? Is that what your training has led you to?
Come.
Where are we going?
To the walls.
Why?
You wish to know where cravings start?
Yes. You never have cravings. I want to know your secret.
That question is easy, little one. Climb.
Is this a metaphor? Climbing to heaven? Each step representing knowledge and wisdom?
Wisdom is knowing when to save your breath and when to scream.
I do not understand, Master.
Every relationship is unequal. That is why you chatter needlessly instead of observing the Beloved’s hand in every action.
All I see is endless lifeless desert below and infinite stars above. How does that relate to craving?

Do you not crave the sweet flesh of ripe melon?
The zest of pomegranate?
The rich savory fig?
You,
who have never seen the succulent treasure between a woman’s thighs,
fail to make the correlation between craving and living.

And you have?
What you see out there, beyond the high brick walls of the sultan’s citadel, you transpose upon your Master, I, who have nothing but a long existence trailing behind me like the gauzy scarf of your admirer flapping in the harsh winds of crimson summer.
She does not see me.
She sees you. A boy, pouting for a treat of forbidden honey wine. Beware the sting.
What do you know of being a boy!
I know.

I know what wakes in the early morning before dawn’s first blush.
I know the rising sap that stiffens green wood and burns hotter than the sun.
I know the rampant mind that weaves elaborate mirages luring even the most stalwart of men to spill their seed upon infertile soil.
I know.

Then why does the Beloved torment us so?

Because, little one, above all else, She creates a craving for union of bodies and souls so that we may worship with joyful hearts and willingly submit to discipline.

I was wrong.
Where are you going?
You don’t know anything! Master! I’m leaving and I won’t be back!

Ah! Little One, your Master has never claimed to know everything.
In fact, the older he becomes, the less he knows.
As in the beginning,
when as infants we crave our mother’s milk
so to at the end,
we crave reunion with the Source.

Without our cravings
we are not alive

If it’s the first day of the month, then there is a new newsletter at my other blog, Byron Cane Spanking and Erotic Fiction.

Does pain have a color?

lurvspanking7 Comments

when memory of words
hurled to wound
burst along the never healed scar
does pain have a color
why then
does some pain
feel good
when face-to-face with fear
past never far
haunting every action
stealing moments
moments that turn into a lifetime
a lifetime passes
with no resolution
when intoxicants
no longer work
the world reduced to gray mist
sleeping
wishing to never wake
some
some few
some few find pain does have a color
red
pink
blue
the color of discipline
and love given
one spank at a time
for those fortunate
the few who experience
the bliss of over-the-knee
they know pain
does have a color
it’s whatever shade
your Dominant chooses
to bestow
a color that wipes away
agony
of words hurled to wound
it may sound strange
the smack of flesh
the cries
and pleas
expressing love through
spanking
but color
can be healing
too

chalk beneath my feet

lurvspanking2 Comments

how many before me have sat here
and elsewhere
sore bottom and tender thighs
seed even now
~hopefully~
taking root in my eager womb
arms wrapped around knees
hem madly flapping as my heart
aches to watch wake riding waves
dispersed upon upwelling tide
cold air scaling white cliffs
to send gulls flying
hurtling inland to build squalls
to match my wet cheeks
hoping he will return
knowing that many will not
two months mine
the others given to the sea
a harsh mistress
offering naught but death
and wealth
for the fortunate few
who ride her swells
as he rode mine
willingly did I open wide
submit to his cock
that glorious and sole
redeeming aspect of being
a sailor’s love
who with calloused hands
spanked the calendar away
drawing red lines across
the needy surface
the sails fill and his ship
is flying over the
feathering sea
away from me
again
my hand waves
over the edge of the world
she falls
down
down
into the briny depths
we turn our backs
from Land’s End
and stroll arm-in-arm
widows of the deep blue ocean
with chalk beneath our feet

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Tied to my faults

lurvspanking11 Comments

This week for Wicked Wednesday, the prompt is ‘Bond’ after the quartet of the same name playing ‘Victory’ from the year 2000. I have that album Born on CD. Likely I purchased it because it featured four women in tight dresses with lovely bums. I do enjoy their music as well, to be fair. The other Bond, James Bond, uses sex and sizzle too; although I’d like to see a Jane Bond at some point.

The origin of bond, is rather interesting. The ultimate root source is bind: ORIGIN Old English bindan, of Germanic origin; related to Dutch and German binden, from an Indo-European root shared by Sanskrit bandh.

This changed to band, as in: #4 archaic ‘a thing that restrains, binds, or unites.’ ORIGIN late Old English (sense 4 of the noun), from Old Norse, reinforced in late Middle English by Old French bande, of Germanic origin; related to bind.

In turn, this lead to bonds: physical restraints used to hold someone or something prisoner, esp. ropes or chains. ORIGIN Middle English: variant of band1.

The surname Bond, comes from Old English bonda, bunda, reinforced by Old Norse bóndi, which in the Old Norse meant farmer or husbandman, as well as a personal name.

In Modern English, bond is also used in chemistry, the law, building and financial trades and in terms of relationships. It’s interesting that the word bondage, originally comes from an agricultural background: ORIGIN Middle English: from Anglo-Latin bondagium, from Middle English bond ‘serf’ (earlier ‘peasant, householder’), from Old Norse bóndi ‘tiller of the soil,’ based on búa ‘dwell’; influenced in sense by bond.
The BDSM meaning of bondage was first recorded in 1966.

the fertile soil of my phobia ridden mind
yields a paltry harvest of habitual faults
with plow and mattock blistered hands seek
redemption for numerous errors in judgement

the sun cannot scorch hotter than the whips
that keep me entangled in familial bondage

there was a time when I ran naked through
open fields of imagination and possibility
when the bond of life had yet to be cashed
and bitterness sank to the bottom of the mug

the toasts and songs mean nothing to me now
that she has traveled where I am yet to go

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

I realize this is not very wicked this week, but when the Muse wants a gloomy poem… I can but obey.

Falling shards of Memory

lurvspanking17 Comments

we fell,
like ripe plums the color of a bruised heart left to rot
in resentment
thirty years since
we tumbled
into lust with the hubris of youth stoked with weed
the only sentient beings ever to discover
parts fit perfectly
until we blew apart like a super heated nova
of jealousy and grade point averages
all around people swirl like bees
dancing in a hive
come and go hauling wobbly pieces of themselves
from gate to plane back to reality
shining livery adorned with emerald and ruby
jewels winking in the soft summer air
of remembrance and recognition
the lope and the bounce
mind recoils seeing the bodies and faces
of long lost friends
lined with life like a faded treasure map
of retired pirates
not unlike the expressions ignored daily
in the mirror of time
we embrace
her first the taut curves softened yet hands
provide tactile memory of bottom over knee
reddened flesh bouncing under brush
gentle social hug ignites fire kept banked
his body next wider somehow shorter but still tight
the quirked lip and sparkled eyes unchanged
like tissue paper boats
the intervening years dissolve to when we girls
compared marks and orgasms
slaves to his devious dominance
we chat
introduce my husband pulse racing his gaze both
knowing and concerned tinged with hurt
it was supposed to be simple
but meeting old flames threatened to undo me
so
I surrendered
after dinner explained to him who they were and
why after three decades the pull was still strong
they met and talked while we nattered about
our kids and menopause and gravity
summoned to their room
two strong men awaited
grim demanding explanations
we stammered
they laughed and slapped each others backs
then ordered us to our knees
online for years planned our submission
and discipline in secret
devious Doms are the worst
and the best
we sucked
hard cocks jutting from jeans
arms behind our backs
cuffed and swapped
groaning as our hair fisted
and mouths filled with thick cream
ass up as they flog me
my tongue buried in familiar pussy
the taste makes me cry for wasted years
they hug me
we fuck
in every combination that four can conjure
the steady roar of jets slowly fade as the world sleeps
decide to blow off the reunion
in favor of room service and debauched sex
of willing slaves
we grin

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Mosh pit equations

lurvspanking4 Comments

they were strangers, when next I saw them again,
DJ ripping disco night in shreds, punk/dupstep slices of audio porn, frenzied fingers entering willing orifices, each had retained me, unbeknownst to the other, teetering on the brink of divorce, dragged kicking and screaming over the Rubicon of fifty, years wasted in silent combat,
strangers asleep in the same bed, slick with secretions, dreaming of wasted opportunities passed over in guilt, no wonder religions banned dancing, bare asses flashed everywhere, skirts worn as belts, the sickly smell of sweat and vomit, subsumed by sexual heat and enlightenment achieved through X and trance bass tracks thrumming in pagan souls, if a club could bottle the air, Lauren would implode the economy with sales to baby boomers who used colored pills to reclaim youth,
watching the hole develop, even the Sufi whirled away, the thermonuclear passion glowed between them, the gut wrenching arousal pureed with hate and ennui, my clients fucked each other over in plain sight, lit by strobes, danger building, hardcore ravers jolted out of apathy and faux transcendence by the real thing, decades of saved ammo, fired off for my benefit, nothing more savage than domestic contempt fueled by alcohol and mob anonymity,
jaded as I was, even I almost fell for the drama, hands spanking exposed bottom, teeth nipping swollen lips, designer gashes ripped even further, junk erect, trying to shatter stasis of middle-age, varicose leg thrown over arthritic hip, penetrative consummation ringed by youth desperate to capture elusive high, a heartbeat away from overdose, the awareness of time stalking as the apex predator, none to escape the pitiless scythe, best turn your back and twerk for an upload, inhibitions exchanged for the inflated cover charge, the damned dancing into a future filled with heartache, broken promises and prescriptions,
strangers all, inside silicon shells, the only thing they owned, were their orgasms, splashed recklessly into the seething pool of pheromones, my camera flashed, files for the lawyers, if they ever decided to pull the trigger.

Something didn’t add up—I tipped the hatcheck girl—sticky soles wiped on only slightly less filthy curb
sirens wailed—the skyscrapers mostly dark—the miasma rising from the sewers swirling around off-duty taxis
I lit a smoke—exhaled—the life of a PI was fucking great—sarcasm at three am wasted on the confident rats

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Flashback Friday: “Honey Dew”

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This week’s Flashback Friday, originally posted Oct 25th, 2009 for Oral Worship Day.

“Honey Dew”

red lips pout
glistening with slick dew
thighs flex
aimlessly she gasps
tongue lapping
inhaling her scent
unique
musky
passionate flows of nectar
coat my taste buds
swallowing her lust
pinned
her arms trapped by my weight
pausing to suck her clit
then
spanking
wet smacks
on wetter folds
red becomes redder
gasps become screams
wet becomes a torrent
I bend my head
to torment her some more
she cries
I smile
she’s mine

twisted path through sexual maze

lurvspanking11 Comments

admonished to follow your heart, young girl grew up with silver screen
princesses, dainty fair-skinned beauties, only purpose in life to ensnare
a handsome prince, a rich toad would do in a pinch, the bad guys always
redeemed, meanwhile in real life, leather jacket and cigarettes replaced
ball gown and tiara, what’s a girl to do, woman grown realizing vanilla is
not her flavor, blowjobs no fun unless coerced, pussy gets wet when called
out as slut, and forget about anal to savor, most men are wimpy poseurs,
all concerned and tender, of course it’s supposed to hurt you stupid wanker
you call that a spanking, my palsied aunt hits harder than that, just get
out, don’t come back, find yourself someone who thinks footsie is daring,
I’ll follow my heart, find the man of my dreams, he’s willing to drink down
my darkness, and after he licks my foam off his lips, takes my throat in his
hand, says that he loves me just as I am, then collars and fucks his toy, as
twisted as he can, so when I scream for mercy saying it’s enough for now,
he laughs at my lies, takes me harder and higher beyond the sexual maze.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

autumnal spankings

lurvspanking5 Comments

the time for lovers poets claim is spring
flowers buds plucked
pollen laden stamens life bursts at the seams
but spankos know better in fall do bottoms blush
rosy red apples shiny cheeks all ablaze
rounded ripe pears tender flesh squeezed
fuzzy sweet peaches juices so licky-sticky
and of course pumpkins for Hallowe’en carving
deep creases so smooth
bend over in jeans
let your lover whack in the patch
for trick or treat this year
dress up with a smile and
let your wolf know this time
it won’t be the hood that’s bright red

Posted here on AC’s blog for the Halloween Writing Event

A spanking sestina poem

lurvspanking3 Comments

I am the original author posted elsewhere 3/3/08. My first love is poetry. Combined with spanking it turns to lust.

A sestina is a poem of six six-line stanzas and a three-line envoy, originally without rhyme, in which each stanza repeats the end words of the lines of the first stanza, but in different fixed order, the envoy using the six words again, three in the middle of the lines and three at the end.

“Bottoms Up”

walking her wool slacks molded her bottom
setting my wineglass back on the table
stood up to greet her kissed soft cheek
sparkling smile that reaches her eyes
whispers in ear today I was naughty
breath in her hair scent of perfume.

do I smell an expensive perfume
if it is I’ll be spanking that bottom
I didn’t mean to oh why am I naughty
perhaps a lesson bent over this table
in public she cried with fear in her eyes
how else can I punish such cheek.

please sir not here tears on her cheek
all this for a little bottle of perfume
you know the rules no wool in my eyes
over my knee proper place for your bottom
nervously twists ring her hands on the table
I’m taking you home my lover who’s naughty.

remove your clothes my sweet naughty
slowly turn round show me your cheek
stretch yourself out over that table
seen from behind can smell her perfume
my firm hand starts smacking pale bottom
look in the mirror and open your eyes.

reflected in light her misty blue eyes
trembling mouth with a pout looks naughty
hairbrush strokes cracking on pink bottom
timing each blow on her flexing cheek
odor of roses her feminine perfume
an essence that flows onto the table.

writhing her hips grind into table
panting and weeping with unfocused eyes
higher she spirals pulses lusty perfume
she thrusts back begging more I’m naughty
please harder faster all over my cheek
long thorough strapping makes a red bottom.

sprawled on the table you’ve learned not to be naughty.
with pleading eyes looks back rubbing hot sore cheek.
was it worth the perfume to have a well roasted bottom.

P.S. I’d like to take full credit for the feminine silhouette of the poem, but truth is it only happened by accident when I centered the poem on the page. I couldn’t have planned it if I tried.