The Taste

Sitting on our bed waiting sweetly for our game, her
Eyes saucer-black with lust follow me to our closet
Her breath’s slowness grows heavy with anticipation
As each piece to our game is laid near her shaking feet
A piece to bind her, a piece to make her scream with joy
A piece to blind her, a piece to bring her ecstasy
A piece to pull her to pain’s lament, all with a smile
She soon remembers her place, and kneels bare before me

Our intimate game of pleasure and pain moves slowly
She can but ache for the taste until her very end

It begins innocently with two words: “Yes, Master.”
Her hands strapped together and reach high for the ceiling
My hands grip her tender flesh, and strips of cloth and hide
Each slap erupts from her mouth a whine, and hints a moan
Soon, our game brings wetness to her brow and twixt her thighs
Her flesh turns vermilion with agony and craving
She squirms and yearns… with every heartbeat… she squirms and yearns
I ask if she wants to go on. She smiles. “Yes, Master.”

Our intimate game of pleasure and pain moves slowly
She can but ache for the taste until her very end

I slide my fingers in her silken, sad uncertain
And play in her pink, the pink of her wet chamber door
I bring her to the cusp of delight… and pull away
For this is the final piece to our intimate game
The piece she loves and loathes the most: to deny, deny
To make her orgasmic tide ebb and flow, never crest
Words are whittled away to primal groans as she waits
Until I feel she’s had enough… until I kiss her

So ends our slow, intimate game of pleasure and pain
The taste leaves her shivering, crying, and satisfied

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