Frost Dust

She lies there plain as frost dust when he thrashes her at dawn,
Knowing she's a torpid witch: a cunt who must perform,
Doing her master's bidding from nightfall until morn.
 
She is not sick, delirious, although she is at play,
She loves the way he whips her to mark out every day,
And gags her with her panties ensuring she's no say.
 
This isn't a democracy. She is quite overawed;
She knows he finds her wanton and absolutely flawed,
Needing the excitement of screams as flesh is scored.
 
She begs to lick him better and to suck her owner's balls;
She will tongue and give a rimjob in a way that recalls
Her place - humiliation - ensures she never stalls.
 
As slut and whore and nasty, filthy, little bitch,
She really cannot help herself, when she gets the itch:
The cunt is always ready for a whipping with a switch.
 
She knows his destination is the tightness of her hole;
He will press into wetness to attain his goal;
She will cry a little - knowing, full-well, her role.
 
He makes sure there aren't limits for there's no end to trust;
He fucks her and he beats her and pisses, once he's sussed
She is so addicted he can treat her like frost-dust.