Perception

What's your pleasure: the soft stroke 

of the flogger that whispers through the air

and lands with a burning splatter and 

drags cool tendrils over my skin? Or

do you like the paddle, that hits

like the heavy hand of a scolding parent,

a teacher I've pushed too far. One 

with holes, that let it whistle through the air

or vampire spikes, to draw tiny beads

of blood? Perhaps you like the crop?

Sharp, hot explosions of pain. Precise,

on the curve of my ass or the arch

of my foot? Do you like stripes? You ask

as you run your tongue up the length of 

your cane. Smooth, long, and oh so

innocent looking. But the marks it leaves…

on my skin and my soul.  You have 

them all there, waiting for me. I'm ready.

So, what's your pleasure?