He’s permitted a four word vocabulary only.

“Yes, No, Please, You”. Nothing else.

Stripped even of “I”. For he has no needs, desires, sensations, memories. Other than those I endow him with.

He has ceded any subjective self. The upshot and outcome of the last choice he ever exercised under his own will. When he handed me the keys to unlock him. Best and lasting decision he ever made in his life. The one that crowned his being. I removed all thorniness for him. He no longer has to decide anything for himself any more.

He isn’t even permitted the word ‘more’. His body is compelled to tell me. Mute, yet not motionless. I see it twitch, wince, tense, contract and quiver its responses. Its entreaties. Blood, burns, blisters and welts are his punctuation. His sin tax. The blackout breathing periods before we go again. As distinguished from bated breath. For a corporeal communication of corporal punishment cannot possibly lie. We have no provision for any ‘safe’ word.

Whereas for my part, my vocabulary is unbounded. The only limits determined by my fancy. By my cunt-rol. Cunt-roll for this Cunt-troll.



But don’t misconstrue me. I do not employ words idly. I am not playing at anything. There is never any let up. Our mutual bodies function according to my imperatives every minute of the day. We do not live this, it is not a lifestyle. It is not a mere part of us, no matter how significant. We are extant.

My words are carefully chosen. To prompt a desired physical response. To enjoin him to my desire.

To lead to clear actions, the words must themselves be wholly unambiguous. Of course though he only possesses four in his palate to draw from, he understands a wider gamut.  They are further supplemented by the tone and inflection of my voice. The expression and gestures that accompany the commands. The context in which we find ourselves at that particular moment; the particular scourge I hold in my hand; the restraint he finds himself hobbled by; the disposition of his body in relation to me, to the floor, the wall, the ceiling.

I bark my orders and he pads off after the stick. Which I then proceed to flay him with.

He cannot but help feel the insistent muscularity embodied by my chosen words. Lick. Suck. Choke. Beg. Gag. Monosyllabically unequivocal. Explicit body to body ordinations. Confabulations.

Piquant puissance. Sibilant sibylline.

My words the fronds of my lash. The thongs of my cat o’nine tails. The tassels on my flicker lash. The raised rivets on my paddle. The sunken holes on my bat. The barbs of my ostrich feather crop. The grain of my rattan cane. All marked with my personal seal, of melted hot wax upon his flesh.

Plenteous and painful phrasing. Per lean plosives.

The words he aches to hear from my mouth.

He is nothing without them.

I predicate him.

He articulates me.
Marc Nash

Image: Anonymous


6 responses to this post.

  1. They say language is power. I think they mean ‘Marc Nash’s language is power’.

    Thanks for sending me this Marc. If you hadn’t I don’t think this edition would have happened.



  2. […] This post was mentioned on Twitter by johnharrigan, Karen Dash and Elly , MarcNash. MarcNash said: "Copula" my contribution to Games Perverts Play writing on theme of 'Power' […]


  3. Sex and language – ‘I predicate him’ ‘He articulates me’ – don’t think the ideas of sexuality within/out/of/ language have been used so perfectly before. Sex as a form of communication, yes, language as a form of sex or what makes sex what it is or can be? Any way, we wouldn’t know without the telling of it.


  4. Classic Nasher. So precise & strict. Chilling.


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