Here I lay in silence, waiting, anticipating . . . listening for the sound of your slow, confident footsteps. As I wait I remember the last time. Was it an hour ago? Was it two? I try to sense the dryness in my mouth. But how dry is dry? And how long did it take it dry out the last time you wetted it?
Ah, you wetted it and I spat. I spat out the cum in proud insolence. I wanted you to know that I didn’t need your help . . . your pleasure . . . your favors. I saw the shadow cloud your face. Your eyes still bright with desire, yet cold with anger. Your dark eyes bored into my very soul and then you smiled and went to the foot of the bed.
I thought you would take the crop and thrash my quivering pussy. I thought that you would make me thank you for every lash as you had so many times before. I could hear my voice in the past screaming with each new sting of the lash and then yelling, “Thank you Master! Please Master, again.” A second lash, a second scream . . . “Thank you Master! Please Master, again.” But you didn’t pick up the crop.
Instead you stroked my pussy gently, planting the seed of fire. Your touch like the gentle breeze that makes the fire burn hotter and hotter, intensity building and flaring and then . . .
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Categories: Erotic Poem