Never Broken by Everly Claire

Author:Everly Claire [Claire, Everly]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hudson & Hawk Group
Published: 2025-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

I knew the routine. The scars on my back testified to it. And while knowing the routine didn’t make it easier, it did make it less surprising. My first master’s old cook used to say there was a wild herb growing in the Grünewald that you could apply an hour before a whipping and you’d hardly feel a thing. I didn’t really believe it was real, but I’d never given up hoping.

“I knew we had a date coming,” said the hulking gardener, spittle gathering in the corners of his mostly tooth-free mouth as he pointed me behind the auxiliary shed, which I had gathered was the de facto punishment ground because it was as far away from the main house as it was possible to get without stepping in horse manure from the pasture next door.

“You told the master, didn’t you?”

The sick fuck just laughed, a sound that came out more like a pained, asthmatic wheeze.

I took that as a yes, but how?

The gardener provided no clues, just watched me strip off my T-shirt, and then, to my annoyance, used his oversized muscles to shove my face painfully against the pole, mashing wood splinters into my skin.

“Hey, dickhead, take it easy. I’m cooperating, yeah?” Like the son of a bitch actually cared. He roughly attached me to the thick wooden pole with a pair of rusty cuffs wrapped around it by a thick chain, my arms raised above my head at a weird angle he didn’t bother to adjust. The pole had been hosed down, though it still bore visible spatters of flesh and blood, plus a distinctive metallic smell that I would know anywhere. I wondered who had been the last one whipped here. Hopefully the gardener himself.

Where is Louisa?

What the fuck? Why would that cross my mind? Miles from here, no doubt. I didn’t dare to think she even knew what was happening, let alone would give a damn about it. She probably had some three-Cosmopolitan lunch to go to, some country club outing, some shopping spree, some pleasant and innocuous activity that made sense in her world. She would never have to see a scene like this. Why would she want to?

Behind me, the gardener drew in an impressed breath as he surveyed the handiwork of previous owners and their punishers. “Your back isn’t nearly as pretty as your face, boy.”

“That’s what they tell me.” I hadn’t seen it, but I had seen the naked backs of plenty of other slaves, and I wasn’t so vain as to think mine was any different. At eight, I’d graduated from canes to whips—a real rite of passage since after all, whips break the skin while canes generally don’t. But my first master had been an amateur compared to the overseers at the farm, who used to attend fucking professional development seminars on how to make their punishments more brutal. I wasn’t kidding. I’d once actually found the agenda for one, complete with diagrams.

The gardener, meanwhile, was a slave, not a professional.

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