A little death

Each sharp intake of breath may well suffice
To kill you just a little, as I squeeze
Your throat somewhat harder - it's a vice
You've grown to love and loathe. Now, if you please,
Avoid mundane excuses, which, when drawn
On with far too much frequency, will mist
My eyes with anger. No clemency is torn
For fuck toys, born to serve, who cannot risk
Displeasure, that you'd court with a request
To hold stooping to attend on my pleasure;
But, if waiting to breathe means interest
Is strengthened, it will do: the real measure
Is my patience, as I allow your death:
The little one that follows your gasped breath.