maculategiraffe (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
maculategiraffe) wrote2008-12-27 09:39 am
maculategiraffe) wrote2008-12-27 09:39 am
On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...
(Yes, this is the second day of Christmas. The 25th is Christmas Day, and then the 26th is the First Day of Christmas, making the 6th, Feast of the Epiphany, also Twelfth Night. The more you know!)
Yves, holding position in the disciplined stillness he'd more or less perfected, was wishing he'd asked to lie prostrate for this flogging. That way he could have lost consciousness peacefully, without disrupting the brutal rhythm his master had reached, which had grown more insistent and intimate than Yves' own thudding heartbeat.
But if he did pass out while his master was whipping him, tempting as the prospect currently seemed, it would severely disrupt the larger rhythms of the household. The one time Holden had drawn blood from Yves' back with his belt, he'd been far more upset by the tiny, seeping cut than Yves had. It had taken nearly a year-- and Greta going down on her knees to Yves, begging him to find some way to sweeten their master's temper-- before Holden could be persuaded to pick up the belt again. Beating Yves till he collapsed-- and the dark, sweet edge of that loss of control was perilously close-- would upset him even worse.
So Yves made his lips move, mustered breath, gasped out a word that made no sound-- at least none audible above the vicious crack of leather on flesh-- then made it louder, more insistent: "Master--"
The belt's downward stroke lashed the wall instead of Yves' back, and as Yves' knees abruptly disobeyed him and buckled, Holden caught him, pulling him close against his chest. The heat of his bared arms and of the belt buckle, still wrapped around his hand, seared at the welts on Yves' back.
"No more," Yves got out, "please--"
"No more," Holden agreed, swiftly, gently, and, still supporting Yves' weight, guided him towards the bed, helped him lie down on his stomach, and then disappeared somewhere.
Yves lay still on the cool sheet, his face half buried in the pillow, trying to catch his breath, while the pain washed over him, licking at his back like the embers of a dying fire. It felt good to be horizontal, good and restful; the bed was soft and firm underneath him, and bore his weight well. Not being beaten any more also felt good, though he could already tell the soreness would last for a while-- but at least the belt wasn't still laying down its blistering strokes, slicing across Yves' screaming nerve endings as if it, like his skin, were red-hot.
He shuddered involuntarily when the dark form of his master loomed over him again, his heart spasming in unreasoning terror as Holden sat down on the bed. But then came an exquisite soothing coolness on the skin of his back: Holden was applying aloe gel to the welts, his hand shaking rather badly.
"Master--" Yves coughed. "Are you-- okay?"
"Am I okay?" Holden repeated, in a voice that shook, too.
Yves shifted his shoulders, wincing. "Yes. I'm fine. But you were--"
"I'm sorry," said Holden, smoothing on more aloe; the coolness was sweet relief, but it was also making Yves shiver. "Yeah, I was-- I guess I was-- really upset."
"You were?"
"Just a bit," said Holden, with a smile in his voice at Yves' weak teasing, and added, more steadily, "Little Bran's going to be amazed by the master's good mood tomorrow."
"Yeah?" said Yves, closing his eyes. "How about little Kai?"
"Oh, hell, that's right," said Holden, still stroking the balm over Yves' skin. "I forgot we were seeing him tomorrow. Well, it doesn't matter. This should last me a while."
"It had better," said Yves, and started to cry.
"Yves--" Holden had him in his arms again at once, and Yves, despite the excruciating pain as the motion shifted and stretched the skin of his back, clung to him, sobbing. "Sweetheart-- just relax, don't feel like you have to talk. Unless you want to. Or if there's anything you want--"
"Just hold me," Yves wept, and Holden stroked him, kissed him, cuddled him closer.
"My darling," he whispered, "light of my life, heart of my heart-- my godsend, my miracle-- I love you so much, baby, you're so strong, you're so brave, you're so good to me, my Yves--"
Yves held on, half listening, forcing himself to breathe. He was used to the body's slow, stupid, stubborn, helpless fear-- the pounding of the heart, the trembling, the cold sweat-- and used to waiting it out, waiting for it to catch up with his mind, which already knew he was safe. He had learned to be considerate and patient with his body, ensconcing it safely in his master's arms, letting it be kissed and cuddled, letting the stream of praise and endearments pour into its ears, letting the fear and misery be carried out of it on a stream of childish tears. He'd been too impatient, the first few times-- unwilling to indulge what he saw as foolish weakness, insisting he was fine and needed, at most, to be left alone for a little. But the body had had its revenges. Yves knew better by now than to let it be subjected to pain without accepting the solace his master offered.
Holden understood this, too, at least enough to hold and comfort and praise Yves without bothering him with apologies or questions. Either would have required Yves to muster his strength to answer, to reassure his master that he was really fine, which always drew a wrenching burst of denial from his shaking, sobbing body. He needed time not to be fine, not to try to be fine, and Holden gave it to him.
Though later, when they were curled close, easing nearer to sleep, Holden did ask a question-- one he'd asked so many times now that most of the words had been worn away.
"This the last time?"
Yves smiled as he gave the well-worn answer: "Up to you."
"Say the word," said Holden, his cheek resting on Yves' shoulder.
"No," said Yves, and laid his own cheek to Holden's forehead, his back throbbing, his front deliciously warm. "I'm okay."
"Sure?"
"Sure," said Yves. "Thank you, master."
Note: As you may be able to tell (but links are always helpful), takes place between this and this. As an additional possible point of interest, this actually did prove to be the last time.
Yves, holding position in the disciplined stillness he'd more or less perfected, was wishing he'd asked to lie prostrate for this flogging. That way he could have lost consciousness peacefully, without disrupting the brutal rhythm his master had reached, which had grown more insistent and intimate than Yves' own thudding heartbeat.
But if he did pass out while his master was whipping him, tempting as the prospect currently seemed, it would severely disrupt the larger rhythms of the household. The one time Holden had drawn blood from Yves' back with his belt, he'd been far more upset by the tiny, seeping cut than Yves had. It had taken nearly a year-- and Greta going down on her knees to Yves, begging him to find some way to sweeten their master's temper-- before Holden could be persuaded to pick up the belt again. Beating Yves till he collapsed-- and the dark, sweet edge of that loss of control was perilously close-- would upset him even worse.
So Yves made his lips move, mustered breath, gasped out a word that made no sound-- at least none audible above the vicious crack of leather on flesh-- then made it louder, more insistent: "Master--"
The belt's downward stroke lashed the wall instead of Yves' back, and as Yves' knees abruptly disobeyed him and buckled, Holden caught him, pulling him close against his chest. The heat of his bared arms and of the belt buckle, still wrapped around his hand, seared at the welts on Yves' back.
"No more," Yves got out, "please--"
"No more," Holden agreed, swiftly, gently, and, still supporting Yves' weight, guided him towards the bed, helped him lie down on his stomach, and then disappeared somewhere.
Yves lay still on the cool sheet, his face half buried in the pillow, trying to catch his breath, while the pain washed over him, licking at his back like the embers of a dying fire. It felt good to be horizontal, good and restful; the bed was soft and firm underneath him, and bore his weight well. Not being beaten any more also felt good, though he could already tell the soreness would last for a while-- but at least the belt wasn't still laying down its blistering strokes, slicing across Yves' screaming nerve endings as if it, like his skin, were red-hot.
He shuddered involuntarily when the dark form of his master loomed over him again, his heart spasming in unreasoning terror as Holden sat down on the bed. But then came an exquisite soothing coolness on the skin of his back: Holden was applying aloe gel to the welts, his hand shaking rather badly.
"Master--" Yves coughed. "Are you-- okay?"
"Am I okay?" Holden repeated, in a voice that shook, too.
Yves shifted his shoulders, wincing. "Yes. I'm fine. But you were--"
"I'm sorry," said Holden, smoothing on more aloe; the coolness was sweet relief, but it was also making Yves shiver. "Yeah, I was-- I guess I was-- really upset."
"You were?"
"Just a bit," said Holden, with a smile in his voice at Yves' weak teasing, and added, more steadily, "Little Bran's going to be amazed by the master's good mood tomorrow."
"Yeah?" said Yves, closing his eyes. "How about little Kai?"
"Oh, hell, that's right," said Holden, still stroking the balm over Yves' skin. "I forgot we were seeing him tomorrow. Well, it doesn't matter. This should last me a while."
"It had better," said Yves, and started to cry.
"Yves--" Holden had him in his arms again at once, and Yves, despite the excruciating pain as the motion shifted and stretched the skin of his back, clung to him, sobbing. "Sweetheart-- just relax, don't feel like you have to talk. Unless you want to. Or if there's anything you want--"
"Just hold me," Yves wept, and Holden stroked him, kissed him, cuddled him closer.
"My darling," he whispered, "light of my life, heart of my heart-- my godsend, my miracle-- I love you so much, baby, you're so strong, you're so brave, you're so good to me, my Yves--"
Yves held on, half listening, forcing himself to breathe. He was used to the body's slow, stupid, stubborn, helpless fear-- the pounding of the heart, the trembling, the cold sweat-- and used to waiting it out, waiting for it to catch up with his mind, which already knew he was safe. He had learned to be considerate and patient with his body, ensconcing it safely in his master's arms, letting it be kissed and cuddled, letting the stream of praise and endearments pour into its ears, letting the fear and misery be carried out of it on a stream of childish tears. He'd been too impatient, the first few times-- unwilling to indulge what he saw as foolish weakness, insisting he was fine and needed, at most, to be left alone for a little. But the body had had its revenges. Yves knew better by now than to let it be subjected to pain without accepting the solace his master offered.
Holden understood this, too, at least enough to hold and comfort and praise Yves without bothering him with apologies or questions. Either would have required Yves to muster his strength to answer, to reassure his master that he was really fine, which always drew a wrenching burst of denial from his shaking, sobbing body. He needed time not to be fine, not to try to be fine, and Holden gave it to him.
Though later, when they were curled close, easing nearer to sleep, Holden did ask a question-- one he'd asked so many times now that most of the words had been worn away.
"This the last time?"
Yves smiled as he gave the well-worn answer: "Up to you."
"Say the word," said Holden, his cheek resting on Yves' shoulder.
"No," said Yves, and laid his own cheek to Holden's forehead, his back throbbing, his front deliciously warm. "I'm okay."
"Sure?"
"Sure," said Yves. "Thank you, master."
Note: As you may be able to tell (but links are always helpful), takes place between this and this. As an additional possible point of interest, this actually did prove to be the last time.