Satan's Bitch

Although indiscretions seem somehow my speciality    
they were not quite ever my downfall    
until I met Miss F.    
Until then, I never fully understood    
how the workings of 'wickedness'    
could infect my own heart so deeply.    
 
Outwardly, for all the world    
she appeared such a normal girl    
whatever that might prescribe.    
Her triumph of innocence masquerading as almost pious    
except for the pain and the private agonies    
she had over time grown secretly to adore.    
 
After our relationship became too dangerous    
for me at least,    
I was even sufficiently inspired to write her a song:    
'No use pretending you love me...    
when I'm sure the truth is you don't...'    
It was pure corn served with a gracious portion of cheese    
& thank fuck    
I can't remember the rest.    
 
But I can still recall perfectly    
the detail of her pale naked limbs    
the dazzling fresco of hair    
dark waves cascading over my bed    
its softness tickling my chest    
her scent mingled to peachy vanilla    
surrendered in a flurry of nipples    
like Spring fretting to burst    
even before I could get my mouth open    
and suck up my own fresh heart.    
 
She would tilt her head    
haunted eyes staring meekly    
amused by our assortment of clothes    
Cautiously studying hers    
each item folded precisely    
on the back of the chair    
everything just so    
and only a moment's glance    
for my own crumpled rags    
hurriedly discarded so often    
in a hopeless, reckless heap.    
 
She wishes she had worn    
something different    
something sexier than last minute    
cropped Armani jeans    
perhaps her Monsoon feather dress    
sheer stockings and a raunchier bra,    
definitely not Marks...    
But the thoughts are quickly lost    
as our tongues hunt and then lock    
soaring way beyond the High Street    
in a heady scramble for air.    
 
Unusually tonight    
her hands are unbound    
the cherry-blood ball gag    
and her silver chain    
with its shiny clamps    
do their work quickly.    
They are expert at making her wet    
and by the crank of their cruel maximum    
she feels safe and almost ready to be freed.    
 
I stand over her    
burning to devour the girl    
who once    
I thought I knew    
the rush of my smile    
melting on her moans    
I am feeding her ache as it grows    
but not yet...    
 
There are strict instructions    
I must obey    
fastening the blindfold    
gently but firmly    
everything just so    
then ravishing her ears with kisses    
before I stroke her arms and neck    
slapping her stomach and thighs    
raking them harshly    
with the rasp of her own sharp nails.    
 
Slowly, I let her suck    
worshipping the handle of the whip    
a little taste at first    
then more    
and then  
deeper again...    
 
I must wait for the silent roar    
for her frenzy to erupt in a rush    
fusing her spine as it arches    
before the fury of the flail is unleashed    
freeing the demons    
that torture her soul    
to fly upon flesh in their rage.    
 
And suddenly I'm a little boy    
scared at what I've done    
but there are no 'safe' words    
no warmth of rescue    
to befriend my shame.    
 
She will not stop me tonight    
and when I can crack it down no harder    
I hurl the whip to the floor    
where it winks from the edge of disgust    
licking pain    
licking blood    
licking dust.  
 
She whimpers quietly    
and will sleep a long time    
every orgasm smeared in crimson    
sinking my heart forever    
with lies of the cruelest kind.    
 
No, she could never be truly mine    
she would always remain
a slave addicted to pain    
fashioning hell for kicks--
the truth of Satan's bitch.