“C’mon, soldier. Make some noise for me,” Clark encouraged, and Ellis complied. Cry, wail, moan, beg, plea, and Ellis didn’t even notice when Clark stepped away for the cane. He’d been on this cross for days, maybe weeks, and he had no idea when the game changed and the spanking stopped.
But the streaking shock of misfiring pleasure-pain that sang through his body and curved his spine like a bow when the first god-awful strike of the cane hit knocked the air from Ellis’s lungs. One, two more landed. The bitching awful thing about canes was that they gave Ellis time to anticipate the blooming agony that would follow the strike. The hit hurt, sure, but the wave of pure misery that came on the initial strike’s heels was something the devil himself must have made.
Another strike, and Ellis’s
