Discipline

One.

A startled gasp,
even with the fall anticipated
the impact was not as imagined and
fingers flexed against the floor.

"Thank you Sir, may I have another?"

Two.

Methodical. Exacting.
Your blow falls just atop other.
Fresh, virgin skin begins to glow
beneath the tongue of leather.

Slowly a breath draws, fingers curl.

"Thank you Sir, may I have another?"

Three.

Like a fire burst ember from the log,
ass flesh quivers with blow,
rippling then flinching to the beat,
while the scorching color deepens the flesh.

Eyes close with a whisper,

"Thank you Sir, may I have another?"

Four.

The sound. The sear. The words.
It becomes a mantra after each tempered beat
ready repetition slipping from lips
though now choked as this fall is deeper felt.

"Thank you Sir, may I have another?"

Five.

It burns! as though held to with a match;
the strike powerful, purposeful and deliberate.
You earn a cry and the mascara streaking tear
that lets you know -

That each continued fall, each continued beat
it will train me, it will torment me, it will tame me
both to accepting your strikes, and accepting your will,
to this, I will know to repeat.

"Thank you Sir, may I have another?"