Contrary to popular belief, I am not the complete asshole that others have made me out to be. I will admit that I do have my...quirks, shall we say. My idiosyncrasies are numerous, and yet, am I not still just a human being? Have I not earned the same respect as other mammals, the ones that share my species, by being born with two arms and two legs, and warm blood flowing through my veins? Apparently not.

Despite what you may have heard about me, the things that are whispered behind my back when others think I'm not paying attention, I am nothing but a mere mortal man, with the same needs and desires as the rest of the populace of the world. And yet, I am feared. I am reviled. I am condemned for nothing more than one of those quirks I mentioned earlier.

I understand completely that not everyone in the world enjoys a good flogging, and that the sheer beauty of unbroken skin laid out before me, begging for something to mark it, is lost on your average Joe. And yet, I am far above average. Some would even say that I consider myself superior. However, this is not the case. I am nothing more than what I am.

What is that, you might ask yourself. I thought I had made that clear earlier. I am a man. I am a human being. I am a father, a son, a lover, a fighter. I am a master. I am a slave. Yes, you heard me correctly - I am a slave. And I owe everything I am, everything I have become, to one person. You would never know it to look at her, but she is the one that changed my entire outlook on the world around me, introduced me to the things that I now crave, and taught me what it was to be…me.

At this moment, conflicting emotions play across my face like smooth stones skipping across the surface of a quiet pond in the woods, breaking the calm and forcing an angry disturbance. It is unsettling to know that I am enjoying this, being in this position. How many times have I been the one to stand in the center of a room, knowing that I have a fully captive audience, bound with whatever instrument I have chosen for the night, unable - and most times unwilling - to direct attention anywhere else?

How many bodies have I have marked, how much blood have I spilled, how many inches of flesh have been laid open simply to satisfy a whim I had? I am not aware of a number high enough to count these things. I think of this as I watch her. Slender fingers capped with long fingernails, painted a deep metallic purple wrap around the base of a long, leather whip. I know she is weighing it, measuring it, deciding if it is what she wants for this particular task. One would think it would be an easy decision, finding the proper tool for the evening. That, of course, would prove to be their downfall.

It isn't like picking out a shirt to wear, or choosing what you want for dinner. To her, this is more than an evening of fun and games. To her, this is an art form. This is the moment where she will shine above all others, where her skills and expertise will be on full display for all the world - well, for all in HER world - to see. Her shiny pink lips part in what would be considered a smile for her, and I know that the whip has lost her interest before the fun has even begun.

She reaches into my bag and pulls out a long, slim paddle. I try not to smile as I watch her tap it against the silky skin of her thigh. She is testing its resistance and, finding none, decides that will be her toy of choice for the moment. Her eyes shift to the chair, watching her audience, as she approaches me and asks if I am ready. I say nothing, knowing that this is the response she wants and flinch as the hard wood connects with my belly. It has softened quite a bit lately, in my old age as she would say, and the sting of the teakwood is harsh.

From the corner of my eye, I see him - the other vision of pure, unadulterated beauty in the room - and watch as he smiles in wonder. Never before has he seen me in this particular position and I wonder if it is as exciting for him to be watching as it is for me to be watched. I want to ask him if he likes what he sees, if this display is having an effect on his nether regions, but I barely have time to speak, much less think, before the next blow has landed. Apparently, she is not amused at my attention being diverted elsewhere. She is the queen of this land, and I am to be nothing more than her humble servant.

I wonder if he has ever been this intimate with her, if he had ever felt the sting of her hand on his cheek, or the lash of her whip on his flesh. I want to ask, but the bemused smile on his face tells me that he has not. I pity him. I know he would enjoy this as much as I. I feel a different sensation on my skin and realize that the paddle has been replaced by stranded whip she carries with her. Silver handle, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, leading to 13 purple leather strips, no bigger than a strand of spaghetti. I know this, because I am the one that had it made for her, after she introduced me to this…pleasure.

I have angered her. A momentary lapse of devotion to her alone and I have to pay my penance. The leather strands pelt my body in a continuous manner, and I am almost sorry for what I have done. Almost. My mind has no control over my body, and I don't think I would even want it that way. For all the control I have, for all the occasions when I have been the one doling out the punishment, I am happy to receive mine. But only from her. The added bonus of having him watch is almost more than I can bear. Almost.

A part of my brain makes the connection between the color of her whip and a single strip of color in his hair. He looks at her imploringly, and I know what he wants to know. She smiles at him, turning toward him and flicking out her wrist once, striking his arm with the whip, causing him to jump. The dual sensation of pleasure and pain wash over his cherubic face and for a moment I am jealous that I am no longer the center of her attention.

She returns to her task at hand, raining the whip down on my skin like a hailstorm. My body has become a patchwork of various shades of red, and I remember something she said to me once. Some particular witticism about the twisted beauty of her preferred art. She was the first person that had ever made the comparison between the human body and a blank canvas for me. It is a similarity that I would recall every time I picked up a whip or paddle or crop and made a new mark on my object of desire.

Every nerve in my body is on fire as she strikes again, the repetitive motion like some ballet, with music known only to her ears. Her dark-lidded eyes are half closed as she finds her rhythm, playing me like an angel's harp. I have long ago lost the ability to reason or rationalize my need for this. I have long ago given up any semblance of sanity. I hear a squeal of pleasure from the far side of the room and again, I smile.

His green eyes watch, animation there I haven't seen in awhile. He is deriving as much enjoyment from this as she is…as I am. It isn't that he's never watched this before. Numerous times, he has sat in a chair similar to the one he occupies now, watching me play my games. And, on fewer occasions, he himself has been in my position, on the receiving end of my whip, my paddle, my body. But today he gets the biggest treat of all. He gets to watch me be on the receiving end, something neither he nor anyone else in this realm ever thought possible.

A succession of blows cause my eyes to roll the to the back of my head, the shiny whites visible across the room. She is smiling at me and he - goddamn it! - he's fucking giggling at me. I don't mind, really. This is as much for his enjoyment as it is mine. I scream out as the leather falls on my inner thigh, a little too close to home for my taste, if you know what I mean. She giggles as well, knowing that I am too far gone to care about anything else at this point. My one thought, my one desire, is release.

It will never come, though. That's just the way she is. Never once has she given me that final pleasure. I am left alone to accomplish that one myself, usually. Sometimes, she gives me instructions on how and when I can do it, but she never stays to see if I have followed my orders. For her, this is not a sexual experience, it is an exercise in gaining a little control over the things she cannot control.

But I can sense something different in the air tonight, a calm that has washed over her. She is fascinated by him. She is captivated by him. Who can blame her? I too fell victim to his charms early on. I cannot be in the same room as he is, the same city, the same state - sometimes the same universe - without feeling his presence and wanting nothing more than to taste him. He is infectious.

She walks across the room and glides into his lap. She is whispering in his ear and for a moment, I am jealous. But…am I jealous of the attention she is paying him and denying me, or the other way around? If he were gone, if he were ever to leave me and go out into the world, I would be heartbroken. Eventually I would find another to take his place in my bed, but never in my heart. But if she left…I shudder as I think of the possibilities.

They are standing, side-by-side, staring down at me. There is a gleam in her eyes that I have never seen before and I notice that he is no longer clothed. I start to speak but her fingers are across my lips and the electricity that flows from her into me is overwhelming. But not as overwhelming as the new sensation that has overcome me. I look up into his eyes and see a degree of hesitation before his hands slide up my thighs, caressing the brutalized flesh.

It's not like he has never touched me before, never had his hands wrapped around the core of my being. But he has never done this while I have been restrained, while I have been out of control. I feel his tongue in places it has never ventured before and suddenly I notice her there, sitting on the edge of the bed next to him, coaching him, prodding him to go where no man has gone before. Well, maybe not NO man, but not in quite a while.

I am contemplating which is greater, the pleasure or the pain of him entering me, totally unprepared, when I come to the realization that my mind should be less focused on waxing poetic about the situation and more on the incredible feeling of his thick cock filling me up as he never has before. His movements are slow, hesitant. I want to tell him that it feels wonderful, that he's not hurting me, that he need not worry. I want to tell him that he means the world to me, that he is the thing I think about late at night when I can't sleep and need to find some small measure of comfort before drifting off to face the demons in my dreams.

He looks from me to her, an expression on his face that I have never seen before. I know what he wants, and she does too. A slight nod from her and I watch as one hand wraps around my cock, pumping it slowly and the other raises slightly…before crashing down, connecting with the hard bone under the flesh of my cheek. Shock. Surprise. Sheer pleasure. These are the things I see in his eyes, an exuberance that I never noticed before.

Jeff is fucking me. My brain is still trying to process this information when he hits me again. Jeff is beating me. Jeff is enjoying himself immensely. As his strokes even out, I realize that I love it. The evil, wicked, nasty Raven, dominator of everyone and everything around him, is loving the fact that he has become the bitch to none other than the angelic Jeff Hardy. He is nearing the end of this little fantasy. She is sitting back, watching and smiling as he carries out his mission.

I have given up all semblance of control, and my fate lies in the hands of the woman that made me what I was…and the man that would make me everything I had yet to be. I could not distinguish the cries of pleasure that were emanating from both of us. It did not matter who was screaming louder or longer. All that mattered was that the universe had shifted and the control that I had fought so hard to gain had left me. As he collapsed on top of me, both of us spent, she looked at us and winked. The world as we knew it had ceased to exist. And a whole new world had begun its creation.

I want to be your dominated love slave
I want to be the one that takes the pain
You can spank me when I do not behave
Smack me in the forehead with a chain

Cause I love feelin' dirty
And I love feelin' cheap
And I love it when you hurt me
So drive those staples deep

I want you to slap me and call me naughty
Put a beltsander against my skin
I want to feel pain all over my body
Can't wait to be punished for my sins.