Set to poetic verse, a woman is soundly caned by her lover as she journeys toward forgiveness for an indiscretion committed.
For the wild disgrace
of my lipstick on another’s face
I am to be caned.
There’s nothing I can do about that
except lean forward, my palms flat,
on the seat of a wooden chair,
my face encased in cascading hair.
I cheat, he beats, that’s our rule.
Still, I bless the silk on my bum so cool;
at a vicious swish across that nick
–an inescapable sting!–I gasp and kick.
I want out!
but stiffen at his shout:
‘There’s five more to come!’
Oh! my poor bum!
I ride the next stroke’s bitter pain,
the wood of the chair, the wood of the cane:
one so cool, one so cruel
as it descends on me, again.
Did he say six? it seems more than!
Ow! Ow! Ow! this bloody man
really knows how to tan!
The pools of my eyes,
the pit of my thighs:
two wet, one dank;
at each branding spank
I throb and yell
and go through hell
but tell myself that heaven waits
when the smart abates
and the sting is as a distant bell.
Then his hand will caress my dampened tresses,
his tongue console my warm recesses.
We shall tumble, in the dark, through all our honeyed parts,
Love Jane X
copyright (c) 2004 Jane Bayston