Soothing the Savage Breast

His apoplectic face seems to be filled
With rage, as he takes me across his knee;
I know I am quite stubborn and strong willed;
But must the angry man be quite so free
With his hands, as he draws my panties down
And slaps my bottom as an amuse bouche
Or some hors-d’oeuvres to stop his annoyed frown
And whet his appetite, before the whoosh
Of his large hand, descending on my rump,
Fills both our minds – I almost sense the air:
It parts, so that the blow will make me jump,
And he can growl “Be still.” My derriere
Is marked by his palm print – a nice proxy:
It calms my heart; and his apoplexy…