I shackle her wrists
Her hair in my tight grip
A silent 'O' formed by her lips
My whip doesn't miss

Her cries of pain are encouraging
Stream of tears never discouraging
Pain for her is sexually nourishing
I whip her like a child in a nursery

When she wakes, her eyes flutter
Pleasure makes words stutter
Till I'm finished
And she finds herself in a gutter

Penned by my hand on the 17th of Valnuary, in the year 388 AF.