The Artist - by Will (Willpb94)

The softest skin,
The cruel delight,
Sensation sets my mind alight.
She forces me down to my place,
Awaiting leather’s cold embrace.

Paralysed, I vainly try,
To squirm in cuffs that bind my hands.
The pain begins,
My will, now broke,
Dissenting words,
Cannot be spoke.

And as I cry,
Pure tears, like dew,
She paints my skin,
A rose-red hue.
Her crop is now Her artist's brush,
This masterpiece, She does not rush.
My pain will serve to be Her muse,
She paints, inspired by every bruise.

In this modest way I serve,
A tool, for use when She desires.
Through, crop and whip She moulds me ‘till,
My mind and body She acquires.

And then, with hands run through my hair,
She pulls me up, from servant's stance.
My feet, I find, my head, I raise,
To slowly meet the Artist’s gaze.
And then She asks:
“What now, sweet whore?”

I bend back down,
And beg for more.