He could breath, just barely, the air seeming heavy as he tried to draw air into his lungs. His arms were suspended above him, and his legs chained to the floor. This wasn't the first time. No, it was a daily occurrence, being chained by father. All he wore was a pair of worn slacks that hung loosely on his slender hips. He groaned, softly.
He was thirteen. By now, he knew what his father feared from him. He had deviant desires. Women were appealing, yes, ...but so were men. And he hated himself for it. Father chained him, here, stood before a painting of a nude make figure. Normally, such a thing would interest him, but now, he knew what it meant.
He heard his father come down the steps, whip in hand, the leather creaking as he tightened the coil. The man was older, clearly, sporting a thick gray mustache. What hair remained was slicked back. He looked upon his son with only pity, before their session began. Cries could be heard, around the house, as the boy was whipped. Over, and over, and over again until the father was satisfied.