Inflicted

My flanks are his playing ground; it seems  
That, when I bend and bare, he won't resist  
The feelings that build up; when he demeans  
Me with his bitter praises, each one's kissed,  
Or rather laced with acrid thoughts, that serve  
To keep me in my place and make me writhe  
And to inflict more injury on curves  
Than any simple punishment; survive  
This discipline and I may well prove fit  
To take another beating or the lash  
Of further fond incursions, as my slit  
Is moistened by control; and he can mash  
His lips to mine and take me with no thanks  
Besides the marks inflicted on my flanks...