The hiss of leather, slow, controlled,
A promise whispered, hot and bold.
My breath is caught, my body tight,
A willing plaything for the night.

He wraps it ‘round His wicked palm,
A slow caress, both cruel and calm.
My knees go weak, my pulse ignites,
The air is thick with dark delights.

“Count for Me,” He murmurs low,
The belt is raised—I crave the blow.
First strike—sharp, electric heat,
My moan spills out, soft and sweet.

Again, again, I writhe, I burn,
Each snap a lesson, each welt I earn.
My skin now sings His symphony,
A melody of agony.

Tears may glisten, but not from woe,
I beg for more, He tells me, “No.”
A teasing smirk, a wicked hand,
I’m at His mercy—at command.

Leather laced with lust so cruel,
He wields it like a king, a rule.
Bound by touch, I crave, obey—
His toy, His art, His sweet ballet.

And when He’s done, when I’m laid bare,
Bruised and broken, gasping air—
He pulls me close, His voice like sin,
“Good girl—shall we begin again?”

Copyright © Wynter Rayne 2025. All Rights Reserved