Deed of Enslavement

Now with this rhyme I take my slave,
My gift: the station that you crave.
I grant my collar and my chain,
that you may kneel to me again.

My female power to enslave
burns brightly now, and none can save
the male who gives himself to me,
and none can ever set him free.

Now take this pen, now sign this deed,
by which your servitude’s decreed,
and, from the instant when you sign,
your soul and body, both, are mine.

Your mind and spirit, bone and hide,
both what I see, and deep inside.
your manhood’s mine, to use or let
alone, should I grow tired of it.

Among the myriad parts I own:
your mouth, your lips, your eager tongue;
their tireless service I’ll demand,
for endless hours, at my command.

No shameful part is hidden now,
your secret dark is mine to know;
your private places, deep within,
laid bare for me at slightest whim.

Your right to privacy is lost,
your inner life and thoughts are past,
in future, you will answer me
withholding nothing, truthfully.

I grant my collar, and bestow
the duties that such symbols show.
My name in steel is there engraved,
as padlocked proof I own you, slave.

The collar and the chains you bear
shall be the only garb you wear;
thus, strip for me and naked be
my chattel and my property.

I grant my ring that will adorn
you finger now, and ever more:
your hand shall bear this wedded sign
for all to see, that you are mine.

I grant my riding crop to you:
in cruel kindness when you’re true.
I’ll whip you in a colder way:
more harshly, should you disobey.

With loving service, you may earn
the owner’s mark, for which you yearn,
of red-hot steel placed by my hand:
your body honoured by my brand.

Were you aware of what you’d find?
Was pleasure all you had in mind?
That’s but a fraction of the chores
you owe the Mistress you adore!

The many tasks I hate to do,
I delegate them all to you;
my time and temper thus are saved,
to spend on you, my grateful slave. 

When you are done, I will inspect,
and let you know if all’s correct.
Each task you fail, you’ll do again,
encouraged by unwanted pain.

Now evening falls, your work is done:
I grant permission that you come
to kneel before your Mistress here,
and wait with hopeful, collared prayer.

Remain there kneeling for a while:
your naked ardour makes me smile!
Until my own impatience grows,
and I command the things I choose:

First tend my feet, then start to stray
up to your prize and slowly pay
full tribute due along the way
with kisses close, and sweet delay.

Among my curls your tongue must stay,
delicious, circling games to play.
Continue thus until I say:
"Enough! Now seek the shrine, and pray".

And so, we pass the hours away,
while I recline and you obey.
‘til, night grown old, by dawn betrayed;
our slumber greets the breaking day.

But each false move, each part ignored,
has now been tallied in your score
of whip-lash strokes that you deserve,
to teach you better how to serve.

And each sweet sigh I gave to you,
has formed another tally, too
of strokes that tell with loving pain:
you served me well, and may again.

(c) 2007 Han Li Thorn
www.hanlithorn.com