Their bodies are in a state of carnage.
Their organs are used as hostage.
External dissection,
internal infection.
Can't move, can't scream, in pain, in *******.

She is going out,
By breaking all the protection of her house.
She walks straight and confident,
Without the fear of those society omnipotent.
When she smiles and lifts her pants,
It switly distract the man who is behind her back.
Wearing those raiment, which make her feel comfortable, without the shame of those thousand of trivials .
Hanging out with different peeps, won't make her character cheap.
By calling her a **** , ***** or escort
You are just showing up your own ****** thoughts.
                  Komal :)

The chains Sir keeps upon me mark me as his slave
in holding me so cruelly he gives me what I crave
wrists and ankles linked with slack enough to walk
collar locked about my neck with Master’s name engraved.
I go about my duties here in dress provocative,
with stockings black, seams so straight, Master does insist
and heels that I must teeter on that lift my head so high;
to please in every way I can and reason here to live.

The silver links make such pretty sound as I move around,
in dusting here and sweeping there as quiet as a mouse
I try not to disturb him much or to displease at all.
to do so might invoke his wrath and earn a beating harsh,
but somehow in each working day some anger I incur
I drop a cup, or bang a door, or fail to clean a stain;
things that engender such a frown, and promises of pain.
Master says I do such things that will worst incur his wrath,
as when the water is in error one degree when I run his bath
or when my tongue fails to clean his boots to glossy shine;
which I know will bring punishment as he decides in time.

My protested innocence of no avail, his retribution certain,
I must fetch an instrument from where he keeps them hid
set to receive such punishment as will befit the crime,
while I’m prostrate upon the cross and wait as I am bid.
Sometimes he ties me in that pose for an hour or two,
to give me some reflecting time to think on what I’ve done
though I think as ornament I am there for such regarding,
ignoring me while he gets on with things he has to do.
But stretched and tied I know full well, I will receive my due,
and bound that way serves only to increase anticipation,
as I test the knots he’s used on me to force my body open.

For Master is my owner now, and can do just what he chooses.
Will I be made to count each stroke, measuring my bruises?
To place them in the neatest lines across my tender flesh
missing those fading from yesterday to give me welts so fresh.
As master tests my neediness by drawing finger wet,
making me to **** myself, acknowledging my heat.
I try to hide my needs from him, I really really do,
but betrayed somehow as my flooding self makes clear.
I tense myself and bite my lip as whipstrokes land quite hard,
but I feel myself rising up to meet each one that falls.

Master has forbidden me to ****** here at all
but oh it is so difficult, like that, not to *** withal.
He knows full well that I cannot resist his falling whip
bringing me to peak each time while I hold myself away.
I’ve been told that if I *** with six more I’ll have to pay;
right now that seems a bargain fair, I need to *** this way.
And so with the next cut I have, I can’t hold myself in check
and shudder as my scream is that of some unearthly being,
the cross itself creaks as if to break as I strain in throes of joy.

Not me, that is not me at all, for I am someone far away,
lost in a sea blazing pain as ecstasy releases what I am.
A rapid six falls across me now, though I am oblivious to it all
I hang and quake upon the cross in ropes that hold me so.
Master leaves me there like that, in ways he knows so well.
Hanging, used, a fractured shell, knowing I’ve been through hell
To reach sweet paradise of pain where I need to suffer more.
E’er long my Master will come to cut me down and I can resume
my duties as his servant girl, unless of course he wants me
for use in other ways that only Master can presume.

From the Francesca Anderssen collection of 101 **** Verses 2017

This book of verse by which I live
as Valentine gift to you I give
the lines across its pages white
express my deep desire each night.

So master read of disciplined need
as I follow my submissive creed.

Each page you turn will tell of me
and the ways I seek your cruelty
there is no pain I will not forebear
imprisoned in your dungeon lair.

This book of prose gives freedom to
do all that you’ve a mind to do.

So at random take each page you see
and create all that’s there for me
as ev’ry suffering there ignites
a passion that your bonds be tight.

So that my consuming fires be lit
this gift of words I do submit.

From the Francesca Anderssen collection of 101 **** Verses 2017

There were idols in days of old
Made of wood stone silver & gold
They had a mouth eyes & ears
But they could not speak see or hear.

And there were also idols of flesh
Filled with God's own breath
The same images we worship today
Creating physical & spiritual decay.

These idols of flesh we're exalting
These idols of flesh we wallow in
These idols of flesh we're consuming
Will consume our mind & our spirit.

Taking away what we can't live without
Replacing inner peace with fear & doubt
Precious time spent covering up our tracks
Looking ahead but still looking back.

Burning on the ancient altar of lust
Occasionally saying we've had enough
Sheepishly returning to the altar again
Learning to live with the scars & the pain.

They are flesh & blood just like me & you
Filled with emptiness when the act is through.

Dragged in by chains
You won't leave alone tonight
With everything you've said
Every crime commited
Here is a prison
Made of everything you know
Throw away the key
Because You won't see the day
Again

All fear and shame
They knew my name
I was in ******* to every broken sin
All fear and shame
They knew my name
I was in ******* to every sin

And here I was lost
Bound to my cell
Past was calling
Burdened from hell
You took my place
Where nailed wrists bled
And the thorns that pierced
Where you died and bled
Taking my place

Breathing softly
As the casket closed
And iron maiden
To close me into binds
No escape
No closure
No escaping the exposure of this sting
Untill you came
And took the death belonging to me

And here I was lost
Bound to my cell
Past was calling
Burdened from hell
You took my place
Where nailed wrists bled
And the thorns that pierced
Where you died and bled
Taking my place

And here I was lost
Bound to my cell
Past was calling
Burdened from hell
You took my place
Where nailed wrists bled
And the thorns that pierced
Where you died and bled
Taking my place

Take this life and all its pain
Blessed Are you Slain
Blessed Is The Slain
Blessed, beloved return again

The rope that you’re using to hold me
I crave as my very own,
for I am your woman desiring
and submissive is now what I am.

Your whip might hold such terror
for one who knows not of pain,
for me it’s an object of wanting
that drives me to seek it again.

The gag that holds me in silence
so my protests cannot be heard,
arouses me more than I tell you
as screams are held deep inside.

So much of me needs all this from you
making me want in this way,
I cannot find it with others
only you can control how I play.

The torture you give is sublime now
such suffering drives me insane,
my mind goes deep into meltdown
and beyond anything I can explain.

The force of your lash overwhelms me
with agony driving so deep,
yet I must take all that you give me
as you dry the wet tears when I weep.

‘Tis then that you hold me so softly
with arms around me so tight,
to know that I am your slavegirl
and suffering for you is so right.
*

From the Francesca Anderssen collection of 101 **** Verses 2017

My hands are tied behind my back
you love this helpless look,
my mouth so open wide for you
to take your deepest ******.

Yet my tongue is free to torture still
so you can but suffer of it,
it curls itself around you so
while forcing me to take it.

I look up and watch you writhing wild
and bite so gently harder.
I make your hand twist in my hair
and ****** a little deeper.

Your use of me this perfect way
says that you control me.
But can you stop right now my love?
In that there seems a doubting.

So where does the root of torture lie
with you or with your slave?
For I am here and tied so tight
but you can never leave.

***
From the Francesca Anderssen collection of 101 **** Verses 2017