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Quinton's Crucible

Quinton's Crucible

by Trent Evans
Quinton's Crucible

Quinton's Crucible

by Trent Evans

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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 matter how bad it was -- and there had been times that it was awful -- it still paled next to the bitterness of obedience, of bowing.

To her.


They liked to make me wait. But it wouldn't work either. I would endure, and I would prevail.

The door opened, the subtle zephyr of air across my chilled skin bringing me back to the present. I straightened my back, raising my chin. It was an unspoken expectation that I was to look at the floor in their presence, but I wasn't about to meekly conform to their insane demands. It would cost me, I knew, but nothing came without cost in this place. I would show them I was no cowering dog.

I would endure.

The sound of the heels on the smooth concrete always echoed, and as a result I could never tell how many of them had entered, how many would witness my ordeal, participate in it, savor it.

Then the heels appeared in the circle of light shining down upon me. So, it was to be only one tormentor this time. I dreaded it when it was only one, for oddly, it always lasted longer, the pain was always worse.

But I would endure.

"Do you know how long you've been in this hole?"

My blood ran cold at the sound of the silky smooth voice, the cool confidence, the edge in her slightly clipped cadence. It was her. I was certain of it.


I was afraid, but she'd never know it.

I would cry out before the end, a seething mass of marks burning across my skin. As always, I'd try to hold back the tears. I wouldn't let her see them. Not ever. I would not scream. I would not break.

I would endure.

My punishment was always merciless, but that wasn't the worst of it. It was what happened afterward.

Those words.

She whispered them against my welted skin, as my muscles trembled and spasmed, pain wracking my shoulders, the stripes upon my back like flames licking my flesh.

It wasn't her lash that I feared.

They were the words she spoke to me, before leaving me to my agony, my solitude. Each time, they threatened to undo me -- and each time I heard them, they were more seductive.

"Surrender to me."


Finally, the harrowing story of Quinton Trask's ordeal can be told. This novel can be read as a stand-alone, but the experience will be much richer if the reader has previously read Her Troika, Book #2 in the Dominion Trust series.

Publisher's Warning: This dark romance is intended for mature audiences. 18 and over only!

This novel contains the following themes or activities: pervasive F/m BDSM, capture fantasy, intense and explicit sex, and other acts of unequal power dynamics. If any of these might be offensive to you, please do not buy or read this book.

Word Count: 94,532

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Product Details

BN ID: 2940156729029
Publisher: Shadow Moon Press
Publication date: 10/16/2016
Series: Dominion Trust , #4
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: NOOK Book
File size: 300 KB

About the Author

A USA TODAY bestselling author, Trent Evans specializes in several flavors of BDSM erotic romance and erotica. Putting pen to paper since he was a wee lad, he decided to try to share some of the tales cooked up in his fevered imagination. Some readers might not be horrified at what he writes. He tries to write stories that appeal to both women and men (wow, threading the needle), but will follow wherever the story takes him.

A long-time resident of the Pacific Northwest, the author believes that the high percentage of authors in the region (compared to the nation as a whole) is chiefly due to the fact that it's so damned wet and miserable there. They tend to use their long hours cooped up inside spinning yarns that depict things they'll never see or experience — such as sunshine.

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