The Mark Of His Crop

The sting of the crop against her skin sent a shiver down her spine, a delicious mix of pain and pleasure that only he could provide. She craved the feeling of the leather striking her flesh, leaving a bright red mark as a reminder of his power and her desire to please him.

Her body was his to command, her submission his to take. She offered herself up to him, willingly splayed out on the bed, legs spread wide, inviting him to claim her as his own. She could feel the wetness between her thighs, her body already responding to the thought of him taking her in hand, punishing her for her transgressions.

He stood over her, crop in hand, assessing her with a critical eye. She could see the hunger in his gaze, the way his eyes darkened as he took in the sight of her exposed and vulnerable before him. She knew what was coming, and yet she couldn’t help but anticipate the sting of the crop against her skin, the way it would make her body sing with pleasure.

With a flick of his wrist, the crop came down against her inner thigh, a sharp crack that echoed through the room. She let out a gasp, her back arching off the bed as the pain radiated through her body. But even as the sting lingered, she could feel the heat spreading through her, a flame that threatened to consume her from the inside out.

Again and again, he struck her with the crop, each blow a little harder than the last. She could feel her skin growing hot and tender, the pain mingling with the pleasure that was building deep inside her. She was his to do with as he pleased, and she would not deny him anything.

He seemed to sense her growing arousal, his eyes darkening even further as he surveyed the damage he had inflicted on her body. With a cruel smile, he tossed the crop aside and climbed onto the bed, positioning himself between her thighs.

She could feel him, hard and ready, pressing against her entrance. She was wet and ready for him, her body begging for release. With a single thrust, he buried himself inside her, filling her completely and making her cry out with pleasure.

It was primal, raw, and unbridled, a coupling born of desire and power. He took her hard and fast, each thrust driving her closer to the edge. She could feel herself teetering on the brink, her body trembling with the effort of holding back.

But she didn’t want to hold back. She wanted to let go, to give in to the pleasure that was coursing through her veins. And with one final thrust, he sent her over the edge, her body shuddering with the force of her release.

As she came down from her high, she could feel him still inside her, his body spent and sated. She knew that this was just the beginning, that he would continue to take her in hand, to punish her and pleasure her in equal measure.

And she would let him, because she belonged to him, body and soul. She was his to command, his to possess, his to worship. And she would never deny him anything he asked of her.

© Seductive Poetry