Author: Bo © 6/29/99


She is bound,
by satin and lace.
Eyes are darkened by silk.
No leather or chain of steel,
has touched her tender skin.
Not yet anyway.
Her body, like a flower, opens,
in full bloom, turning, twisting,
seeking her sun, the light, that gives her life.
She hears my breath, upon her ear,
my light touch, upon her breast,
her throat, her stomach, her glistening loins.
The soft touch of my lips, to hers.
And she arches to meet me,
as I, stealthily move away.
She tries to anticipate,
but she cannot,
for I am the master of this play.
Ah, such sweet anticipation!
The smell of pheromones, infusing our bodies, our thoughts.
I look down upon her,
and see my heart beating inside of her.
She does not know,
how she enslaves me, with her need,
her love, and her passion!
And I will never tell her.
With ice, I cool her, upon breast and loin.
With wax I burn her, then quickly cool with breath.
With oils, steeped in myrrh,
I massage.
From brow to toes and back again.
All is touched, all is made mine.
And, she trembles.
I bite, then kiss, then cool with breath.
Not one patch of tender flesh untouched.
Exquisite pain, without the whip.
It is a whip within itself.
For I do not inflict pain,
I inflict pleasure.
Oh I try, to push her bounds, her thresholds.
But so slow, so painfully so.
And if she needs, I give her that.
Which moves her to,
that other plane, where pain, and pleasure,
become the same.
I will not release her yet,
she must go on,
so many more planes to conquer,
she is my slave, as I, am hers.
Her pleasure my pain,
her pain, my pleasure.
Till we meld as one, and we cannot tell,
the difference.
I give her a gift, each time, she surrenders,
completely to my will.
And she gives me, the better gift,
her love, her trust, her orgasm, as I release her,
into that tiny death, that exquisite death.
I remove her darkness, her bonds,
so I may lay upon her full,
and seek into her eyes,
the love I need to see,
as she sees mirrored in me.


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