Return to the Poetry Sweatshop

The Owner of The Poetry Sweatshop™ is on a rampage. Production is down. Quality is down. Profits are down. And nothing he has tried to improve the situation has worked.

Oh, there are still plenty of poets chained by one leg to their little desks, slaving away to churn out verse of all forms to massage the ego of the patrons who brought them here to earn their keep. At night they are taken back to the lavish dwellings of the plainly pseudo art aficionados. There they perform their work for family and guests. Sometimes the writer will be required to perform privately for the patron, the performance usually extending far beyond a simple recitation. An indescribable level of meaning is added to a work when the words surround a rich man's cock or are slid down a lapping tongue into a reddened, flowing cunt.

So yes, the poets are still chained to their desks by day. And to be honest, while their patrons have been noticing a decrease in quantity, they are mainly too boorish to appreciate true quality when it take a nibble out of their testicles.

The Owner, however, is another matter. He takes pride in his work. He wants to take pride in the work of his charges. He wanders the aisles between the desks, flogger gripped in his fist, a sadistic teacher in a one room school house. He calls working lunches, at which he lectures the hapless writers on organization, outlines, and research. He requires them to spend an hour a day executing little exercises in rhythm and rhyme.

He notes some improvement.
On general principle, he is pleased.
But these poets, property of others, are not his real concern.

There is the one.
The one that belongs to him.
The one who sits naked at a desk apart from the others.
The one with a choke chain around her neck.
The one from whom he expects true art.

The one who makes him crazy.

This one, he knows, has talent.
This one, he knows, has skill.
This one, he knows, has no self-discipline.

He has been trying his best for a year. Kindness, cruelty, instruction, guidance, letting slip ever so slightly the mask that hides whatever feelings lie deep inside.

OK. He admits that he didn't let the mask slip deliberately. It was a mistake, a big mistake, and he doesn't allow himself mistakes. But he'll make up for it. He'll make up for that moment of weakness, those seconds of softness, and he'll get what he wants from her - what he knows is there - if he has to give her up to do it.

So he goes on a rampage. But this time, it is addressed only at her. His pet poet. His private property. His potential pride, if only she didn't let her creativity wash away with her focus.

He storms up to her desk, grabs her by the choke chain, and drags her off to the room her almost never uses. Not the usual punishment room, from which all the poets can hear every scream, every moan, every crack of the whip. This one is worse.

It is completely soundproof.

As he pushes her inside, he pronounces his sentence.
4 days.
4 days alone.
4 days in silence.
4 days deprived of the sound of his voice.

He pushes her inside, and locks the door. A minute later he is back with her laptop and her assignment. And then he is gone.

And that's it. For 4 days. She sees no one. Food and water are slipped in through a cat door by disembodied hands. Not a sound penetrates from the rest of the factory, nor from the world outside.

She cries a bit, and then sets to work.

The Owner, however, is struggling with feelings he refuses to admit. He misses her, damn it! She infuriates him, she complicates his life, and he misses her. He brushes it off, comparing the exercise to having your car in the shop. For repairs. For a tune-up. It's aggravating, it's a disruption of ritual, but it's not that big a deal.

He dreams about her.

At 7 o'clock on the fourth morning, he unlocks the soundproof room and storms inside. She is awake and calm. Waiting for him.

Calmly she hands him the completed assignment.
Calmly she watches his face as he reads.
Calmly, gratefully, she accepts his praise,
as a puddle of pussy juice
pools
on the hard wooden chair beneath her.

Calmly, happily, she takes her place on her knees.
Calmly, passionately,
she sucks his cock the way only she can.
Calmly, worshipfully,
she accepts the sacrament of his cum.

And then, shining with joy, she returns to her desk and produces a book of love sonnets.