The Y key on my keyboard is now broken.

[maculategiraffe]

Really, it is! It falls off at the slightest provocation. aerialsprite, you owe me a new keyboard.

(Not really. I suspect all the adverbs didn't help.)

Six weeks after Yves' purchase:

---

Curled on a couch in the library, Yves had let his book fall into his lap and was deep in thought about some of the implications the chapter presented when the door banged open and Holden slammed into the room, rage crackling off him like static electricity. Yves' heart leapt to his throat, his mind darting back to the religion he'd rather been neglecting for the past six weeks, but when Holden saw him, his scowl vanished.

"Hello, sweetheart," he said, sitting down next to Yves. "How's the book?"

Yves smiled, astonished at the gentle affection that had abruptly replaced the thunderclouds on his master's face. Holden was still decidedly in a mood-- Yves had never seen anyone who could project a mood as thoroughly as his master; suppressed tension was evident in every visible part of his body, including, impressively, the elbows-- but his smile back at Yves was perfectly genuine. It was strange to have that effect on someone just by being there-- though maybe strange wasn't the best word for it. Amazing would be closer.

"It's excellent, master," he said sincerely. "I-- thank you for getting it for me. So much. I don't know if I've told you how-- grateful I am, for your generosity--"

"No problem," said Holden dismissively-- so ego stroking, however heartfelt, wasn't going to help with the mood-- glancing into the book with more restlessness than interest. "Sorry to bang around like that. Gods but that little bitch pisses me off."

"Greta?" Yves ventured. The other option would be Alix, and while they quarrelled fairly often, Yves couldn't imagine Holden referring to his wife that way.

"Greta." The name itself sounded like an expletive on Holden's lips. "She's such a fucking drama queen. Running and clinging to Alix's skirts if I so much as look at her. Merciful mistress save me. And if I ever fuck her she closes her eyes and presses her lips together like I'm killing her. Like it's such torture. I mean, she offered, but obviously I'm the fucking ogre for accepting, right?"

Yves, his face arranged in automatic lines of sympathy and agreement, was actually thinking that he didn't blame Greta for cringing from their master, whose dislike for her had been obvious from the first time he'd seen them together. But he didn't know their history, and had no intention of asking, not when Holden was already this pissed off. More talk of Greta would only make matters worse.

He wondered if he dared touch his master without invitation, thinking that his skill at massage, which Holden had already praised him for, might ease the tension. After a moment's hesitation during which he had to remind himself that Holden had never struck him, and wouldn't, not without warning, he put a cautious hand on the back of Holden's neck and started delicately rubbing.

Holden reached back, took his hand, brought it around to his lips, and kissed it before returning it to Yves' lap, which, while extremely sweet as wordless rejections went, was also definite. Damn.

Absently Holden turned over a page of the book in Yves' lap, his eyes sliding across the page without seeming to register its contents. "Sometimes I think if I could just hit her-- but it wouldn't help. She's so-- little. And she'd cry without making any noise and limp around all white-faced and martyred and I'd feel like more of a monster than ever. I thought fucking her would help, too, at first, but it hasn't. Ah, let's talk about something else. Do you understand all this?"

"I think so, master." Yves glanced at the book, then, rather nervously, at Holden. It was dawning on him that there was probably something, and only one thing, he could do to improve his master's mood, but he was going to stall anyway. A boy could offer alternatives, couldn't he? "Do you want me to try to explain it?"

"Sometime," said Holden, staring into the book unseeingly, "but not right now. I'm kind of tense."

Well, calculus as stress relief was always a long shot. Yves shut the book and lifted his face to Holden's, and Holden kissed him quickly, perfunctorily, on the lips, and pulled away before Yves could deepen the kiss. His second most promising gambit rejected, Yves steeled himself.

"Do you want to--" he began, then hesitated, unsure how best to say what he meant. "Is there anything I can do, to help? With the-- tension?"

"I don't think so," said Holden, smiling at him rather ruefully. "Don't worry. I won't take it out on you."

"Well," said Yves, and accepted the perfect opening. "You could, you know, master."

"I could what?" Holden asked, looking back with alert puzzlement at Yves.

"Take it out on me," said Yves. "If it would make you feel better."

Holden, his head tilted to one side, examined Yves for a moment before saying neutrally, "What are you talking about?"

Yves met the dark eyes; it was hard to feel afraid when looking into them. "You were saying you wished you could hit Greta, master. It's natural to want to-- hurt someone. When you're angry."

"Usually," said Holden, studying his slave thoughtfully, "it's best to make it the person you're actually angry at."

"But you said yourself, it wouldn't help to hurt Greta," said Yves. "I know you're not angry at me, master, and you're very kind not to be taking it out on me already, but-- I've read a little about human biology. Anger is a physical thing-- hormones get released, and-- sometimes you really need a physical release, to feel better."

"Hormones, you say," said Holden, still examining Yves with unnerving intensity. "Just so we're clear here, Yves, are you actually suggesting that I beat you?"

Yves smiled a little; somehow the very fact that Holden was proving so reluctant made him feel better about the prospect of his finally accepting. If any other master had come in such a towering rage into a room containing a dreamily woolgathering Yves, Yves was fairly sure he'd already be crimsoned and crying, none of this careful negotiation or-- gods help him-- persuasion.

"If it will make you feel less tense, master," he said. "And I think it might. Yes, that's what I'm suggesting."

Holden reached out and picked up one of Yves' hands from his lap, clasping it firmly as if to test Yves' resolve. "It might, at that."

Yves' smile was shaky, but real. "And if you start-- and it's not helping-- you'll stop, won't you?" Holden nodded. "So if you keep going, it will mean I'm helping. And I'll be glad. It's worth a try, master."

Holden laughed a little. "Well. Choose your implement."

His pulse quickening a bit at the abrupt order, Yves considered. The only implement he was intimately familiar with was the cane, and that carried far too many connotations for him, after two years of associating it with sexual and emotional frustration and-- more recently-- the erotic games Holden had started to use it for. Much too fraught for his first beating from Holden, even if it wasn't a punishment. "Not a cane, please, master-- but anything else-- whatever will be best for you."

Holden nodded. "My belt, then."

Yves' eyes jumped to the belt at Holden's waist, a fairly wide black leather strap he'd seen often enough before, though never in this light. He swallowed. "Yes, master."

"You may also choose your position," said Holden, watching Yves, "if you like."

Yves was much more sure about that one; he hadn't liked the idea of being placed in a position of ignominy or pointed helplessness, something Cal had been a little too fond of. Not that Yves would have minded particularly, if Cal hadn't always had to be such a bastard about it. "Thank you, master. Could I be standing up? Palms against the wall?"

"Sure," said Holden. "That's good. Make it easier for me to control the impact. And if you drop, I'll know I've gone too far."

Yves nodded, then, almost shyly, got up, slipped off his tunic and went to the wall, taking up a position with his palms braced against the wall, bearing his weight, and his legs apart at a little more than shoulder width. The position was familiar enough that he assumed it without worrying that his master would be unimpressed with his form, but not so familiar as to bring back too many memories. He was actually fairly comfortable. At the moment.

He heard footsteps behind him, then felt a gentle hand on his naked back.

"You're sure you want to do this, Yves?" Holden asked softly.

Yves turned his head and looked at his master, trying to be as completely honest as Holden's tone invited. "It's not that I'm not nervous, master. I've never been beaten with a belt." Or by you, he thought but didn't say, eyeing the muscles of Holden's arms, leaner than Cal's but no less firm. "But I'm not-- that afraid. Nobody's ever-- you know, you hear stories about slaves being whipped really severely-- but nobody's ever hurt me worse than I could stand. And I don't think you will either."

"I won't," said Holden, stroking his back. "And if you get scared, or if it hurts too much, you may ask me to stop. I promise I won't be angry."

Yves' smile was steadier this time. "Thank you, master."

"All right, then." Holden unbuckled his belt and pulled it off, the unbelted tunic falling in loose folds, like Yves' tunic, making him look somehow softer, more relaxed already. He wrapped the buckle end matter-of-factly around his hand and wrist and stepped back as Yves turned his face back to the wall.

The sound of the first crack across the dead center of Yves' ass registered what seemed like whole minutes before the pain hit-- a different, more resounding smack, and a different pain from the cane's sharp, unyielding sting. The leather belt, Yves thought vaguely, was more like Holden. Skin on skin. Almost a laughing sound, as it cut the air, before it struck, compared to the cane's dry swish. Warm, it felt, from Holden's body-- or that was just his own skin, already hot with pain. Though his master seemed to be holding back for the moment; certainly he could have hit a lot harder-- but not for long at a time. Maybe he was just warming up. Holden had a lot of tension, a lot of rage rippling under those lean muscles of his, and it might take him a while to relax and settle in, to accept the pleasure of the exercise, of inflicting pain, painting strokes of fire on the skin of Yves' ass and thighs, gone tender from all these weeks without a welt. He'd be welted after this, no doubt, stripes wider and flatter than the thin, precise marks of the cane; it would be interesting to see them. Did belts leave bruises, topical bruises like from a hand's slap, or--?

The pain was blossoming, spreading, reaching the familiar unbearable peak more quickly than the cane brought it-- Holden was hitting harder now, unless the belt's pain was just more cumulative than the cane's-- but the bearable-after-all heat once the peak was past, once Yves' head had fuzzed out a little, was sweeter and more blurred than the cane's bite, and his thoughts as he tasted it were of darkness and another kind of heat, of insistent hands and a hot swallowing mouth.

He wondered in images more than thoughts what Holden would do with his welted body in bed. Hungrily as Cal had eyed his stripes, Lady Katya had seemed disturbed by them, hadn't liked to caress the areas of his body where she knew she'd encounter them. Would Holden run hands over them, press his lips to them, lick them, would that hurt, would it feel--? Yves' cock was stirring, lifting at the thought, and he smiled, thinking for a moment of Cal, of the fantasies that had never--

What would it feel like when Holden thrust inside him, grinding against the hot searing pain of-- Fuck but this hurt. Had Holden actually broken the skin? It felt like he had, but it always felt worse than it looked. Yves wanted to turn his head and see, but he was much too well trained to give in to the impulse, and Holden would stop if he saw blood, Yves was as sure of that as he was of the floor, the wall, the belt, the pain, the strokes coming steadily, one by--

For an instant he panicked, realizing he hadn't been counting, then remembered Holden hadn't told him to count. Wouldn't be angry with Yves for not counting, even if he'd meant him to. Would shrug, smile, pat him, say "My fault, I forgot to tell you--" Yves' tears spilled, and that didn't give him even a moment's panic. Tears were appropriate during punishment. But this wasn't punishment, and Yves wasn't repentant, or any of the things-- lonely, frustrated, resentful-- that penitence provided a useful cover for during punishment, so that he could cry to his heart's content without any worse consequence than Cal's glance of cold contempt.

He'd started to sob a little anyway when he heard a clatter and realized, breathing hard, his face messy with tears and sweat, that Holden had dropped the belt to the floor. He held position automatically, waiting for some signal from his master, who was breathing hard, too, behind him. A hot hand touched his sweat-cooled shoulder, and he shivered involuntarily.

"You okay?" Holden asked quietly.

"Yes, master," said Yves, his face twisting a little, tears still slipping from his eyes, hoping the crying hadn't made Holden stop before he was finished.

"You may--" said Holden, his voice unsteady, and sank down without finishing, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. Yves looked down at his master, tentatively pleased-- Holden definitely looked less tense, looked and sounded practically post-orgasmic. "I may what, master?"

"Anything you want," said Holden, his eyes closed.

Yves grinned despite himself as he lowered himself on trembling legs to his knees beside his master, then laid himself carefully face down, burying his head and shoulders in his master's lap and winding his arms around Holden's still unbelted waist.

"Anything I want?" he said, and cleared his throat, brushing his tears dry against the warm cloth of Holden's tunic. "Really, master? You'll have to whip me more often."

"Oh, gods, Yves," said Holden, and his voice was still shaking.

"Did it help?"

"Did it help?" Holden laughed, even more shakily. "I can't believe-- you did that for me."

Yves shook his head, contentedly nuzzling Holden's stomach as he basked in his master's pleasure and in the afterglow from the-- things he couldn't remember the name of. Endometriums. No, that was something else. "You can do as you like to me, master. I just made a suggestion."

"You know it wouldn't have been-- the same. If you hadn't offered."

"I do, master," Yves admitted. "It wasn't the same for me either, knowing I was doing it-- for you. I'm glad it helped... Master, did you break the skin?"

"No, no. Probably feels like it, though, yeah? It never looks as bad as it feels, does it? If it's any consolation, I feel about as good as I've felt in--" Holden fell silent, and Yves listened to him breathe, too comfortable and pleased with himself to bother to look over his shoulder to assess the damage to his throbbing ass and thighs. Endorphins, that was it. He'd figured out pretty quickly when he'd first read about the pituitary gland that they were probably responsible for the head-fuzzing during a beating, but he'd never had a chance to just lie down and enjoy them afterwards while his master stroked his hair. It felt good. Really good.

"A long time," Holden said finally.

Yves giggled. "Well, see? Aren't you glad you let me talk you into this, master?"

"I--" Holden sounded worried. "Yves? You're really okay? You're not-- mad at me?"

Yves laughed, then started to cry again.

"Oh, Loki venom-eyed, Yves, sweetheart, please," said Holden frantically, and Yves laughed again, sobbing out, "Yes, yes, I'm fine, master, I'm not upset, I'm just-- happy."

"Happy," Holden echoed, and ran a hand through Yves' hair. "You're something else, you know that, kid?"

Yves snorted, drying the fresh tears against Holden's legs. "You want to know the really funny part, master? I used to think of myself as sensible."