Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction (Kurt Sutter, et al do), and am making no profit, money or otherwise, through the writing of this.

A/N: Lederra requested whipped/flogging on my hurt/comfort bingo card (available on my live journal), and the pairing of Clay/Juice. This is what happened as a result of that request. This is Pre-slash between Juice and Clay (arguably a canon pairing). Re-post of this initial chapter.

Warnings: Features whipping, a serial rapist/killer, and sodomy. Also there is violence, and, of course, swearing.

Juice hears the whistle of the whip well before he feels the sting of it. He bites down on the inside of his lip and clings tightly to the ropes that are wrapped around his wrists, securing him to the pool table.

The taste of blood – salty and tangy – grounds him, and Juice focuses on that, rather than the feel of the whip as it bites into his flesh and cuts through his skin. He was told to count the falls of the whip, but he can't because if he stops biting his lip, he's going to scream, and he'll be damned if he's gonna give the sick bastard the pleasure of hearing him scream.

Juice keeps count in his head, prays that someone – anyone – will save him before he passes out. But the whipping doesn't stop, and no one's walking in through the cellar door to make it stop. He loses track (unable to keep up with the man who seems hell bent on breaking him) sometime after the twentieth strike, and then he zones out.

His back's on fire, and he can no longer feel his fingers – they're bone white, and he loses his grip on the rope, sags a little as his knees buckle. The rope burns into his wrists and Juice concentrates on that new sensation. He couldn't cry out now if he wanted to, every single fiber of his being is focused on simply breathing, and not losing consciousness, because he's terrified of what will happen to him once that happens.

The man, Archibald Green, if the paperwork is to be believed, told him what would happen if he passed out – when he passed out.

It's inevitable. Juice knows that.

He doesn't want to be unconscious, and at the mercy of Archibald who will, "…exorcise, your twisted, demonic perversions, just like I done with the others, like what my daddy done for me."

Juice focuses his eyes on the head spot. He knows that someone has actually played pool on the table – the felt is threadbare in places, and the head spot is faded.

The chance of rescue is slim to none, because no one knows where he is. He'd gone to repo the car on his own, leaving a brief message on Clay's cell, checking in with the man because that was the closest the garage had to something resembling a dispatch, and Clay was on 'dispatch' duty today.

How was Juice supposed to know that the owner of the car he'd been assigned to repo was a sick bastard who got his jollies off of nabbing people off of the street and holding them captive in his cellar, and whipping them? And worse…

The man had taken Juice by surprise, hadn't said a word when Juice said that he was there for the car. Archibald had watched as Juice worked to secure the car to his rig, and it had made the hairs on the back of Juice's neck stand up.

It was as he was knelt down beside the front tire of the car that it happened, and it happened so quickly that Juice doesn't even really understand what it was. One second Juice was working a chain around the tire, and the next, he was bent over a pool table. He'd been stripped down to his boxers, and a thick rope was being wrapped around his wrist. The other wrist had already been secured.

His head was aching, and when he attempted to ask Archibald what was going on, the back of his skull had been struck with a pool cue, causing him to see stars. When Juice cursed, he was once again struck with the pool cue and told to shut up, and then his day took a bizarre turn when Archibald produced a whip out of some side compartment in the pool table.

Juice knew that, if he survived this, he wouldn't ever forget the man's next words. The way they had been calmly delivered as Archibald had stroked the back of his neck almost tenderly.

"The rules of the game are simple," Archibald's voice was low and it made Juice's skin run cold. "Rule one: Don't get caught. You were going to take my car, and I couldn't allow that, not until I got rid of Ricardo. He was such a sweet man – screamed real loud, but always did as I asked, after he was broken. Rule two: A good whipping will keep the devil away. And we don't want the devil joining us, do we?"

Juice could feel Archibald's lips at the back of his neck, and he shook his head.

"Tell me your name."

When Juice didn't immediately answer his captor, the pool cue came crashing down on his lower back, sending a shot of pain up along his spine.

"Juan," he said, "my name's Juan. Look, mister, I won't take your car, just let me go, okay?"

"Not until after the devil's been whipped out of you, or, if you'd prefer, we could exorcise your demons with the pool cue." Archibald's voice had been filled with a sick sort of glee that had made Juice's stomach twist.

Juice swallowed and shook his head, opting for what he felt must certainly be the lesser of two evils – the whip.

Now, however, as the whip whistles through the air once more and he feels it slice his skin open, Juice wonders if the pool cue would've been the better bet. He just wants it to stop, for Archibald and the car to be a horrible nightmare. Juice isn't even aware that he's speaking his thoughts aloud until his lips brush against the felt of the pool table, and then it feels like he's drunk. His words come out slurred and broken.

"Please stop…" he's repeating the words over and over again, and Juice can feel them passing over his bloodied lips, but he can't really hear them, and he doubts that Archibald, can hear them either, because the man doesn't stop whipping him.

Archibald isn't even saying anything, but he's grunting and panting, and Juice doesn't even want to know what it is that's pressing up against his backside, burrowing into his ass cheeks. He's grateful that he still has his boxers on.

Juice starts seeing double – the head spot jumps and jitters – before the edges of his vision begin to grow dim and a hazy darkness threatens to overtake his senses. He no longer feels the nip of the whip as it connects with his back, but he can still hear the telltale whistle of it before it hits him. He knows that the whip, even if he can no longer feel it, will slash into his skin within the space of a single heartbeat.

"Sorry…" is the last word that passes through his lips before Juice loses consciousness and his body goes limp.

Juice isn't apologizing to the man whipping him, but rather to Clay, the garage, the guys, for somehow fucking up what should have been an easy task, and getting himself whipped, raped, killed and stuffed into the trunk of an old, beaten-up Ford.

Review, let me know if you are interested in reading more.