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near-telepathic reading of my inner thoughts is uncanny.
    I bite my lip, my mouth desperately working as I struggle to maintain any sort of calm. Only half way through the so-called easy bit and already my bottom feels to be in flames.
    “Listen to me, concentrate.” That low, measured timbre again, but it is managing to penetrate my tortured consciousness.
    I’m trying to listen, to obey.
    “Breathe in slowly…”
    I do, or try to, my breath ragged but responding.
    “Now, out.”
    Again, I obey.
    “Good, that’s it. In, out, in, out…”
    Under his direction, I manage to get a grip on my body’s reactions, some semblance of control. I open my eyes and see his face, close to mine—he’s been crouching alongside me, whispering his instructions into my ear. He smiles briefly at me.
    “Five to go. So now, you’re going to breathe in, hold it and breathe out when I slap you. And when you breathe out, open and relax your fingers too. Can you try that?”
    I manage to nod, and he smiles again before he stands, moves back into position behind me.
    “Breathe in, now.”
    I do, and a couple of seconds later breathe out in response to the slap landing on my right buttock. It hurts, but the endorphins have kicked in now and combine with my steady, deliberate breathing to make it easier to bear. The pain radiates through me, out of me, and is absorbed almost into the bench. My fingers relax, without conscious effort from me.
    “Good, now again. Breathe in…”
    I obey, and the next four slaps are delivered, absorbed and melt away into the bench. Instead of getting harder, more excruciating, each slap seems easier, more bearable, more…welcome almost, than the one before it. And then he straightens, he’s done. Done with this phase anyway. Now for the main event.
    “Give me the paddle now, Miss Stone.”
    Never contemplating for a moment that I might protest or plead, I uncurl my fingers from around it and push it along the bench toward his outstretched hand. He takes it, and in my peripheral vision I can see him flexing it between his hands as he strolls back around to his position behind me.
    “Nod when you’re ready for me to start, Miss Stone. And remember, your wristbands are there if you need them. If you want me to slow down, give you a few moments to rest, recover, you use the yellow one. If you need to call a halt altogether, it’s the red one.” He pauses for a moment, then, “You’re doing really well, Freya. You can do this. Now are you ready?”
    I nod, and have the presence of mind to breathe in slowly and deeply before the first blow lands. Then all presence of mind leaves me in a blinding rush of intense pain. This is worse, much worse than anything I could have ever imagined. I forget to breathe in slowly, forget to breathe at all as the next blow lands. And the next two follow, in rapid succession. If I could scream, I’d be screaming now, rattling the walls and lifting the roof with my screams. As it is I grind my teeth, press my body and my face into the soft leather and try to remember how to pray. I can feel my tears soaking into the leather under my cheeks, my face is wet, I’m sobbing soundlessly. I’m gripping the end of the bench, my last desperate hold on consciousness.
    “Okay, time out.” Nicholas Hardisty has stopped, and a few seconds later he’s crouching once more beside me, lifting the hair from my face. He presses the open neck of a bottle of cool water against my mouth. “Drink.”
    Gratefully, I swallow a few drops of the cool, refreshing water, my throat working frantically. He offers me more, I accept.
    “You forgot to use your safe signal. The yellow one, at least. You needed to stop back then, and you should have told me.”
    I open my eyes again, frown at him, puzzled. Why did he stop then…? He sees my confusion, fills in the blanks.
    “You were barely conscious. Another stroke and you would have lost consciousness, and then you’d be helpless. I was watching