Maestro

I lead the nightly symphony,orchestrated sound
overwhelming agony,beneath my tux is bound
I'm not sure that you notice,within your angled chair
the fuck me view you offer and how often that I stare

the mid thigh slit you brandish knowing it will bring My gaze
full breasts that seem to quiver as do the notes upon My page
there will be no given sympathy,no adagio for you
as your solo time approaches,you know what I will do

your fingers lithe and nimble as they dance along the shaft
the flute a freudian symbol, of where your mind is at
your lips pressed and puckered as they were the night before
behind the backdrop curtain as you kneeled on the floor

a hush befalls the audience as your moment now arrives
they focus on your solo as I focus on your thighs
My baton becomes an implement, a spanking crop or cane
the writen notes a drama, replete with lovers pain

your eyes transfixed upon Me, as are fingers lips and mind
your fevered hopes the tempo will be brutal and unkind
upon the flute your fingers dance,lips struggling for air
your head moving with a purpose as wild as your hair

crescendo reaching climax as the sweat drips from your brow
your tongue removes the drool from the mouthpiece as you bow
lips release a wicked smile,no words come to mind to say
but to sit again upon your chair, till called on next to play