Afterwards, Across Your Lap - An Erotic Poem

Tender is the Night, a melting massage bar by Lush Cosmetics,
is the bar that leads to the sensuous aftercare described below

Afterwards, Across Your Lap

Exhausted, sore, I settle slowly

onto my left hip and thigh, robe riding up,

the friction of leather on still-damp skin

barely a sensation

compared to the welts your rattan raised

across my ass in tight red lines,

a fetish formation well-practiced, well-appreciated,

well-delivered.

After the caning you’d driven into me hard

from behind. I was already kneeling at the edge of the bed,

back still arched and feet still flexed when

you threw the cane down and spread me wide.

I cried out louder at cock than cane, the surprise

of pain twisted into pleasure more shocking even

than that one stroke that drew

the smallest, most delicate

drop of blood.

Afterwards, streams of water rushed over me,

stinging those striped marks, washing the shared rewards

of my punishment past my thighs, swirling with soap

around my feet before dissipating - foam into the sea.

I ran my hands over the welts

before stepping from the shower, water still running,

and marveled at how easily our bodies allow

our flesh to be transformed.

Then wrapped in a robe like a towel,

I found you asleep where I’d left you.

I woke you with kisses then left you with

a view of my stripes and a small paper bag

clutched in my hand.

You come to me on the couch, sitting to my right,

your cleansed and gleaming body naked so I

let the robe wrap fall away. You pat your lap;

“Over my knee,” you say. I shake my head,

“I can’t,” I whisper, but you laugh and hold out your hand.

I put my hand in yours, expecting to be pulled, but

you shake your head and nod towards the little bag.

Pulling out the shea butter massage bar you brought me home as a surprise,

I place it in your hand.

You tap your thigh, still smiling, and I twist

to lie across your lap, knowing you could just as easily

set the bar down and begin spanking me anew,

but instead you touch it to me where there are no marks,

circling, letting the bar warm and melt onto our skin.

Slowly slowly, you slide it over me, over the welts,

over the slight mark of broken skin, over the white flesh

that surrounds the perfect patch of red stripes over pink.

Slowly, slowly, over my thighs and up onto my lower back,

my hips, the scents of vanilla, jasmine, ylang-ylang turning

my body back from crisp cleanliness to the ripe fragrance

of a woman well-wanted, well-pleasured, well-used.

You set the bar down, its butter now coating both your hands,

and you spread my ass once again, your fingers massaging

the inner cheeks then sliding down from the base of my spine to the

moistening crevice still swollen from earlier service

and slipping across every inch in between.

Slowly, slowly, the circles over my backside begin again, but

among the patterns, tips of fingers grace the tender spot

between my cheeks, barely tracing the entrance to

its tightly guarded but not unbreachable depths.

Slowly, slowly, one hand remains. As the other continues

to caress away my decreasingly insistent pain,

the insistence of my body for the presence promised

by your fingertips is unable to be ignored.

So slippery, so slick, a single finger slides into me, the oft barred

passage unlocking easily at the pressure of your lubricated key.

Unexpectedly, I push back, welcoming, squeezing

around you. You slide into me deeper and I bite the arm

of the leather couch, tilting my hips to take you in, all the way

to your third knuckle, until you pull back and I almost release you.

I clench to draw you back in. You whisper, “You like this,”

and God I do as you knead my ass like handfuls of flowered dough

with one hand and thrust into me with the other, the single finger

turning into two as I open ever more greedily around your

plunging, provoking hand, prodding me to beg for three.

Slowly, slowly a thing of the past and your hand goes at me

as forcefully as I’ve ever felt it, faster, faster,

and neither of us knows if it’s the jockey spurring the pony

or the pony bucking underneath him; he has no choice but

to ride this one out until the end of the race and

the leather is now taut between my teeth because the glass

is thin on the sliding glass doors and the neighbors could

hear me if I cry out as you frictionlessly fingerfuck me

to completion and my hips are still rocking when

you slowly, slowly don’t let go and don’t slide out and

when my teeth have released the leather and I’ve turned

back to look at you, lips open still gasping,

“You liked that didn’t you,” you say. You smile again

like you did at the beginning and thrust one last time

and no one cares anymore about the sliding glass door

or the sound or the slickness we’ll leave on the leather.

I nod. “I liked that too,” you say.