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Over The Desk The burnished desk reflects her anxious eyes; She knows her hands must not release their hold. The nearer edge gently imprints her thighs; Upon the floor her feet are rooted still. She knows the price to pay if she should rise; Instead of chains, her bondage is her will. Proudly she bends to claim her painful prize. In this warm night, her skin feels strangely cold. His strong, sad voice has read her list of sins; Her own asks for the punishment decreed. The swift hiss of the falling cane begins. She feels her body both exult and plead. The icy heat has purged all her offences. Now shall she yield to her most urgent senses. ©1998 William Gadsby |