My heart pumps and pumps

and every nerve tingles at the sight

stretched before me on tiptoe.

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 oxgen,

lovely pink lips part

straight white teeth contrasting

with cheeks and throat

flushed with passion

that tempt and draw my lips

to kiss and bite

and tongue with the very tip

across your sensitive upper lip.

Holding you close,

I enjoy the lithe curves.

Stroking lightly 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 make you cry,

or,

at the very least make you cry out.

Your smooth belly,

the site of a tumultuous struggle

between

aching arousal, a longing

for me to commence,

and the undigestible terror

which knots itself,

certain of that torture, suffering, and pain.

From pants grown too tight,

I pull my hard cock

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,

aroused at knowing

through every stripe and

clamp crushed nipple,

how much your surrender

excites and pleases your Master,

and the other to receive

that amazing gift.

For a moment

the distractions of school and family

and the chattering

of the thousand voices

(the loudest your own thoughts)

cease to clutter and

crowd your mind,

freeing 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 you are commanded.

I raise the whip with its

nine thick leather tails and

after an agonizing pause,

explode your body

with its impact,

forcing an animal-like

squeal from your throat.

My lips

by your ears whisper,

“Quiet now, slave...”

and as you nod

a second blow crosses the first.

The response now

just a moan.

My fingers find the soft wet flesh

of your swollen vulva

and tease you

until your body shivers,

smiling, I take away my hand

and again make you wait.

An act, I know

that is as cruel

as the whip I raise

to again mark you

as, for a moment at least,

my property.