I can feel your hand now,
The back of your fingers softly gliding down my cheek,
The heat of your anger radiating into my skin,
Fueling the fire burning beneath the surface:
Evidence of my shame brought forth.
Your hand travels a small trail but time stands still.
Your knuckles rake gently and my eyes flutter closed,
Anticipation boils under the shame...
Halfway now, I feel the tension bubble through your hand -
- A whimper threatens to tear out my throat -
Will you clench my chin? Will your palm grasp my hair?
Or will there be a bruise I need to cover come morning?
Your whore kneels before you, frozen in time,
A dirty slut reveling in your touch,
Waiting...
The back of your hand draws closer to the end of its short journey -
- A sob sears through my chest, begging for release -
The pain is imminent, I know,
I await the dreadful pleasure with baited breath.
A single tear flows in the wake of your hand,
Tracing the dead space and cooling the flame you leave;
I count the milliseconds until your touch disappears...
You will be rough and I hope for nothing less,
But just once I wish I knew why:
What injustice have I caused to deserve this punishment?
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