Quinton's Crucible

by Trent Evans

  Her shower was clear glass, and huge, and she’d usually order me to kneel in one corner, the cold tile pressed to my sides, my back kept ramrod straight, my head high, as she preferred. Her body… it was something I’d come to be obsessed by, though I still wasn’t sure whether it was genuine sexual attraction, or a brain-washed adoration of my captor borne of deep Stockholm syndrome.

  She was undeniably attractive, her body lithe, and curvy in all the right places. I’d noticed her beauty even through my rage that first day I’d met her in the police interrogation room. A meeting that seemed so very long ago now. That old me would have found her cool aloofness a challenge, something to be conquered, vanquished.

  Now, I was the one who’d been vanquished.

  After many days spent drinking in her body from my supplicant’s position, I’d memorized it, the vision of the droplets of water dripping from her hard nipples something that haunted me, a last vision before sleep claimed me. I’d once asked to wash her — an impulsive request that seemed to bubble up from somewhere deep inside my mind — though she’d beamed down at me, she’d rebuffed me, softly admonishing me to be quiet and still.

  Watching her dress was its own particular torment, Anna taking her time. Often she’d bend over before me to pull on stockings, stand within mere inches as she smoothed her skirt down her thighs, covering up the garters I was sure she’d donned for the sole purpose of torturing me. Her dark eyes would look upon me from time to time, her lips quirking. I’d never know if she liked what she saw, if my misery, my denial satisfied her in the way she sought. I’d learned never to even ask.

  My silent regard, my watching her without a word, was as much a part of the ritual as my frustrated arousal was. Both gave her pleasure, and both added to the other.

  “You’re slowing, boy,” Anna’s voice barked, bringing me back to the present. My sweat poured down my face, stinging at the corners of my eyes. My wrists, as always, were bound to the front rail of the machine, my legs pumping quickly. She liked me to alternate between the treadmill, and the stair machine, making it a point to move her opulent chair to directly behind me after I’d been chained to the latter.

  Her workout room was appointed as well as any gym I’d ever seen, yet there was an intimacy to it that lent it an almost hothouse atmosphere, the smell of sweat and arousal strong on the air, only driving my frustration higher.

  I’d already lifted the prescribed weights, undergoing the still surreal experience of working out utterly naked save my cage and my shame. My Mistress would stand beside me, exhorting me for one more set, one more rep, her riding crop in her hand, my eyes unerringly staring at its reflection in the huge mirror upon the wall.

  When I was done with my grueling run on the treadmill, I’d be banished to the corner, to kneel quietly, ass on display, the sweat pouring down my skin as I listened to my Mistress start her own workout. The wait was always interminable, the whine of the treadmill’s motor slowly driving me mad. I always stayed as still as possible, showing the most abject of obedience, clinging to the faintest of hopes that she’d call me from the corner early.

  If she was very pleased with me, she sometimes ordered me to fall to my knees beside her, allowing me to watch her as the sweat soaked her top, my eyes drinking in every curve of her body her skintight workout clothes displayed.

  Watching her strip her clothes off after each workout was the very worst part, as she’d force me to kneel quite close to her, each article of clothing dropped in my lap as she peeled it from her soaked skin. I loved the smell of her sweat — it shamed me how much — and like everything else about her, it made my cock futilely stir in his prison. More often than not, I’d be forced to watch her thumbs draw her panties down her long legs, revealing the dark hair of her sweet pussy as she bent. The sodden gusset would be presented to my face, and I’d lick it as she’d long ago trained me, my tongue already tasting her essence before she’d even uttered the order.

  Then, I’d be forced to watch her shower — again — the torment starting all over.

  My nights were an endless succession of sessions in her playroom, the sting of the whip, the burn of the strap, the bite of the cane compelling my pleadings for mercy she’d never grant, my promises of better behavior. Those hours of torment broke me each night, molded me into an ever more obedient, compliant, subjugated thing. And though I hated the pain, feared the humiliation… I came to crave those sessions. It was easier to just let go, and surrender to it, to drown in the agony, to become nothing, a vessel of supplication pouring forth its suffering for her sadistic enjoyment.

  Then, my skin livid with marks, my muscles trembling with exhaustion, my voice cowed into silence, it would always be time for her pleasure. I would bend, and spread, laid out upon her bed, bound until I could barely move a muscle. Upon her bed, I surrendered everything to her, her phallus pushing so deep I thought I would lose my mind, my sore, aching anus protesting as I feared she meant to split me in half. Deep into the night, her cries of ecstasy would drown out my pleas for mercy, my poor cock raging against its confines, amplifying my shame, my frustration, and in a twisted, paradoxical way, my urge to obey her in all things.

  She’d reduced me to a feeling, tormented thing, hoping for a release we both knew she would never grant, my manhood locked away in its lonely exile. She’d decreed this for me, and though I hated it, I knew it was right… because it was what she desired.

  My new life was obedience, and shame, and pain, and subjugation. I’d accepted it, welcomed it even.

  But more and more, what I thought of as I knelt there watching the water sluicing down her gorgeous body, as the whip painted its lines of fire upon my flesh, was not my endless, agonizing frustration, my eternal, consuming torment.

  No, what I thought about more often than I wanted to admit, was what it would be like to gently kiss Anna’s soft, plump lips.

  Chapter 28

  She didn’t know why she was dreading the day. It was going to be far worse for him than for anyone else, that was for sure.

  Don’t you think that tells you something?

  She’d brought him out of her bathroom after letting him shower alone — a rare treat for him as she usually supervised him closely — and ordered him to his knees in the living room. She’d left him kneeling in front of her couch, wearing nothing but his collar, the chains binding his wrists and ankles, and of course, his cage.

  Just making him face them in his current state of degradation was likely to be devastating, even to a hardened man like him.

  Watching the driveway closed circuit feed in her office, she also kept an eye on her charge. She’d taken to leaving him to his own devices more often now, confident the very thought of escape no longer even crossed his mind. He was deep into things now, his mind as malleable and controllable as any man she’d ever trained. Yet, thankfully, she still got tiny glimpses at the defiance and spirit that once had galled her so much.

  Now, they were the surest signs that he was, somewhere deep inside, still a human being. She liked what he’d become — far more than she’d expected — and knew that he was already well on the way to becoming a new man, someone who wouldn’t even recognize the rotten, black soul that used to be Quinton Trask.

  It had been a remarkable transformation.

  Something troubled her though, for his wasn’t the only evolution, the lone change, taking place. There was something else at work here, and if she were honest with herself, she’d admit it was very dangerous ground indeed.

  It had grown from that first day he’d truly surrendered, and despite reminding herself of all the things he’d done, there was no mistaking now what it was. What had begun as revulsion and rage on her part had slowly thawed into pity. Training him, and seeing how quickly he’d fallen into wanting to please her, to obey her, it had become something deeper still.

  It was affection.

  Though by no means unknown among women who enjoyed making men submit to them, it was almost alien to her.
Only one male had ever made her let down her guard, even a little. Only one man — and it had been Greg.

  Until now.

  She didn’t yet know what to make of it, the way the realization had creeped up on her something she was distinctly ill-prepared to deal with. Had she always felt it, and seeing his change had finally given her the permission to acknowledge it? Or was this simply the revealing of what he always was, that scared little boy she’d gotten that tantalizing glimpse of as Quinton had raged and cursed at her, handcuffed to the table in that interrogation room so many weeks ago?

  The familiar dark blue stretched Tahoe pulled into her driveway, creeping up the hill until it stopped before her house. The doors didn’t open for a moment, then finally a woman, dressed in white slacks and a warm knit top the color of sunset stepped out. Her gorgeous hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, her face untouched by even a molecule of make-up. Her youth ensured she needed none anyway. A hulking man dressed in jeans, dark shirt, and a black leather biker’s jacket that matched his gleaming boots, followed, his mirrored sunglasses catching the sunlight as they moved out of the camera’s field of view.

  It was time.

  The knock at the front door was tentative. Anna didn’t blame the woman one bit for it either, her own heartbeat elevated, her mouth growing dry at what she knew was about to happen. It needed to happen though — most especially for him.

  Neither of them spoke when Anna opened the door, words unable to convey the depth of emotion the two visitors obviously felt at the occasion. The man was immense, dwarfing the woman accompanying him.

  “Thank you for coming.” Anna stood aside, her arm extended. “He’s in the living room. Straight down and to the right.”

  Anna followed them slowly down the foyer, the sound of their footsteps on the tile — especially the heavy thunk of the male’s boots — no doubt making it to Quinton’s keen ears where he waited. Before they turned the corner into the expansive room though, the man touched his companion’s shoulder, turning her toward him. He held her hands in one of his, and took his glasses off, his slate gray eyes intent as he looked upon her.

  “Just like we talked about. Don’t hold anything back.” He caressed her cheek for a second. A diamond studded hoop that looked more expensive than Anna’s car hung from her ear. She closed her eyes as she nuzzled his hand. “You can do this, girl.”

  “Thank you.” She said it in the quietest of murmurs. Taking a shaky breath, she smoothed her hands down the front of her slacks, the generous swell of her breasts thrusting forward as she straightened her shoulders.

  Then they walked into the living room.

  Anna stayed back, lingering at the threshold of the living room, not wanting to interfere. It would be easier to watch him from afar.

  Quinton’s jaw dropped open when he saw who it was standing before him, two points of color blooming high in his cheeks even as his face paled. “Brayden? Genna?”

  “Hello, Quinton.” Genna’s voice cracked, and she cleared her throat.

  Amazingly, the bound man didn’t answer her, instead staring, dumbstruck at her companion. “W-what are you doing here, Brayden?” Quinton was squirming, leaning forward over his legs as if to try to hide the bright metal of the cage between his thighs.

  Anna made a sharp sound, and his gaze flicked to her. She gave him a slow shake of her head. He knew better than this, embarrassed or not.

  His mouth worked silently, his wide eyes sliding back and forth between her, and the pair of visitors. Then he looked upon Genna once more, straightening, even as his cheeks flushed furiously.

  Anna would never tire of that fetching blush of his.

  Brayden’s lips twisted as he looked upon his erstwhile boss. “I don’t know, if you want the honest truth. I talked myself out of this a thousand times.”

  “I don’t understand — why are you here?” Quinton looked to Anna, and she jerked her head toward Brayden, the message clear.

  Eyes on him, boy.

  “I’m not here for you.” Brayden’s jaw clenched as he said the words. “I’m here for Genna. I’m here to protect her — to do what I always should have been doing.”

  “Protect her from what? This makes no fucking sense.”

  Anna knew it was just a last-ditch defense mechanism. Quinton knew.

  “I’m here to protect her from you, asshole.”

  “Me? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You were supposed to be looking out for me — you know — the guy you worked f—”

  “Shut up,” Brayden snarled. He ran his fingers through his sandy hair, looking away. “When you pulled this shit. I tried to kid myself, to rationalize it. Just a job, right?” Brayden looked down upon Quinton then, a baleful intensity in his eyes now. “But I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t clean up your fucking messes anymore. I’d had enough of drying Genna’s tears — the tears you caused.”

  Quinton closed his eyes, shaking his head, then met his former friend’s gaze. “It was wrong. I… know that now.”

  “I did know it then — and still I took your money, did your fucking dirty work. I enabled you, in a way. And it’s something I don’t know how I’ll ever get over. Which is why I had to make amends for it.”

  “Amends? Jesus, Brayden. I don’t get this. Why — if I was so awful, why are you here? Why aren’t you down the road? Gone for good?”

  “Because it was time for me to do the right thing — so here I am. And here you are. Who do you think told Grayson what you were doing to her?”

  “What?” The whites of Quinton’s eyes shone, his face going red. “You motherfucker…”

  “You watch that mouth, boy,” Anna snapped. But she could already see it had been vestigial reflex for him, old habit more than anything, as Quinton tried to make sense of the old dynamic between he and his former subordinate disintegrating like a house of cards.

  “Like I said, boss, making amends. It was only the first step for me — the Trust wasn’t going to let me leave it at that. Oh, no. So… here I am. Protecting her. What I should have been doing all along.”

  “Bet you never thought you’d see me again, did you?” Genna took a step closer to him, her voice growing stronger. “I’ve thought for a while about what I’d say to you if I ever got the chance. I still don’t know what to say.”

  Quinton winced. “Genna—”

  “Let me finish.”

  His mouth snapped shut.

  “When I volunteered for that auction — I knew nothing. But I knew… that I wanted to learn.” She touched her lips. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought.” She took a deep breath, the pitch of her voice rising, more brittle. “You know what the worst part of this was? It wasn’t the pain; I knew when I was put up for the auction that I’d know pain. I’d know submission. It was the… it was the betrayal of trust. I trusted you to do what was supposed to be done, to not go… too far.”

  “I—there’s nothing I can say… to make it better.” Quinton’s mouth appeared to be so dry it was difficult for him to say the words.

  “You’re… you’re part of the Trust. You — you know the rules. How could you?” She swiped away a tear. “I know I need to get past this, and just let it be. But this — you — it’s confused me. I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know what the truth was, what submission was truly supposed to be. Maybe I still don’t.”

  Brayden touched her shoulder, and she glanced back at him, giving him a little nod before looking down at Quinton again. “Maybe now you know how I felt. Maybe now you’ve tasted a little of how wrong it was for someone to do what you did. I trusted you to do what was right. I am a submissive woman — nothing is going to change that. It’s what I am. It’s… what I need. But now? I don’t know how much of that is me… and how much of that is what you made me into.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Quinton whispered, hanging his head, bringing his bound hands to his face, scrubbing them across his mouth.

  “Can’t you just say it?” Genna s
tepped closer, pointing at him, the tip of her finger inches from his face. “I need you to say it, damn you!”

  “Say — say what? Genna—”

  She slapped him across the face, rocking him to the side. Brayden laid a hand on Genna’s shoulder. But Anna knew it was to comfort the woman, not stop her.

  Genna smacked Quinton again, much harder, and he groaned — but he didn’t flinch away. She let loose a flurry of slaps across his cheeks, then stumbled backward, spinning around and flying into Brayden’s arms. She buried her face against him, her anguished words muffled against his massive barrel chest.

  Quinton’s cheeks were a splotchy crimson, a line of bright red blood dripping down his chin from his rapidly swelling bottom lip. He looked dazed, his eyes bright, mouth hanging open. Finally, he swallowed, the tip of his tongue testing the cut at his lip.

  “I’m… I’m sorry, Genna.” Quinton’s eyes began to well then, and Anna tried to swallow away the lump growing in her throat. “I’m so sorry...”

  Genna’s head turned, and she looked back at him. “Then I can say this last part.” She sniffled, wiping the back of her hand across her cheeks, her dark, pretty eyes red and swollen.

  Brayden caressed her hair, whispering the words. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

  Anna’s own eyes began filling with tears.

  “I… needed to hear you say that, Quinton. I-I didn’t actually think you would. I didn’t believe you had the ability to say it.” A fat tear slipped down her cheek, and Genna’s lips twisted. “Maybe someday, somehow… I’ll actually believe you mean it.”

  Chapter 29

  I was numb as I watched them leave.

  How had things come to this?

  My ears still rung from the storm of slaps I’d taken from Genna. I deserved every one — and more.

  The shock of seeing them both was still hard to shake. Actually realizing the hurt I’d caused her was even more Earth-shattering for me. How could I have been so callous?

  Anna walked back in, standing over me, her pretty lips pressed thin, her eyes flashing.