All the Trimmings

She isn't much of a cook
All day sweating in the kitchen
Slicing, dicing, stirring pots
A turkey prepared for sacrifice
A martyr plucked and oven-bound

Her Sir can do without the bird
Clears the table with a grand gesture
Lays her trembling atop the polished wood
The hot gravy poured slowly over pale skin
To be licked clean at his leisure
He bites but does not draw blood
Just enough to hear her moan
Then keening as he parts her thighs
The aroma rising, juices pouring
He licks his lips and gives thanks.