Until Craving Wakes

I don’t think about it, sometimes. Life is lived, days go by, I’m content.

Until craving wakes.

A photo, a memory, an idea is all it takes to spark the constant churning in the pit of my stomach.

Craving moves.

Thoughts of meaness, pain and marks break through the mundane.

Craving lives.

Dreams dance on spanking benches, wielding whips and canes and other implements of evil.

Craving grows.

A wooden spoon stirs more than sauce, the practical perverted to ponderings of punishment.

Craving grows.

The brat is back, baiting and waiting, needing and wanting.

Craving grows.

And grows and grows until it is taken in firm, capable, chastising hands.

Craving piqued.

Giving what is needed in blows and pinches, bites and slaps. Restrained only by his will.

Craving engaged.

Consensual calligraphy of marks written across my flesh.

Craving sated.

Aching, throbbing, heated, sore. I lay, replete. Smile across my face.

Craving contented.

For now.

Until Craving wakes again.



My Masturbation Monday Post this week has woken my masochist.