Whip Hand

To be an artist with the whip
Your daily practice must not slack,
And so your target does not slip
I am spreadeagled on your rack.

I am not here at your command,
I begged to be allowed to serve.
I asked to suffer at your hand,
You give me more than I deserve.

I cannot help myself but cry
At my first taste of your whip’s kiss,
Hearing you laugh reminds me why
It was that I asked you for this.

I’m pained to learn I find it joy
To serve you as your whipping boy.