What comes after

It has been done.

I am a drunk woman, inebriated by sensations, overcome by the warmth that spread like whiskey fire through my blood.

My vision is blurred and I would not recognize myself if I could make it to the mirror; as dizzy as I am, as unsteady as my legs are, I could not walk a straight line or find my nose in the dark. My fingers have no interest in a sobriety test -- they are walking a crooked line across the raised highway of my heated cheeks, mapping the distance between each dip and curve.



The bedroom door closed behind him and my eyes lazily opened. He left me here to sleep; he thinks I'm sleeping already. Or perhaps he left me here to think, a task requiring neither silence nor solitude as I am flooded with thoughts and memories -- I cannot stop remembering.

I remember when he grabbed my arm and steered me toward the bedroom, searched my eyes for understanding, satisfied when he found recognition laced with fear there.



I remember when he slid his hand from my elbow to my wrist, encircled it and guided me over his lap to begin his calm, low sermon in a tone that makes my spine tingle from neck to tailbone.

I remember how I struggled, at once remorseful and joyful that he would not let me up, would not let me off that easy. I remember when I stopped struggling and just let it happen.

I remember elation and not defeat.



My roaming hands comfort my assaulted bottom as I remember these things.

And although I am penitent, although I did not enjoy the spanking or this mandated time alone, I remember it all while a smile plays hide-n-seek with my lips.