Late, my sleep disturbed, he summons.
A skilled whore, I feel him swiftly rise.
His touch reviles, leaving me cold, empty
Or seething in held back rage.
His paws immediately find their way
As always directly to my breasts.
Squeezing nipples as he does his pimples –
Hard, determined, producing little.
The mind futilely trying to replace
his hands for the Master’s adept touch
leaves only a void, a deeper gap of yearning
Filled by the promises of soon.
I choke hold his girth,
Triggering key spots easily, automatically.
He responds with Pavlovian simplicity.
I know it will be over quickly.
The body he touches is not his-nor mine;
it has been claimed, freely and fully entrusted
To One who abuses and cherishes it,
Bringing and taking pleasure as He wishes.
A kept woman, I am surrounded
By mementos of my capture,
miniature jailers ensuring I stay.
Enough blessings to endure the curse.
Wincing, I remember:
This is the price of my freedom,
to be owned, possessed, enslaved.
I am slut. I am His.