Sense One

Sense One


Not for the heat that radiates in pulsing waves

An inch over your buttock flesh

Nor the the way the colours run in rainbows

Pink to red to purple weals

It is not for the metal tang of skin and blood

When I wet the tired leather

Or the symphony of sobs and whimpers

To the rhythm of the strap

Not for any joy of touch or taste, sound or sight

Do I lay my hands on you

But the swelling musk, the scent of your arousal

When the blows begin to fall