Deux

SpaHnd

The same man?

The black suit, stark white cuff

Manicured  fingernails

The turned up thumb of the practiced hand

The clutched hair holding her powerless

Bound wrists, fingers locked

Positioned so close to his target

Yet impotent in their proximity

I can hear her gasps

as

Thought stops

Time stops

Feeling stops

Except the sizzling spice of his swats

It permeates her being

Like the ripples from the stone

Spreading its wet heat through her sex

He drinks from her need

Is fulfilled by her wanton craving

As she is satiated by his Dominance

They are bound in harmonious accord

Each meeting the other in perfect polyphony

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