Yielding

I know the music is perfect for writing when the strains of guitar make my belly clench low. I need that deep physical response.

I am still awaiting your punishment, darling. Do I show too much eagerness, reminding you of your duty? It doesn't do to have a willful slave, does it? Willfulness, and enthusiasm. You'd want to break one and encourage the other, yes? You know I am so eager to please you.

What would you choose? I'm already on my knees, bent to your will. Would you prefer using those hands you are so good with? Isn't there something so sweet about flesh to flesh, the echo of the sting you dealt reverberating in your palm? Isn't there something so satisfying about the defined red hand prints left behind as evidence of your fire? Isn't there something so tempting about pausing to grab and pinch already heated, tender flesh? I am sure you have a sadistic strain; I am sure you wouldn't hesitate to make the pain just that little bit more exquisite, more piercing.

Maybe you crave more than palm slapping flesh. Maybe you want more spilled forth from me than just sharp breaths, and choose the leather of your belt. That would better achieve the color you are seeking, better force noises from my throat. Forget sharp breathes; instead, you'll hear my gasps, my little cries. Don't be too gentle. My body tenses, preparing for each blow, my breath torn from me when your lashes connect. I'll try so hard to be strong. I won't ask you for mercy, even moaning between clenched teeth. I yearn to yield to you, my body quivering from stinging pleasure pain. Anything you wish.

Will you kiss away my tears when my body is overcome? Will you recharge me with your fingers and tongue when all I have to give has been drained away?