I run my hand down the birch cane. Inspect
it. Slap it twice against my palm. Then: “¡Swish-
Crack!” The cane lashes your ass. Hard. Perfect.
You jerk in restraints. You had said, “Ravish
Me.” I run the tip of the birch between
your cheeks, touch the raw welt that has risen.
Whisper in your ear: One. In twelve obscene
strokes I will leave you bawling in ruin;
mewling, the way lost kittens mewl. “And now,”
I say, holding up the plug, “Eight inches
inside you.” I twist. “That’s three.” You gasp. “Six.”
You’re spread out wide. I push until somehow
all your muscles clinch up and what gushes
out leaves you in pelvis-grinding spastics.