Sonnet VIII

Mortal words fail the feel of His shadow.
The control of arousal in the kiss
of a strike. Tender flesh, begging soul, though
not in hate, but in the Controller’s bliss,
Sensation in pain, yet trust, fear miss.
Content and bound, the slave begs the Master,
desire to serve, nothing else exists.
To suffer, the pleasure of the Granter
The controlled understands the Controller
His wants, His needs and in that gives her joy
her life, her trust, lie in the hands of Sir
It is Him, knowing her He won’t destroy
A passion, desire, a will to live
It is for Him, anything she will give

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