I know what he’s about to do.
I’m used to it, look forward to guilty desire,
Waiting to be scolded, punished and told what to do.
My face is red, almost as red as my back,
Red thighs from the pounding—
Hard oak of his hand stings,
But I love it.  I am used to this….

As I submit, all his attention is focused on me.
I ignite his desire as I assume the position,
Hands tied, face in the pillow,
Legs spread-eagled, tied to the posts of the bed.
His stern voice calls my attention as
He makes me do what I secretly want in total obedience,
No more waiting, no hesitation as he
Slaps my ass through soft cotton underpants,
Ripping elastic until he sees what he wants.

I am taken, as his rough hands seize me,
Grasp the moment as we become closer….
Unwrapped down to the core,
Embarrassed to be owned, longing to be owned…
I am prone to this, disposed to wanting it,
Hating it, loving it, until I am finally released,
Gathered, commanded, demanded,
Both forced and free to be held against hips,
Rammed again and again as he
Grinds toward his rapture.

My power is found in submission,
Erect and alive to whatever he seeks,
His boy to use, his pleasure to take and fulfill.
And I love it.  I am used to this.
For me, this hungry beast that uses me,
Pries me open, creates between the
Strongest bond I’ve ever known.
His short breaths collapse into one,
Penetrate through the pain,
Force me to finally belong to someone.