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.
Thoughts of meaness, pain and marks break through the mundane.
Dreams dance on spanking benches, wielding whips and canes and other implements of evil.
A wooden spoon stirs more than sauce, the practical perverted to ponderings of punishment.
The brat is back, baiting and waiting, needing and wanting.
And grows and grows until it is taken in firm, capable, chastising hands.
Giving what is needed in blows and pinches, bites and slaps. Restrained only by his will.
Consensual calligraphy of marks written across my flesh.
Aching, throbbing, heated, sore. I lay, replete. Smile across my face.
Until Craving wakes again.