It is a Santa Ana burn, salted and gusty, that whips its heat through my veins, searing a hole in my gut and charring its dry scratch tight in my throat.
I am ablaze, dispassionately overemotional, cold with grief, and I want nothing more than to push this stinging nettle ache OUT. Out of myself, past the nerve endings in my own skin and onto his, with palm-pinking strokes of my hands against his flesh.
He’s just given me an orgasm – one of my favorite kinds – and in it I have found, instead of relief, a jittery calm that will only be assuaged — if, indeed, it can be assuaged — by a very specific smacking sting: I need to give him a spanking.
On his cock.
