Make Me

Make me, please.
Because it pleases you,
because you know that I do not want to.
Make me because it gives you joy
to watch me struggle, writhe
for you.
Your pleasure.
Make me.
Because I need to do this
when I desperately do not wish to.
Make me because it shames
and embarrasses,
make me because I will.
Make me because at the end of the torment,
I will crawl for you, beg for you, still.
Make me because it makes me fearful,
makes me twist, and makes me tearful.
Make me because I am yours
to amuse, to arouse, to incense.
Make me,
because I hate it.
Make me,
because I will.
Make me,
because it strips away the world,
and the stars and skies recede,
and the noise and buildings fade.
And there is only you.
Your wish, your pleasure,
and my struggle.
Make me.
Because wrapped around your finger
is where I need to be,
because the wish to please you wars
with the desperate need to flee.
Make me.
Make me,
because it makes me.
Whole?
Divided?
Pleasured?
Tortured?
Ache?
Replete?
Controlled?
Yours.