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Click hereSense 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
another picture inspired one:
http://www.tumblr.com/blog/arjayeiff