“Her cheeks glowed with pink charcoals.” ― Ray Bradbury, From the Dust Returned


My face is not prone to blushing. Your words may cast my eyes down, Your touch may bring my lip between my teeth, but it is Your hand that rushes my blood to the surface of my thighs and haunches and paints me pink.

I wear Your stripes with pride, pressing my fingers into the welts in the days following, aching to keep the memory of each merciless strike, each exhaled gasp and every sting of your palm.

I fight to recall each moment of your delicious ministrations, yet I can never forget the way you kiss each cheek before you begin and again when you finish; soft as can be, your breath hot and damp on my ravaged skin.

It is a signature, a reminder, a promise, and the fragility it unlocks in me is enough to bring colour to my face.


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