Roses are Red

She wakes him with a stinging slap to his arse, then applies a kiss as panacea or penance, he's not entirely sure which.


"Happy Birthday, Wes," she says demurely. "That's the first of many."

If it was her intention to make sure he spends the day in the most delightful way possible, her hands bound or busy, her skin collecting a rosy flush, deepening as the hours go by, as his own hands apply a much needed discipline, then she succeeds.

Night falls and he kisses the final tears away from her smiling face and pulls her close so they can sleep.

Her hand finds his arse and taps it once, gently.

"One to grow on, Wes."

Incorrigible, his Faith. He presses his hand against her spanked-hot skin, feeling the imparted heat return to his palm, and tells her he loves her, not for the first time that day, and her drowsy chuckle is the last sound he hears.

Return to Home

Click here if you'd like to send feedback