The Whipping Chair


Jet black stilettos, are so real, yet surreal.
White spider threads secure front legs to heels.
Rope wrapped ’round knees pincer thighs to the stile.
Sitting down back to front she’s tied up for a while.
Her hands bound in front but behind the seat’s back.
Her back arched lordosis, heavy breasts ‘gainst the splat.
Sterile walls a cool blue, she’s the first of two brace,
can hear his heavy footsteps, the room echoes empty space.
Pretty head swayin’ frantic, long brunette pony twirls,
the man’s got the whip hand, gonna show this poor rich girl.
He buttons up his waistcoat, throws her pony from her back,
measures up the distance, lets the leather popper snap.

Nothing between her naked skin an’ air: On

the whipping chair.

She’s there to be punished,
she’s there for a crime.
For ev’ry misdemeanour,
there’s a painful red line.

First a high-pitched cry of terror, then a cry of pain.
By the end of the floggin’, she’ll be beggin’ him again.
At the start always stubborn, she spits out slurs and snubs,
but he has time and patience, and he’s gonna draw first blood.
Ev’ry flick of his wrist, makes her cry out even more,
writhing out of her shoes to the sting of the fall.
With a break between strikes, runs his hand down her spine,
feels the weals of handiwork, as she pleads for her life.
Her back a reddened lattice, from relentless well-aimed strikes,
he flays her perfect ass, double-time and business like.
No one’s countin’ strokes, she’ll get as many as it takes,
she may be tough an’ hardy, but she’ll be the one who breaks.

Hear her cries of pain an’ despair: On

CHORUS

©12.2.2020 Andrew Robert Chapman

jumps, squirms and writhes, to the sting of the fall.
Each crack of the whip, each sting of the fall,
All she can move is her head, a brunette pony twirls,
Sitting down back to front she’ll be here for a while.
White spider threads secure chair/front legs to heels.


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