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.