Rule one: The mouth rounds open as an O.
That shape’s yours, Slave, to lavish and caress
Whatever Master thrusts in you. It’ll go
Hard on your ass unless you mouth, “O yes!”
Drool, too. Unlike love, drool’s a no-no.
Droolers are beat in a bib and baby’s dress.
Rule two: Bare skin beats fetishistic dress.
You might perfect your mouth’s fuckable O
Or show your love for Master by moaning, “Yes,”
To every slavish shame you undergo,
But leather-lock your ass from his caress
And you’ll force Master to push you to “No.”
Rule three: Before Master no slave says, “No.”
Say it and you’ll be beat, as your redress.
Master will stripe each ass-cheek’s fleshy O
With welts and make you mouth your mantra (Yes)
Until your slave’s mind spins in a vertigo
Of hate and love, under a whip’s caress.
Rule four: Love tests the cruelest caress.
Sometimes Master’s conscience whispers, “No,”
When a thrashed slave in, say, a nurse’s dress
Collapses. The beating stops. The broken O
Of the slave’s mouth can’t spout, “Yes, Doctor, yes.”
Love lets you lift your ass, to say, “Let’s go.”
Rule five: The ass has torments to undergo.
A vanilla lover will stroke, squeeze, caress
Your ass, French kiss your mouth, and drone out “Ooooo”
Like a dial tone, but Master makes you undress
And squat. He beats your ass until you know
You’re his, a slave who, caned or strapped, cries, “Yes!”
These are the rules, Slave. You must choose: Yes
Or no? You offer your ass or else you go.
Can you take a beating as a caress?
Can you suffer for love? It’s yes or no.
If yes, then bow to Master. If no, then dress,
Close your mouth, and chuck your Story of O.
My mouth is Master’s O. This slave’s all yes. My Master may caress my ass. I go To him in love. No beating will make me dress.