Quinton's Crucible

As it so often was, my choice was obedience, or pain.

When they held the whip, or the cane, or the crop, my eyes always focused on the hands. The way the fingers caressed the braided leather of a handle, the way a maroon painted nail would catch the light as the cane sliced through the air, my bound body waiting to be reacquainted with its old friend agony.

I knew what they wanted, what they expected. But I never cooperated. They'd never make me give it to them.

I always chose the pain. No mat...