A Subless Domme

The crop, discarded,
regards her scornfully.
Chains, rattling,
hang limp and useless.
A whip, not yet broken in,
awaits a firm hand.
All are empty in her eyes.
A subless Domme cries shallow tears.
Her breasts ache for attention,
no slave to fawn over them,
needing to bring pink nipples
to full and hardened bud.
Bootlaced legs so cold.
No one to kneel before them,
lay their precious lips against them.
No warm hands
to massage awaiting flesh.
Warm feelings stirring
between shaven lips.
Passion growing
a needing so strong.
An aching in the empassioned bud
that lays hidden in the folds.
The whip cracks.
The crop swings.
The chains reach out.
But nothing releases the burning.
No one to give will to her completely,
to serve in delivering her into ecstacy.
She suffers in silent strength,
too bold to show her tears
she chokes them down.
Her skin quivers
with the touch of the air's caresses.
An unclaimed collar in her hand
she moves between her legs,
sliding in vain
a journey towards futile climax.
Her howls of pleasure are a joke
as the smooth leather licks her to finish.
It drops to the ground,
used but still unclaimed.
She stands there
always a model of strength and power.
The hollow statue
of a subless Domme.