My Body is the Paper

My body is the paper,
Your fingers do the writing.
You command, "stay there."
Obediently, I quit writhing.

Poems, novels, simple sayings,
Scribbled upon my flushed skin,
Each stroke of the letters has me begging,
Written with pink ink and a grin.

Another cry, a fresh blank page,
Sir is a scribe like no other.
Script on my body will never age,
My flesh, his canvas, devoted lover.

Rope burns, hand prints, scratches, scars,
He knows what I need and I take it all.