Yes Master.

"Go to the other room and wait for me," he said urging me off the edge of our bed.

"Yes master."

We recently shifted our bedroom from one room to the other. The other room is cosier; it's smaller and feels more like a place you'd want to fall asleep in. Now in comparison, our old bedroom seems unfriendly and cold. It even felt colder in temperature as I walked in and stood next to the trunk. On the bed I could see the whip I had just finished cleaning ten minutes earlier. It looked more unfriendly lying all shiny and ready on the bed than it did dusty and hanging off the nail on the closet. I cleaned it well, too well, because I knew he was looking for a reason. Any reason, to make it worse.

He didn't make me wait long. In only a few minutes I heard him enter the room and close the door behind him. The shudder was involuntarily but the freezing in place was voluntarily. Sometimes I like to just freeze but he thaws me with his touch.

"Lift your hands up over your head," he said taking my shirt off over my head.

"Yes master."

"Take your pants off," he said gesturing at my cum-soaked leggings but not touching them.

"Yes master."

"Get on the bed. Face down and arms stretched our in front of you," he said tapping the mattress on the floor with the whip.

"Yes master."

For someone who has spent their entire life fetishising what comes after *no*, I sure love saying yes a lot. I have no idea when this happened, it snuck up on me and before I knew it, I was saying yes all the time. Saying yes is so different from saying no. When I said no all the time it felt like I was challenging him to *make me*. When I say yes all the time it feels like I am inviting him to take me. It's different, it's gratifying to say yes. Everytime I say it I feel like I'm saying everything.  

Yes, I'll do what you say.
Yes, I'll obey you even if it feels stupid and wrong.
Yes, I'll admit this is what I want too.
Yes, I'll take what you give me when and how you want me to.

Saying no felt like instigation.
Saying yes feels like subjugation.

"Bury your face in the pillow," he said, "If I hear you scream once, I'll hit you three times harder."

"Yes master."

I was scared because I knew it was impossible. He knew it was impossible too. I can be quiet when he beats me in many ways but I can't be whipped quietly. Nobody can, I think. He likes setting me up to fail and I like failing while trying to achieve the impossible. Mentally, I knew we were both thinking back to the same day because some days I am able to be more pliant than others.

I could feel him thinking about it in the air around me and maybe he could feel me thinking about it; thinking about the day I achieved muteness even as he refused to stop flogging me until he saw blood. I don't know how I did it that day, maybe time, space and circumstance combined to make it possible but from the first bite of the whip I knew I couldn't do it then.

I couldn't.

The more I tried not to scream the harder I screamed. The harder I screamed, the harder he whipped me. The most frustrated I seemed, the more agitated he became. I think I know what it is. It's the distance. When he's whipping me he's across the room and somehow that makes him more alien. Across the room may as well be across the ocean. It's not him and I. It's the whip and I. And I can't be a good slave just for the whip. I want to be but I can't. If it's his hands on me, I can do anything. I can hold my screams as he breaks me open but I can't do it for the whip. I can't.

"If you're not going to stop screaming then I want to hear you squeal," he said, "Squeal like the animal you are."

"Yes master."

Because I'm good at that. I'm good at becoming an animal. In that the harder he beat me, the more turned on I became. Usually he's considerate, he'll beat me hard but not without consideration but his consideration decreases as I go down on the hierarchy. He never beats his girlfriend. He only beats his little girl until she cries. He beats his slave as much as he likes but he beats the animal like he just doesn't care what I experience. He doesn't give a fuck if he hits me in the same place twelve times. He doesn't care. It's amazing how much communication and intimacy it takes to be able to not care.

Or to be able to squeal like a pig while my back was on fire.

"Ten more," he said smiling at my back while rubbing between my legs. Rubbing like it takes no skill or thought to get me off.

"Yes master."

Always, yes. Always. Even when I didn't want ten more, or one more. I said yes so I could show him how much I'll suffer for him. I said yes because the squealing came so naturally i didn't want to stop. I said because it wouldn't matter that I said no. In the midst of all the noise, I somehow remembered to wonder about when he became so cruel. Or when he became so comfortable showing it. Expressing it. Unleashing it all over me in welts and leather. In remembering I somehow blocked out the pain. For a moment. For another moment. Squealing turned to silence. Silence turned to a thud as I heard him drop the whip on the floor.

"Stand up." He said.

"Yes master."

"Get in the bathroom," he said following my trembling footsteps.

"Yes master."

"Stand there," he said pointing to the shower, "Back against the wall, legs spread."

"Yes master."

I wish, I wish I could explain what pleasure lies in obedience but I can't. There's something. Something about moving and breathing and doing exactly as he wants. I know he feels it too. I could see him feel it as I looked into his eyes. He looked into mine. There may have been tears but more than that there's a helpless acceptance. I could feel myself trying to communicate that to him and I knew he could see it. He stood six feet away from me but there was no distance; as if our spirits extended three feet each and stood embracing in the middle.

"Piss yourself," he said crushing my heart with the most tender of grips, "I want to watch you be an animal."

Sometimes I can't believe the things he'll say.

Sometimes I can't believe the things I'll want.

"Do I ask too much of you, pig?" He asked with his imaginary fingers still probing into me.

I didn't say anything.

But the warm trickle down my leg spoke for itself.