My Hand
The soft, smooth curve of your flesh beneath my hand,
Each strike a rhythm, a pulse, a steady command.
A shiver travels up your spine, sweet and slow,
As the sound of skin meeting skin begins to grow.
Your breath catches, a whisper of pleasure, so near,
In the air, your soft moans, a song I long to hear.
The heat of the moment burns with a gentle flame,
Each slap a mark, a token of power, no shame.
The way your body tenses, then melts in my grip,
I savor each sigh, each tremble, each slip.
The echo of your skin, like a drum, so pure,
Filling the silence with a rhythm I adore.
A gentle tug, your body quivers, then stills,
Your skin, my canvas, as I paint with my will.
I trace the lines of your pain, where pleasure entwines,
The sweet tension between us, like a thread that binds.
Every breath you take, every gasp, every sigh,
Draws me closer, tethered to you, as time slips by.
Your body hums in response to each tender blow,
As my hand lands softly, then harder, then slow.
The dance of discipline, the push and the pull,
With each strike, you become mine, sweet and full.
Your skin sings in harmony with the sound of my touch,
A symphony of spanking, so firm, so much.