The Screaming Sort

When I feel the crushing kiss of an open palm
or the slap of a forked tongue in leather,
maybe a studded belt doubled over,
there I find clarity.

Biting my lip so hard it nearly bleeds,
with tears raining down from my eyes -
I beg her for more. Harder. And now.
Oh, please?

Soft tails of a cat o' nine tickle my thighs,
making me twitch - I'm quite ticklish.
She teases 'til I'm giddy with need,
switches to her hand.

She knows that's my favorite implement.
The contrast, soft caresses and thundering
crashes melting together in my mind.
That's gonna leave a mark.

"Present yourself to me," she snaps,
amusement creeping into her voice;
and I obey, her hand on my belly
raising me up.

Fingers dip into my heat, feeling like ice
and I can feel the steam escaping me.
Just a taste...
And the paddle comes down on my mound.

Spiralling up nearly to the heavens, crashing
back down to earth with the intensity of
the screaming sort of orgasm.

She can play me with her eyes closed.