spanking | memories of my ghost sista

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Listen for the glisten of mud. By swan’s

soot. By romp’s root. After a sound spanking

against a burned-out bole in the Fox-Fauns

delta I take the rope’s slack end, binding

your wrists, lead you further into the muck.

Wearing only waders in these tidelands

is not much fun. Of course biting bugs suck.

So too do the church folk across the sands.

But we’re safe in the Goddess’ domain.

At each slap an intake of breath. Wet heat

rises between your legs. There is no shame

when so close to the sea. To be constrained.

To be punished. You love it — and you bleat

joy with each sting. By cum’s blot. By Her name.

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Spankings seem cruel. But when you bend to bare
yourself to me with your ink—one word stamped

in black, “RUIN,” above your derriere—
when you drape yourself on my knee, thighs clamped

tight with tension; then, yes, this will be cruel.
So rough. So sudden. That first splitting stroke.

You know that I find whining sobs shameful;
only kids caterwaul. Drench the floor, soak

your thighs, if you must, but keep count of each
welted slash left upon your upturned ass.

Correction’s hothouse. Discipline’s garden.
Pain blooms as divine comeuppance; this bleach-

in-the-eyes pain, add a-touch-of-teargas —
that’s why you’re here, you and your prayer: RUIN.

memories of my ghost sista