Yes Loveby James Prenatt
He waits in the cool, dank basement, hands and feet tied to the chair. He’s naked and his body still hasn’t adjusted to the cold. His foot has been in a bucket of ice for the past ten minutes. He shivers; tells himself it’s not so bad. He’s almost bored when he hears the click, clack of Her high heels coming down the steps. She has a black bag filled with who knows what. She wears a tight leather skirt and a white button down. The outfit reminds him of some sexy teacher fantasy from his childhood. On some subconscious psychological level, that’s what all this is all about, learning. His head is level to Her breasts and She’s in no rush.
“Cold?” She asks.
“Little bit,” he admits.
She stands behind him and presses her warmth to him, strokes Her hand across his chest, shoulders, and hair. He may be lowly and worthless, but he is Hers and he is beautiful. She reaches her hand down to his pubic area and strokes back and forth. “Better?”
“Yes,” he responds, but Her hand has already left before he can get it up.
“Yeah, right,” She says, mockingly.
She puts gloves on and places sterilizing equipment beside him. She’s not shy or easy about spreading rubbing alcohol on him. He gags a big from the smell, but She doesn’t mind. She likes the stinging sensation in the back of her mouth, the sterile scent. Next She applies iodine, wipes the murky color off of his skin and delicately washes a razor blade with a sterilizing wipe.
“Oops. Forgot.” She takes his foot out of the bucket of ice. It’s red. “Should be good and numb now.”
“Don’t be a brat,” She says and gets to work. She slowly slides the razor blade across his thighs, small cuts appear, not more than an inch. They sting for a moment and make him wince, but it’s the anticipation that really does it. She gets closer and closer to his balls and knowing that this is nerve wracking for him, tucks them to the side. The gesture is enough to make him a little more comfortable, but this isn’t for him, it’s for Her, gives Her the assurance that She will not cut him somewhere neither of them want. That wouldn’t be pretty.
Then comes the salt. When She stands he wants to press his head into her belly, to feel comfort, to be held and caressed, but She won’t give that to him yet. “You can smell me, but don’t you dare touch me without my permission.” She puts the salt into her hand, not daintily and sprinkles it over his cuts.
“Not too bad.”
She takes her right hand, presses down on his thigh and twists. He yelps and stomps his other foot. She does this in passing, moving behind him and on to the next thing, casual and cold. She cleans him up with cold water and rubbing alcohol, which isn’t as painful as She had hoped.
“You’re annoying me with that look on your face,” She says.
“Like you’re going to mess me up at any moment. Like I can’t hurt you the way I know I can.”
“I don’t think you can,” he says.
She picks up a riding crop and slaps his wounded legs. He growls. “Still think so?” Naturally, his answer is yes. They continue this game until She’s satisfied that he’ll be quiet for a little while.
“Stick out your tongue,” She says.
“You heard me. Stick it out.”
She grabs him by the cheeks with one hand and squeezes like he’s a child. “Stick. It. Out.” He listens, making an ahh noise. She whacks him a good few times with the crop. When She’s done he shakes his head and moves his now-numb tongue around in his mouth.
She unties him and tells him to lie flat on a coffee table so that only the middle of his back is on it, but his neck hangs over. She ties his hands to his ankles. She stands over him with his head between Her legs. She continues with the crop, but this time mixes it up, smacks both his belly, chest, and thighs until they’re pink. He screams, a sound that coming from a man, is too pathetic not to make Her laugh.
Flogger time. It’s not a heavy flogger at all. It’s quite light, but used properly it will sting, especially since he’s become so paranoid of Her hitting his cuts. Especially since She’s about to use it on his cock and balls.
She doesn’t give him the pleasure of getting to look up Her skirt. Instead She does this in front of him, where he has to crane his neck upward in order to see Her. She’s getting hot from the work and begins to unbutton Her shirt. His body does not respond properly with all the pain and fear running through it. Pain always blocks out pleasure.
She unties him and tells him to lie on a small, dingy bed, just big enough for one person. He’s compliant by now and weakened enough to say their phrase, “Yes, Love.” He lies down on his back and She takes Her skirt and shirt off. In Her hand She holds a meat grinder. She sits on top of him so that he can only see Her back. Again he’s forced to strain his neck to enjoy Her, to breathe in Her musky scent.
And if it weren’t for the fact that She was repeatedly smacking his wounds with the meat grinder, using both the rigid side and the flat side, he would gladly lie there for half an hour, not much more than a human bed. He presses his face between Her ass, thinking please, just give me this, let me stay here. She gives him pleasure in between hurting him, pulling his cock back tight and running her hand up and down it, deep throating briefly, but not enough to get him to climax. This his favourite, but as She hurts him he can’t manage to enjoy it the same. She slaps his balls repeatedly and he grabs onto her back, worships Her body. She lowers her panties enough that he can reach his tongue up into Her ass, rims it as She commands him and moves Her hips back and forth. All the while, the pain continues.
“I’m going to cum,” he says.
She stops. “Oh really?” She pulls her panties back up and gets off of him. “I think you should beg.”
“No,” he says through a grunt, still stubborn.
“Have it your way.” She continues pounding the meat grinder into the cuts and flicks his balls hard enough that he rises up and loses that stubborn growl he once had. Now it’s just moaning. “Come on, beg,” she says as she hits him and jacks him off at the same time. The meat grinder is stained with blood.
Again, the pain. Finally, he gives in. “Please may I cum?”
She grants him this wish and goes until he makes a mess of himself. She stands up and smiles, gives him that cocky and satisfied look he hates so much. “What a mess,” She says. She gets a towel and tosses it on top of him. “Clean yourself up.”
Later, in his room, he strums his guitar and tries to match word with melody. He thought of doing something a little nursery rhyme like: have you, have you, have you any pain? Yes love, yes love, all for you. Ick. Could do better. The music takes time to come time him and he wouldn’t be able to do it without Her. And when it does, it happens all at once. Every word in its order, every chord, it’s all there and he’s able to play the song all the way through without once turning back. He decides on something a little wispier, something haunting and ethereal:
Tell me if you want to fuck me
Tell me if you want to die
Tell me when you cum inside me
Tell me it makes you want to cry
When he’s done he calls Her up from the kitchen. It’s their tradition that She gets to be the first to listen to his work. She is that master and muse; the strum in his head and the burn of his fingers against the strings.
“It’s good,” She says.
“Yes, I like it.”
He continues to twiddle his fingers about the strings, not playing, but perfecting in his head. “You know I need more than that.”
“Well, I think you could speak up a bit more.”
“That’s what I’m going for, something creepy and a bit indiscernible.”
She picked up a book and said through a sigh, “Well, I think you need to speak up.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You have to. You have a nice voice.”
Ultimately, he will listen, but as with his submission he has to go through the stubborn phase first. This is his art. He is Her art. She always ends up being right, whether or not he will say it. But when She hears the rough cuts or polished recordings, She knows where he has changed things in favor of Her opinion. That’s almost more satisfying than knowing he is all Hers, every inch, even his mind and the subconscious part of him that turns thoughts into music. In a way, She owns the songs too.