Twelve
That encounter with Lunda, requesting and receiving bastinado while the young island girl watched in amused fascination, signaled a change in my regimen.
Though silence was the rule, Bai instructed that requests to feel the ferocity of her hand were a sanctioned breach of the rule of silence. And as I helplessly sat, feet presented most vulnerably, Bai plied her craft, slowly flicking while I locked my jaw in the silence of my learned discipline.
“Being unable to move, choking back his words of woe and imploration, makes the ordeal seem so much more excruciating, Lunda,” Bai lectured.
A flick to my heel.
“The mind must force itself to absorb the intense signals of agony. No reaction is possible other than to meekly accept my offering. It mandates discipline, making a man suffer
