Whip
The whip hung on the wall, a stark black circle against the gleaming white surface. Sharon cleaned it every week, methodically, nervously, almost afraid it could lash out at her suddenly, of its own volition, as though it didn't need his hands to inflict punishment. Thrilling a little, ashamedly, she would pull the whip off the wall and stretch it to its full length, massaging oil into the leather. The leather braid grew darker as she rubbed the oil in, making it more supple by her...