She would have bathed
a hundred times
to have washed him out.

Now she dries
her red hair
with a white towel
sitting on the edge
of the white bath.

She will never
get used to it,
never quite come
to accept the duties
of a *****,
not take it
as a fact of her life,
****** more often
than any wife.

But he she loathes,
his way,
his demands,
that touch of his,
the earthly smell
and tone of voice.

She's washed
and washed her hair,
and rinsed it through,
to be rid of him,
but still he's there
in her red long hair.

He's just another punter,
the Mistress says,
just another gentleman
to please and have his way,
no different than the others,
so just lay there,
shut your eyes and obey.

She never thought
she'd end up a *****,
never thought she'd end
up this way,
being the plaything
of men,
just a relief machine,
a good lay.

She wonders,
drying her long red hair,
what her parents would say,
seeing her here,
doing what she does,
things she has to perform,
sometimes quite *****,
often beyond the norm.

She's dry now,
the hair brushed
and her body clean,
time to prepare,
tie back her hair,
simple cloth to cover
what'll soon be bare,
lying there.

She sighs,
who'd be a *****?
she says,
knock knock,
another one's come,
another at the door.