Credit: The Appalachian Mountain Band

Moscow BDSM Nights
Bound in leather, hands spread wide,
Jackson Hinkle knelt—to his dominatrix bride.
A collar tight, a leash in her hand,
He’d serve her, obey every command.

“You’ll speak for me,” her whisper hissed,
“I own you now,” her voice insists.
“Lie, deceive, become a snitch,
You are now my American bitch.”

Whipped and beaten, stripped and bare,
Ass exposed, legs spread in air.
“SVR took him, rough and deep,
Gagged and choking, a Russian treat.

Putin slapped him, his cheeks turned red,
Dugin rode him hard, laughed, and said—
“Faster, pig! Now squeal for me!”
Lavrov whipped it in a frenzied spree.

From table’s edge to the floor,
He took them all, he begged for more.
His chain was tugged, his hips would rise,
He welcomed the GRU between his thighs.

A paddle struck, his flesh turned red,
His body was used; all shame had fled.
With cheeks spread wide, restraints pulled tight,
The Kremlin had BDSM party all night.

And when the Russkies fulfilled their need,
He was paid hard cash for every deed.
“Good boy,” she purred, her fingers wet,
“My little Suka, my slutty pet.

No threats required, he craved disgrace,
Their lies spilled freely from his face.
Sold his nation, moaned for more,
A traitor-slut, a Russian agent whore.