Fingerpaints by Anonymous

It's her hand that pains my mortal form,
Marking canvas in her wake,
Forest fires from the storm,
Burning breath from the drake,
Carving lines into my skin,
Autumn reds, blues and blacks,
Tormenting me draws out the grin,
Squeezes out my vocal crack,
It's not discomfort that makes me squirm,
Arousal from helplessness,
Her motivation I always learn,
This expresses her tenderness,
I see her search for simple speech,
Plain and simple Ecstasy,
Not a loud and desperate screech
But just to say "Please hurt me?"
A Mix of love, passion and need,
Drives her to ravish this possession,
For in that moment I want to bleed,
Show I submit, with that concession.