Criss-crossed and knotted, cutting and cut, the binding rope
Holds me, folds me, remolds me to a creature of chains
And locks. A creature of silent craving, biting my gag.
I’m never so much myself, as when you fasten the collar.
My Sade. My Rousseau. My love, wielding the whip.
Do not let me go until you come.
Cord and steel holds me together until you come
To me. Into me. In me. Until there is no rope,
No restraint, no limit, no boundaries, not even a whip.
My skin an extension of you. Seen and unseen chains
Linking us. Your voice, my siren’s call. Your hands, my collar.
Fuck my mouth, Love, ‘til I gag.
“Count.” His arm raised. My lips distended around the gag,
Kissed by him. Hot and dry. Hot and wet. “Do not come.”
His blows pinch my breath, kindle my cunt, redefine my collar.
Wicked lash that licks. Wicked body that craves the rope
Of marks on my skin. A free-spirit, self-imprisoned, needing your chains.
In my dreams, I hear your cracking whip.
My back is a hieroglyph of thirst. My sweat drips from the whip
Into a puddle of privation. I squirm; I ache; I moan behind the gag.
Torture is your art; Saint Andrew, my salvation. Cleansing through chains,
Purity through pain. I only know forgiveness when you come.
Find me on my knees. I mutter my prayers while you untie the rope.
Lead me, Sir, your leash to my collar.
Soft fingers are your worst cruelty. I need the feline yank of my collar,
A fuck, not feathers. But, then your hand slaps my ass, hotter than the whip.
I’m off of my cross and on all fours. Ready. So ready. Bound by more than rope.
You don’t make me wait. You open me up, your fingers in my mouth, a gag
Of flesh. Your thrust is a long, thick death. Still, you warn me not to come.
You’re the one that holds me; you never needed chains.
A piston possessed, grip on my hip. My hands clench discarded chains,
Coiled and forgotten. The locks all gone. The only thing left, my collar.
My collar and you, under my skin, inside my skin. Inside my head. “Baby, come.”
It wasn’t a choice. My body released, my back in an arch, my hair like a whip
A spiritual dance. Indwelt. His cock my anchor. My pleasure my gag.
I never take it off; I always wear the rope.
We finish, languid, pushing aside the rope, laying among the chains.
Shyness like a gag. I’m nothing but eyes. Until he strokes my collar.
Until he strokes my tits with the whip. Until he tells me to come.
