This one by Dante may be more about jealousy than about real BDSM, but the sadistic vibe is unmistakable. The brutal images must have been really shocking in the early 14th century - at the end the angered man dreams of pulling his cold woman by the hair, threatening to strike her in the face - not said openly, but kind of implied - flogging her, and forcing her into subjugation. Most of his stand-alone poems are much tidier than this one, and it's been seen as an early attempt at the climate and style of his description of Hell.

---
Ah, agonizing merciless file that hiddenly
rasps my life away! Why do you not refrain
from so gnawing my heart through
layer by layer, as I do from revealing
who she is who gives you strength?

For whenever I think of her in a place
where another may turn his eyes,
my heart trembles more with fear lest
my thought shine out and be discovered,
than I tremble at that death which already
is devouring all my senses with the teeth
of Love; that is, my torment is gnawing away
their strength and slowing down their action.
Love has struck me to the ground and stands
over me with the sword with which he slew Dido,
and I cry to him calling for mercy,
and humbly I implore him, but he shows
himself set against all mercy.
Again and again he raises his hand
threatening my weakened life, this evil one
who pins me to the ground, flat on my back,
and too exhausted to move. Then shrieks
arise in my mind, and the blood
that was dispersed through my veins
runs fleeing back to the heart
that summons it, so that I am left white.

He strikes me under the left arm
so violently that the pain rebounds
through my heart. Then I say:
'If he lifts his hand again, death will have
locked me in before the blow descends.'
Would that I could see him split the heart
of the cruel woman who cuts mine to pieces!
For then that death would not seem black to me,
to which her beauty drives me --striking as she
does with equal force in sunlight and in shade,
this murderous assassin and robber.
Alas, why does she not howl for me in the hot
gorge, as I do for her? For at once I'd cry:
'I'll help you': and gladly would I do so,
for in the yellow hair that Love
curls and gilds for my destruction
I'd put my hand, and then
she would begin to love me.

Once I'd taken in my hand the fair locks
which have become my whip and lash, seizing them
before terce I'd pass through vespers with them
and the evening bell: and I'd not show pity
or courtesy, Oh no, I'd be like a bear at play.
And though Love whips me with them now, I would
take my revenge more than a thousandfold.
Still more, I'd gaze into those eyes
whence come the sparks that inflame my heart,
which is dead within me; I'd gaze into them
close and fixedly, to revenge myself on her
for fleeing from me as she does: and then
with love I would make our peace.

The translation is more a kind of content rendering, it doesn't catch the force and elegance of the original. Full text in Italian and English at the Princeton Dante project: http://etcweb.princeton.edu/dante/pdp/ (Minor Works/Rime (poems) and rime ciii, poem nr.103)