My heart pumps and pumps
and every nerve tingles at the sight
stretched before me on tiptoe
your heart too,
I see by the heaving of your chest,
pounds a tempo in pace with my own,
anticipating whatever I decide
will come next.
Wrists snugged
by ungiving cuffs of steel,
vision stolen
by a hood of soft leather.
You can do nothing but wait,
in ever-swelling fear.
Gasping for oxygen,
lovely lips part
revealing straight, white teeth.
Cheeks and throat flushed with passion
tempt and draw my lips
to kiss and bite
and tongue with the very tip
across your upper lip.
Holding you close, I enjoy the
lithe curves, stroking and caressing
your fair-skinned ass.
In my mind, seen as it soon will be,
striped with scarlet lines,
the crimson kisses
of thick leather whips and cruel canes
and a riding crop
that will likely make you cry, or,
at the very least,
make you cry out.
Your smooth belly,
the site of a tumultuous struggle
between
an aching arousal that
longs for me to commence.
While your stomach knots itself
with the undigestible terror,
certain of that coming
torture, suffering, and pain.
From pants grown to tight,
I pull my hardness,
full and thick with blood.
Hard, aching for a relief
for which
I enjoy making myself wait
and wait.
Our roles clear,
understood by both:
one to give pleasure
and being aroused at knowing
through every stripe,
how much your surrender excites
and pleases me.
For a moment
the distraction of school and family
and the chattering of a thousand voices,
(the loudest your own thoughts),
ceases to clutter
your crowded mind
and frees you to be
a simple object
of input and response.
To become, in short,
a pleasure slave.
Unable perhaps,
unwilling for certain,
to do anything
but that
which your are commanded.