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.
Aristotle, your domme Mizz Geena asked me if I’ve read your poetry, and if so, what did I think? I’ll admit I had not been reading much – but this one certainly speaks to me. Perhaps my travels would bring me close enough to you, I could introduce you to my whip – do you happen to live near any universities?