1. The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian

Yin Yan had deep-set eyes. His upper eyelids always seemed too heavy for his lashes, half-drooping in a way that made him look perpetually tired, like someone who had long since grown disillusioned with the world.

Even when he was aroused, that expression never change.

Like now.

His hands were bound above his head, his upper body was bare, leaning against a Roman Doric-style plaster column. A white cloth draped loosely around his waist as he imagined himself as Saint Sebastian in martyrdom.

A classical riding crop traced the lines of his body. The sting made him let out a few low, slow moans that matched the weariness in his eyes.

It wasn’t endurance. It was pleasure.

Yin Yan wasn’t obsessed with pain. What he craved was the moment just before the whip struck, when the air seemed to split with a sharp whoosh. In that instant, anxiety and fear peaked, and with the sound of impact, pleasure and a sense of safety exploded inside him like a small detonation. The pain was never the focus but merely a spicy garnish to the ecstasy.

The tip of the whip landed on his left rib and right waist, brushing his skin briefly. The sharp sting pierced inward like an arrow, as vividly as in that oil painting, where arrows pierced the saint’s toned body. This invisible invasion triggered an even filthier association, as if the pain itself was an intangible sexual organ violating him at will, crushing his fragile dignity, making him abandon his status and identity, and drowning him in the submissive pleasure of being dominated, unable to escape.

Lu Zhengming tapped the corner of his lips with the whip, and those thin lips obediently pressed together, looking refined and restrained. He knew it was just Yin Yan’s façade, the same one he wore in every situation where propriety had to be maintained, always appearing so upright and dignified.

Until the lash marks tore through his mask.

That pale body reminded Lu Zhengming of a pristine canvas, and the riding crop in his hand became a brush painting abstract red lines across it. He hadn’t yet decided what the final image would be, because his canvas wasn’t behaving submissively enough.

“Be devout. You don’t look like a saint. You look like a whore. Cheap. Filthy. Vulgar.”

Yin Yan’s skin began to flush red, and those humiliating words morphed into invisible organs, rubbing against his ear canal, sending waves of shameless pleasure crashing against his eardrums and crawling stickily along his nerves.

But that wasn’t enough. He curled his lips into a smirk. “Who are you to judge me? Are you God, or are you Daiquirius?”

What answered him was the merciless whip, exactly what he had been hoping for. He couldn’t hold back a moan, sounding truly like a whore. Depraved, filthy, and vulgar…

Lu Zhengming inhaled silently, his grip on the handle so tight that his fingers turned white.

He still wasn’t used to this kind of interaction. One part of his body swelled angrily, desire consuming his will, yet he had no choice but to play along with Yin Yan’s, keeping the madness of his lust locked away and maintaining the cold cruelty of a judge.

The whip lashed precisely where he had chosen, the force controlled to perfection. Yin Yan writhed in intoxication, expressing his pain and pleasure without restraint.

But Lu Zhengming couldn’t.

This was the limit they had agreed upon, the closest he could ever get to Yin Yan. Even though, in his mind, he had entered Yin Yan’s body countless times, and if Yin Yan were willing, Lu Zhengming would even let himself be entered by him.

However, this was as far as he could go.

Lu Zhengming’s face remained as severe as that of a tyrant. “Do you really believe there’s a God who will save you?”

“Yes, ‘Your Majesty,’” Yin Yan trembled violently, the pain he endured approaching his limit. “Aren’t I playing the role of the saint right now?”

“No one will save you.” Lu Zhengming yanked off the white cloth around his waist, exposing that shameless organ as it twitched and glistened with obscene moisture.

“There is no God.”

He lifted Yin Yan’s chin and pressed his thumb into his mouth, grinding it against his tongue.

“A saint goes to heaven after death.”

Yin Yan’s tongue swirled around his thumb as it was toyed with, his words muffled and wet. His voice resisted, but his body was beginning to surrender.

“But you’ll never become a saint.”

Yin Yan fell into a dazed silence, his dignity and composure washed away, leaving him like a lost lamb, waiting to be led.

Lu Zhengming’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. His mind was unraveling just as much as Yin Yan’s body, both on the edge of losing control. His thumb mimicked the motions of a cock, sliding in and out of Yin Yan’s mouth, rubbing against his tongue.

“Suck harder.”

Lu Zhengming’s command became Yin Yan’s action. His lips obediently closed, his entire mouth accommodating the invader. At that moment, he finally became a slave to his carnal desires, and the gates of heaven drifted further and further away from him.

He untied Yin Yan’s hands and gripped his jaw, forcing him to face the full-length mirror in the room. Red marks of lust sprawled across his pale body, while the black tyrant dominated his desires, rich and vivid like a Rubens painting. Yin Yan’s painterly eyes reached their climax even before his body. His chest heaved violently, and his knees could no longer support his weight, slowly slipping down toward the floor.

“Did I allow you to kneel?”

Lu Zhengming abruptly withdrew his fingers and used the whip to lift his throat, making Yin Yan rise again like a fish caught on a hook. His defiance was met with cool, sharp pain biting into the softest skin on the inside of his thigh.

The pain was about to cross his threshold, yet Yin Yan’s fear grew fainter. He surrendered completely under his master’s control, forgetting his own existence and abandoning any free will. Every confusion and suffering that came with being human melted away at the physical level, becoming nothing more than an extension of the commands he obeyed. He felt incredibly safe and at ease.

His body began trembling again. A flush spread beneath his skin, and fragmented murmurs escaped his lips, but without permission, he did not allow himself to lose control.

This scene burned into Lu Zhengming’s eyes as well.

Like watching a play from the stage, he was both the performer and the spectator. The true protagonist was Yin Yan, acting as the dying saint, reveling in both pain and pleasure, and unleashing his desires in the center of the stage.

Lu Zhengming felt like he was nothing more than the hand Yin Yan used for masturbation.

This thought was like a black flame that seared through his reason. He tossed the whip aside, reached between Yin Yan’s legs, and kneaded the heated skin of his cock. The man in his arms leaned against his shoulder, panting heavily. Lu Zhengming’s breath was just as ragged. He bit Yin Yan’s neck, his burning pleas that surged like tidal waves, crashing against his fragile mask of self-control.

“Enjoy it.”

He sighed and pulled away from Yin Yan.

Yin Yan groaned, and hot fluid splashed onto Lu Zhengming’s face, landing near the corner of his eye, like a string of cloudy tears.

Yin Yan’s orgasm lasted a long time, intense enough to make him envious.

Yet even at the height of his release, those eyes remained half-lidded and weary, carrying a trace of detachment as if already bored with this depraved act.

Lu Zhengming kissed those eyes with intoxicated reverence. Just as he lowered his lips for a second kiss, a cold voice froze him in place mid-motion.

“Zhengming.”

It was his name and also their safeword.

—

By the time Lu Zhengming finished his second cigarette, Yin Yan finally stirred awake.

He lay naked on the recliner in Lu Zhengming’s studio, covered by a red velvet blanket. In the corner stood the plaster column, and once again, Lu Zhengming thought of Rubens or Velázquez. To him, any painting from before the Pop Art movement was just a museum relic, yet the scene before him, with Yin Yan as its centerpiece, made it impossible to dismiss with disdain.

He watched greedily as Yin Yan’s consciousness slowly returned.

“Are you okay?”

Yin Yan gave a lazy hum, his voice low and raspy.

He sat up and began putting on his clothes, piece by piece, covering the primal traces on his body with the trappings of modern civilization.

Lu Zhengming handed him his coat. “I’ll drive you.”

Yin Yan did not refuse. Lu Zhengming drove him to the art academy, but instead of leaving, he followed Yin Yan toward the main building.

A poster on the roadside bulletin board advertised that evening’s lecture: “Starting from the Prayer of the Saints: An Introduction to Medieval Painting.” Lecturer: Yin Yan, Associate Professor, Classical Studio, Oil Painting Department.

Lu Zhengming walked with him all the way into the lecture hall. Yin Yan glanced back at him. “Are you coming on stage with me?”

“I’m just worried you don’t have the stamina.”

Yin Yan chuckled softly and said nothing more. After briefly speaking with the staff, someone brought over a chair and placed it next to Yin Yan’s seat.

As students gradually filled the audience seats, Lu Zhengming took his seat beside Yin Yan.

“Today, I have a friend joining me for the discussion,” Yin Yan said with a smile as he turned on the microphone. “Lu Zhengming, Associate Professor of the Contemporary Art Studio, will be offering a different perspective on today’s topic…”

Lu Zhengming rose and gave a slight nod, wearing the same fake smile as Yin Yan. He was younger, more dashing, and when he smiled, it gave him an air of refined depravity.

He maintained a polite patience, occasionally nodding in agreement with the conventional explanations, even as the students chuckled at times. Yet his focus wasn’t on the lecture’s dull content. It was on Yin Yan’s voice. That lingering huskiness hadn’t faded entirely and still carried the remnants of post-pleasure haze.

Beneath the lecture desk, right under everyone’s watchful eyes, Lu Zhengming got an erection.

From beginning to end, Yin Yan never once looked at him. Those eyes remained weary, as if nothing in this world could stir his spirit, and nothing was worth his attachment. The closest they ever came to each other was during their unspeakable games in the studio. Yet it seemed they would never take that game any further, never cross the line into something more intimate.

Because between them lay the shadow of a life lost.