Stream of Conscience Sorta

 

 

And no pants on. And she’s British, mind. So, those are British pants. With a gust of wind, you can glimpse heaven. And she’s slow to reestablish the cover once it’s blown away. Generosity which the Universe repays dearly with eternal youth and beauty. And for the weary masses of men, those precious two or three seconds of unobstructed divinity are worth years of debilitating hard work. And life goes on. Harsh and unyielding. Except for the occasional moonshine here and there.

Deprived from vulnerability.

Her barely stinging hands and gentle reprimand, made him cry.

The death of the macho man.

 

 

You spanked her and she conquered you.

She knows it and you do.

You can drop your spanker status now.

Then, drop to your knee too.  

And kiss her bottom better.

And grovel by her feet.

Could you tell when you first met ’er

You’d be rimming her hot, red seat?

 

 

Her head the height point of her, the lady of the house. Yours is near the carpet but your bum is high and proud.

She’s smartly dressed. Your attituded is smartly addressed. One spank after another.

The disciplining sounds ricochet around the house. A naughty boy acquiring some maternal guidance. A tale as old as time.

And late that night. As you fall to sleep. You’ll be invaded by the memory of her dealing with you in that humbling manner. And your hand will travel down there to relieve the pressure in the front fueled by the images of your spanked rear.

 

She caught her naughty apprentice and fucked him in the ass.

And now her naughty apprentice does nothing but gives her sass.

So, she’d fuck him in the ass.

Se!