The master and slave having got back together, they were at first a good deal embarrassed and confused; but before long, though not without putting considerable force on himself, Hockney got back into something like his old familiar way of unbosoming himself to his re-found fuck buddy, and Kitaj showed more than his old anxiety to meet him half-way with some really hardcore BDSM discipline! His ready and undisguised sex play soon dispersed the remaining clouds which were hanging between them; and Hockney found it a pleasure, instead of a dreary task, to try new sexual kicks or revisit old ones with his master.
The approach of summer hung over south Kensington like dirty laundry that had mistakenly been put out to dry before being washed. The air was fetid, hot and stale, sapping the vegetation of moisture and making the grass in Hyde Park grind underfoot like old mouse bones. Clothing stuck to the skin the way that chewing gum sticks to the sole of a shoe. Hockney disliked the feel of the damp fabric as he pried the layers from his body with slick fingers. Truthfully, bare skin wasn't much better, but it was a vast improvement to the stink of sweat that burrowed into the fibers of his clothes. Besides, Kitaj tended to enjoy looking at him when he was shiny with sweat and would let him lounge on the bed and nap while he sat next to him and watched. It was a little odd, at least at first, but like everything in Hockney's student life at the Republican College of Art in London, he'd learned to accept it.
Hockney wasn't thinking of any of that - or anything else really – as we catch up with him, because he was immersed to his chin in the over-sized bathtub that dominated Kitaj's large washroom. The water was freezing, magically chilled to exactly replicate the paralyzing cold of freshly melted snow. He'd been there for ten minutes. As always, the first 120 seconds had been excruciatingly painful. Kitaj had bound his hands and his feet and forcibly held him down in the tub. As he first sunk into the icy wetness. Kitaj wanted Hockney to feel the pain - intense and unmistakable - his every nerve ending aflame with a burn that ripped his thoughts to shreds and became the focus of his world. The process was slow and agonizing; the chill of the water sliced into his veins, as sharp as any shard of glass.
Hockney felt as if the cold were slowly crystallizing his blood. It sapped the warmth and strength from his bulk straight through his skin pores and his body reacted violently, jerking as if an icicle had been punched through his chest. Despite this, he wished to experience the pain, just as Kitaj wanted. Hockney loved torment because suffering was both exquisite and necessary to anyone who wished to make great art. The particular brand of BDSM torture they two men were indulging in that day – which would end in pseudo-necrophila - was brutal in manner that wouldn’t leave the art student painted in blood and bruises. It was unlike anything Hockney had ever felt, each time was like a new experience. It was awful. It was amazing.
The cold froze its memory into the slave’s every tendon, lingering with him like a wintry kiss on the back of his neck. And later there would be pleasure as warmth spread through his belly and chest, culminating in the prickle of reawakened nerve-endings in fingers and toes as Kitaj fucked him from corpse-cold to reanimated but submissive zombie. The contrast of immense pain, so keen and rough, with a love that went beyond death, was almost too much to bear. Hockney wasn't really thinking of pleasure, or anything in particular, for his lips were blue and his thoughts were heavy and sluggish. He felt drowsy and might well have fallen asleep if it wasn't for the press of the leather collar against his throat, a comforting weight that held the glossy threads of his attention as he slid towards total oblivion.
It took a massive effort on Hockney’s part to lift his eyes and look up towards Kitaj, who sat on a stool near the tub monitoring him closely. "B-Kitaj," he stuttered, his voice thick and stupid with cold, "B-brr." The pervading chill in his veins chased his thoughts away with the snap of icy teeth. His limbs were lead, sunken like anchors below the surface of the water. He had no feeling in his rigid digits; he forgot what having fingers and toes felt like. It was just how Kitaj liked it. Hockney's head lolled back, peaceful drowsiness pushing down hard on his skull. He was ready to submit to it. He was ready to let it seize him. Hockney wanted to purr with contentment, in satisfaction, in acceptance to the offer of eternal peace. His eyes were sliding shut. At that moment Kitaj stood and hooked his arms underneath Hockney's own. He lifted him from the tub with little effort and pulled him against his chest - back-to-front, heel-to-toe. Hockney was as yet unable to feel the warmth of Kitaj's bare skin against his back as he was lifted and cradled against his body.
Kitaj was gentle, his touch as soft and caring as a mother cradling her baby. Hockney twitched feebly, his feet dragging unhelpfully on the thick carpeting as Kitaj carried him to the bed. Hockney was dropped carelessly atop the plush covers and he lay motionless where he'd been dumped, still paralyzed by the freezing cold that had locked his joints. Hockney let his mind drift as Kitaj arranged him on the bed. The slave was silent as Kitaj arranged his limbs in a display that was pleasing to him. It reminded Hockney of times past when Kitaj had trussed him up and fucked him when his head was slippery and his body was thrumming with drugs. He'd been unable to string together coherent sentences, let alone fight him.
A wave of gratitude engulfed the submarine as Kitaj cut the leather bindings on his wrists and ankles. His mouth cracked open as Kitaj rubbed the MA student’s hands. The blood was slow to return to his mitts, Hockney could barely feel a thing. The warmth in Kitaj's paws felt like a weak ray of sunlight that struggled to break through a thick bank of clouds. Hockney drew in a tight breath, his lungs still uncooperative, as Kitaj blew a hot puff of air onto his scrotum and up his limp, wet length. A dull heat - only dimly felt - began to swelter beneath the submissive's chest. His breath lagged a little faster and his heart beat a little quicker. The blood dripping through his body felt like molasses. There was a tingle in his nether region. Then Kitaj, his skin hot and sleek with sweat, lay his body flush to Hockney's cold, frozen flesh. The dom pressed a kiss to the slave’s blue lips, and then the underside of his damp jaw. Hockney felt a brief, pleasant tingle of warmth where Kitaj's mouth brushed over his skin.
As Hockney began to thaw out, he felt like a parasite leeching the warmth from Kitaj's body. A surge of disgust threatened to rise up and consume the sub, who had to force it away. Hockney always had moments like this when Kitaj forced him to play at pseudo-necrophilia - a game where the slave was rendered cold and incapacitated and lay on the bed like a stiff in a mortuary, while Kitaj fucked the warmth back into his body. He'd protested violently the first time Kitaj had wanted to do this, thoroughly repulsed by the idea of role playing a corpse. Kitaj, of course, got his way after insisting that stiffs got him stiff. Eventually Hockney had to admit that if he didn't think about the reasons Kitaj liked this fantasy scene, it was immensely erotic. Depraved, yes; but super-sexy, just the same.
Hockney felt the pressure of Kitaj's fingers probing his entrance, coated and slick with lubricant. He let go of his disgust, swallowing it down and burying it way beneath his six pack in his pelvic floor muscles. Kitaj pushed into him after scant preparation since the slave’s body was still numb. Hockney scarcely registered Kitaj's thick cock inside him, but he knew later he would be sore. At that moment he barely registered he was engaged in sex. The real knowledge of what was being done to him would come later, after he’d thawed out!