Slowly I now open,
My tired and weary eyes,
Discovering your presence,
Subdued and tied.
Your wrists bound tight,
Ankles pulled apart,
A criss-cross pattern,
Protecting your heart.
Your satin nightie,
So taught under strain,
Eyes tearing up,
In lust without pain.
As I flex my wrist,
Your arms lurch forward,
As I own every motion,
Controlled by a cord.
Exposing your body,
To my every desire,
This submission you provide,
Becomes fuel to my fire.
You whimper some words,
That tempt my ear,
“Fuck me hard Sir,
Take me now, right here.”
With a smirk I respond,
With a jerk of the rope,
Spreading you apart,
Exposing your hope.
“Oh baby won’t you,
Wait there for me?
Upon the crisp edge,
Of pure ecstasy?”
My reply leaves you short,
Of life-filling breath,
As I whisper once again,
At the nape of your neck.
“Pour me a river,
In amber not gold,
Be my little angel,
And do as you’re told”
(c) 2014 PJ Bayliss