My Pleasure, Sir

“How may I serve you?” Soft the words
She spoke to him that day.
And in his heart the Master thought
That she had come to play.
He kept the smile upon his lips,
The leer he hid away.

“A glass of wine,” the Master said.
She brought it sans delay.
A mug, some cheese, a foot massage...
His every wish displayed
Before her yielding eyes, until
He rolled her in the hay.

“Excuse me, sir!” the maiden cried.
“I think that’s not the way!"
Against her wish, he let his hand
Onto her bosom stray.
A sharp pain in his swollen groin
Persuaded him to stay

All further action of the sort
That caused him now to pray
That she would soon release him and
As soon be on her way.
His spoke in whispered words his thanks.
“My pleasure!” he heard her say.