Saahirah Tied To A Tree Branch
and Whipped In Full Moonlight

She has not leaned as yet to dance or kneel,
But struggling in her bonds of rope and steel,
Saahirah writhes most pleasingly against her fate--
The Master smiles, such heat to contemplate . . .
The whip he holds, more biting than his art,
To tame this woman not a slave at heart,
Stings pretty bumble bee design on butt and thighs,
More slippery than the tears that sting her eyes.
Then coming round, with whip beneath her quivering chin,
He lifts her head and softly asks again,
"Do you think you've had enough, my pet?"
She looks him boldly in the eyes and says, "Not yet."
Caught By the Master

Upon crisp sheets of palest blue,
Her bare legs slide . . .
Between smooth lips of glistening wet,
Soft fingers glide . . .

What shameless heat, to go ahead
Without permission--
But he's not here, and she can't wait
In this condition.

She plays with it as if it still
Belonged to her . . .
While teasing thoughts of punishments
She might incur

Only serve to raise her frenzy
Even higher . . .
The melting burn within her belly,
Liquid fire . . .
Without a care for consequence,
She rocks and moans . . .
Illicitly enjoying what
Her Master owns.

Unknown to her, the Master watches,
Oddly smiling . . .
In his hand, a wooden hairbrush
Meant for styling--

Oval-shaped and carved of beech,
Has other uses
Besides the glossy chestnut mane
Her lust unlooses.

His blood now stirred at thought of her
Impending shame,
He chooses now to make his move,
And speaks her name.
Then stepping forth into the lamplight's
Intimate gleam,
He laughs at how she jumps and gives
That little scream.

"What have we here?" he asks, and sternly
Grabs her fingers--
Then brings them near his mouth and nose,
And fondly lingers.

"Turn over on your belly, Slave,"
He now commands.
But foolishly she hesitates
And lifts her hands--

"You weren't around, I didn't know
When you would be--"
A swift hard kiss upon her mouth
Chokes off her plea.

Then drawing back, ignoring all
Her vain evasions,
The nylon rope he keeps on hand
For such occasions,
He uses now to tie her wrists
Above her head,
To slender tubes of gleaming brass
That grace their bed.

"You're slow today," he says, and then
With clear intent,
He pats each silken creamy thigh
With knees now bent.

Then ties them thus, explaining that
Her willful sass
Has earned her slashes on her cunt,
And then her ass.

In genuine alarm, her eyes
Now open wide--
Observe him pull the nightstand drawer,
And reach inside.

Her breathing quickens when she sees
The leather strop--
He cracks it twice to let her hear
Its fearsome pop,
Then reaches down between her thighs
To test her heat . . .
In panic now she twists and pulls,
And jerks her feet.

He pauses to enjoy the sight
Of writhing limbs--
Her naked flesh now subject to
His darkest whims.

His fingers lightly trace the cleft
Of twitching mound . . .
She rolls her hips enticingly,
And makes a sound

From deep within her belly like
A half-born sob . . .
Between his legs, his risen sword
Begins to throb.
But he controls the fire burning
In her brain,
That licks along an intersect
Of bliss and pain.

With merciless precision and
Unflinching eyes,
He starts to whip her soundly on
Her lips and thighs.

The ritual sound of leather smacking
On tender bits,
Accompanies the sullen cries
Her pain emits.

Her petulance does nothing to
Appease the Master;
If anything, the slashes come
A little faster,

Until her head lolls mindlessly
From side to side--
Her helpless heat, now wantonly
Intensified.
At last he stops, and puts the strop
Back in the drawer,
And reaching down, retrieves the brush
From off the floor--

Reminds her of the spanking due
Upon her butt--
"For playing with it on the sly,
My pretty slut."

Untying now the knotted ropes
That hold her feet,
He grabs her legs and lifts them high
Up off the sheet.

Upon her upraised bottom now,
The hairbrush lands--
The price of not obeying quick
His first commands.

Yet still he pauses now and then,
And gently checks . . .
How cunningly his fingers move
Inside her sex,
And rubs the spot that drives her past
The point of seeing . . .
Impaled upon his hand she fears
She might start peeing!

Humiliation devastates
Her dignity--
Yet still she squirms and rides his fist
In ecstasy.

Then he resumes the whipping with
His open hand,
With every jolt of searing pain
Precisely planned.

Though puffy welts of rosen pink
Now mark her skin,
He does not stop until her tears
Have done her in.

From hidden store, emotion swells,
And fills the room--
While flutterings that drop and rise
Dissolve her womb.
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Intro to Gor 101

Spanking, yes,
but no red blotches.

(Don't waste time
with unwaxed crotches.)

Bondage, yes,
but no to bleeding.

Safe words, no,
but yes on pleading.

Professor J.'s
a Gorean Master.

(Chains are cool, but
ropes are faster.)

He knows how
to treat submissives--

How stern commands
and savage kisses

Can stir the fires
of Norman's blisses.

Ritual, yes
but no de Sade--

As well befits
A Nordic god.
Choosing A Leather Flogger

Elk is a rich and luscious hide
To tender the lips of an errant bride.

Buffalo lands with a heavier thud,
Like a deep massage in clingy mud.

Deer is perfect for sensual play--
Dramatic and light, but effective, they say . . .

While cowhide carries the brightest sting,
To kindle the heat in the lap of the King.
Slavegirl Heat

Master spanks me when I'm bad;
Sometimes, though, it makes him sad.
Eyes regretful, mouth turned down,
forehead wears a somber frown.

Gentle with my fragile knees;
Lifts them slow, as if to tease.
Master cares, and that is why
He will whip me till I cry.

Though I struggle, squirm and plead,
He knows better what I need.
Hard and sure, his falling hand
Leaves its pink-and-welted brand.

Though my tender upraised butt
Bucks and jerks with every cut,
No safe word can halt the fun--
Master spanks until he's done.

Only he determines when
Punishment is at an end.
Afterward he holds me near,
Kisses every sullen tear,

Rubs my butt to calm and soothe,
Whispers low, "You feel so smooth."
Intimacy extra sweet . . .
Well-spanked bottoms tend to heat.

Lips now itch to be explored . . .
Tongue and fingers in accord.
Nothing in the world so hot--
Slavegirl fresh from lesson taught.