Lonely in my cups

Each lonely hill was ever dear to sir:  
He would not have mine lonely in those cups,  
So tells me: "strip that bra now"; he'd prefer  
My bosom bared and ready - he thinks 'sluts'  
Will be less lonely with marks on the skin;  
My 'hills' are caressed, squeezed in master's hands;  
And if he strikes too freely, tits begin  
To warm for a short while - nipples will stand  
When pinched and squeezed and, even more, when slapped;  
And so, this chit of his takes each in turn;  
I know it is not lonely being mapped  
By his hands on my chest, before the burn  
Reacts to yield a moist ache in my quim,  
That knows my wetness so belongs to him.