The Sex Slave’s Hour

Between the smacks to her naked ass
and yanking the clamp on her clitoral,
comes a pause in the evening’s torture
that is known as the sex slave’s hour.

Manacled to a chain hanging from the ceiling
with a spreader bar fettered to her feet,
comes the sound of moaning and crying
of a voice so soft and sweet.

Locked up in my dimly lit dungeon;
I keep her imprisoned there.
With a collar around her neck,
my sex slave with golden hair.

A whimper, and then a silence.
Yet I know by her crying eyes,
she longs for release.
To me it’s no surprise.

A sudden whack to her sore ass.
A sudden hit to her aching pussy!
Then another three to her Venus mound.
She’s approaching her orgasm. I see!

She climbs up onto Mount Vesuvius,
O the ecstasy! Her eruption is almost there.
If I try to prolong her agony, it engulfs her,
cascading through her body – everywhere.

The bliss devours her completely.
Its arms about her entwine.
She belongs to her passions now;
she’s no longer mine!

Do you think, cause you have escaped
into the recesses of your heart,
that this glorious climax of yours
will keep us far apart?

Nay! I have deep in my dungeon
and will not let you depart.
But will keep you there locked up,
eternally in the recesses of my heart.

And I will incarcerate you there forever.
Yes, forever and a day,
till the walls of my soul crumble to ruin,
and molder in dust away.