Until the next time we meet

He says he can tell that I need a spanking, far more than I want a spanking.

It may be true, but he has no idea the depths of my want. I want him in the mornings, first thing. Not just a spanking, but the smell of him, the feel of his unshaven chin on my forehead as I nuzzle into him to place a kiss on his neck. I want him mid-morning as I make my phone calls, wishing it was his voice on the other end negotiating with me. I want his brand of saying good night, every night, with him propped against the headboard as I emerge from my nightly routine, see him there, and crawl gratefully over his waiting lap.

My want, it seems, has no end, cannot be satisfied by the limited time we have.

Two weekends a month. That's all the time our particular schedules can afford. That is the reality of us.

Every other Sunday, as the regular pattern of my life resumes, I return to this cycle of wanting him until the want turns into a need so great I can barely contain it. Every other Thursday, like today, I am consumed to distraction, envisioning what our weekend will hold. The rest of my life, between those times, carries on without him but always with him in mind.

On weekends like this upcoming one, when there are issues to deal with, my need is laced with trepidation. Part of me wants to celebrate our time together, joyously, with an abandonment of reality, immediately committing our carefree moments to memories that will last.

But the other part needs the weighty significance of his discipline, needs to be spoken to in ways no other can. I need his steadying presence, his powerful hands, his soothing words as I hiccup my admiration and gratitude for this most intimate gift one can give another.

Only I can determine how much I want this. Only he can determine how much I need it. He will deliver, as he always does, until my wants blur with my needs, until his own hunger is satiated, both of us already thinking about the next time we meet.