I said we should have a safe word
	That’s how these things are done aren’t they?
		She said no and put the gag in.
		It stifles my laughter

She struts in creaking kinky thigh boots,
The fleshy overhang of her hip
Swallowing the top of the stitching
I remain manacled and submissive,
	Languid and unconvinced,
		In short, short and flaccid.

She wears a warped basque
That skroinks with effort;
A thin crust over an avalanche of jelly.
Then she bends.
The flesh erupts.
She topples.
	Out.
	Then over.
Good Lord I didn’t expect that!

I am chained to the dining table in the chintzy front room of the dead dominatrix whose kids will soon be home from school.

The manacles are as hard as I am.