Submission

Submission

Kneeling on the bedroom floor my knees protest,
I do not rise, I tremble in the cold air and wait.
I see you standing over me holding a mask up to your face,
Features blurred and obfuscated I cannot quite make you out.
You wear a whip at your belt and carry a leash in your gloved hand.
What have I got myself into this time, will I get out, do I want to?
Have I pleased you, Mistress? Is it time for my lessons?
You bend down, collar in hand, “Now pet, you are mine.”
I wonder what it would actually be like, I have such images,
Pictures in my head dancing like leather-clad desserts.
Would I let you flog me? Would I like it?
Just how far can I be flexed without breaking,
Or is breaking part of the point, part of surrendering?
It would be better just to do what I am told,
To be cared for, wanted, and decide nothing.
My vanilla life needs licorice whip kisses.