bondage is freedom | memories of my ghost sista

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Meekness, you sigh, is kinda all that we
got here. That’s okay; there’s many other

ways to get you off. Before you left me
to go to school I ran a long leather

cord down between the cheeks of your ass then
up to spread the lips of your cunt wide. Wear

this all day, I say. Again and again
this dull world passes you by, unaware

that you’re trying hard not to cum. Each time
you sit the cord rubs your clit. No one knows

your head spins when you stand. All leather
can be torture. All pain can be sublime

when you want it. Do you? Under your clothes
you grow wet as swampland for an answer.

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Lift your skirts and face the wall. Such good pain,
De Sade’s pain, takes a cane to make your pawg

wobble. With three strokes I’ll break you, again.
There’s an art to the trounce, the wax, the flog.

It’s how I flayed «Z» into your tush. Blush
with what smolders under your petticoat.

First the gush of endorphins, then the rush.
We drop loony toons, microdot, blue goat

so that old-school worlds open. Once I kissed
you. That was wrong. It’s hard being discrete

when it comes to craft but splattering cum
like paint is absurd. A flick of my wrist

brings forth new terror. New wisdom. New heat
freeing you from flesh. Bondage is freedom.

memories of my ghost sista