He's cruel. He's sadistic. He's bloodthirsty. He's demented. Twisted. Insane. A selfish bastard.

And he's mine.

Well, technically, it's me who belongs to him, but who's looking at details anyway?

He hurts me. He kicks and slaps and bites until I'm black and blue all over.

But I don't care. Because I like it.

Antonio stopped asking me about it. Before, he'd been worried, and kept asking me what had happened, but eventually he figured out that I wasn't going to tell him the truth, so he stopped.

Personally, I'm glad. After all, how could I tell him, anyway? It wasn't as if he would believe me, right?

No, no one would believe me. Because after all, how could he be so cruel? He was cute and bubbly and sweet and loving. He hated violence, so why would he be violent?

Hah, those idiots.

It hurt every time. He never failed to think up a new, inventive way to cause me pain and still arouse me at the same time. He was always merciless. He teased me until the very end of my limit, stopped just short of the sweet, sweet release. And then the next day he's back to his adorable, cheerful self, like nothing had happened.

But I always go straight back. Because I'm a fucking masochist, and I need this. I need him. I need him.

He tortures me, makes me bleed, makes me scream, then he loves me; I take a shower, go to bed, forget about it, and it happens again the next day. It's a painful, sinful, beautiful process. And I'll always go back. Always. Because I love him.

And somewhere, deep down, I know that he loves me too.

"Welcome back, Lovino~"