A little death

Each sharp intake of breath may well suffice
To kill a pet a little, as he'll squeeze
A slut's throat somewhat harder - it's a vice
She's grown to love and loathe. Now, she will please,
Avoid mundane excuses, which, when drawn
On with far too much frequency, will mist
Sir's eyes with anger. No clemency is torn
For fuck toys, born to serve, who cannot risk
Displeasure, that she'd court with a request
To hold stooping to attend on sir's pleasure;
But, if waiting to breathe means interest
Is strengthened, it will do: the real measure
Is sir's patience, as he allows her death:
The little one that follows her gasped breath.