Naked Body of Dreams

Poetry by David Deyo


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Corporal Exorcism

The first time I am just a boy,
Dad is punisher and giver of discipline.
It begins in the drumbeat of feet climbing stairs.
My room is no refuge from the berating speech
that tells me to expect the full rain of his wrath.
At length, the buckle is unhitched and in hand.
Leather slowly hisses around his waistband
popping all the beltloops in his pants.

He doubles up the thin, black snake,
grips both ends of the loop that it forms,
snaps the tanned hide that soon will tan mine.
His words go unheard but his actions tell all.
He is the power. He is the master.
And I will submit.

He orders my pants to my ankles.
I expose myself according to his will.
He orders me to the proper position.
I drop to my knees at the bedside,
the mattress where I sleep in peace,
the padding where I wait, prostrate,
a cushion to muffle my shrunken voice.

His belt never fails to find the mark.
Each armswing lands another blow,
paints another stripe across my ass.
Each impact drives his vented rage
straight through the swelling pain.
I soak up this poison of humility,
absorbed into marrow and memory
as his questions pile insult on injury.
Will I do it again? Will I do as I’m told?
My answers must all be his answers
for his is the only will that survives.

The second time I am just a boy,
Daddy is teacher and giver of discipline.
Once again I am face down on a bed,
waiting for the start of my lesson.
But I fear no evil, because Sir is here,
my nostrils full of his earthen essence
and my mouth growing full of his flesh.
He is the power, which I have provided
in the obedience I give for his gift.
And I submit.

These slaps of his leather ask no questions
and demand nothing damning of me,
but the blush they impart glows with my answers.
These cracks I withstand from a hand that I chose,
light the fires where my mettle is forged
from buckles melted off the belts I remember.

Today, the paddle leaves behind nothing,
but reaches down deeper than marrow
to meet forgotten poisons from my youth
and reversing them, lifts them away.
The Daddy whom I make my own
releases me from the Dad who made me,
and the straps that appear to hold me down
lift me free.


About the Poem

This poem talks an emotional connection made during my first experience as a leather submissive. The most unexpected part of this experience was the way it both put me in contact with old demons as well as helped me release some of them.

Publication

This poem was completed July 10, 2003. It is previously unpublished in print.

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