This Is Not Who I Am

Arching, aching, whimpering,
the flogger's on my thighs,
reddening my soaking cunt.
Can't barely meet his eyes.

I don't know who I am,
and I don't know that I care.
All my precious prudence fled.
I'm writhing, begging, bare.

The flogger's kissing tails
slap me, knowing, stinging, wet.
And I'm trapped between the me I know
and the slut I don't know yet.

I've glimpsed her in the mirror,
peeking out of me sometimes.
The little Pavlovian dog in me,
whining wet at certain chimes.

Spread eagled and immobile,
just by virtue of command,
I am a thousand molten seas,
a million grains of sand.

I flow into the pain.
I am confused by my own lust.
Yelping, crying, howling.
This must be crazy... must.

This is not what I do.
And this is not who I am.
But this raging slavish beast
launches out from in the dam.

And all is lost, I know it.
I don't know who I am...
The zealous pain-slut taking over
assures me, I don't give a damn.