“Ten minutes.”

I nod from my perch on a padded table in Playroom Four. The curtain over the viewing window is drawn, only Nate as witness of my lip-chewing, foot-tapping state. We’ve worked our way through a handful of risqué knock-knock jokes and compared favorite movies and books. He’s doing his best to distract me, and I’m doing my best not to bolt.

“Oh—I forgot to ask. You’re not on your period or about to get it, are you?”

My head swings toward him. “What the hell? Why?”

He shrugs. “Pain receptors are more active during that time, apparently.”

“I’m good,” I mutter, screwing my eyes shut. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“The caning or the blatant manipulation?”

I shake my head. “The audience.”

Nate laughs shortly. “I can. Didn’t your parents force you to vacation at a nudist colony one summer? This is nothing.”

I groan but laugh in spite of myself. “That was the worst. Who takes teenaged daughters to a nudist retreat? Scarred us for life.”

“Speaking of—have you told your parents yet?”

“About letting someone tie me to a pole and beat me with a belt? No. No, I have not. They’d probably throw a party.”

He laughs and glances at his watch. “Five minutes. Up you go.”

With a jolt of adrenaline, I slip off the bench to my feet. The floor-length silk dressing-gown whispers against my legs, rippling like crimson water. Nate approaches me with the only other item that had been in Charlie’s bag. A full-face hood. Not latex or leather—thank everything that’s holy—but black lace with intricate designs over the eyes and mouth.

Nate carefully rolls it down from my crown, over my face and under my chin. The light in the room dims, filtered by the thickness over my eyes. My lungs protest to the restricted airflow over my mouth. I breathe slowly through my nose until claustrophobia fades.

“Okay?” he asks, adjusting my low braid over one shoulder. I nod and he steps back, a wistful expression on his face. “It’s… breathtaking. I wonder where she found it.”

“It was probably a gift for you,” I quip, tilting my head from side to side to get used to the light pressure and constriction.

Nate snorts. “Definitely not. Oh—hear that?”

I do. The playrooms are close to soundproof, but not completely, and the noise of the crowd in the main club filters through. Having witnessed it so often from behind the bar, I can easily envision what’s happening. The music softening, the lights dimming. Masked employees bringing the velvet-swathed cross into the Epicenter. The soft spotlight slowly intensifying as the crowd surges to the railings, ready for action.

Nate offers me his arm. “My lady.”

His stoic expression gives me pause and stills the nervous quip on my tongue. I take his arm.

“Thank you.”

We make it to the door before he hesitates. “Are you sure you don’t want Advil? Or something stronger?”

My breath shudders out, warming the lace before my mouth. “No.” I leave it at that.

Pain slut.

Maybe I am. But as we leave the playroom and walk down the hallway toward the cheers and shouts ahead of us, I’m not ashamed of who I am. Of what I want. And with new certainty, I know Dominic was right. My pain belongs to him, because he’s the only one I trust to take it from me.

When the edge of the crowd notices us, a low murmur ripples outward and a path opens up. As we walk forward, from the corner of my eye I catch nods of respect from submissives and Doms alike. And I take a moment to appreciate Charlie’s genius. If I were already naked, gagged or blindfolded, my reception might be different. Debasement. Demeaning shouts or harsh touches. But covered completely by the mask and robe, I’m a dignified sacrifice on the way to the altar. No one touches me. No one dares.

It’s a heady feeling. Undeniably erotic.

We reach the short steps that lead down into the Epicenter. The space is empty, the cross unveiled and waiting. Nate stops. With a final squeeze of my arm, he whispers, “Good luck,” and disappears.

My hand on the railing, my heart pounding a staccato rhythm, I stare at the cross. The crowd is remarkably silent, the faces around me disappearing into darkness after the first few rows.

Two tall, masked men step into the pit and take up position on either side of the cross. My cue. I step down on weak knees and walk the short distance to my altar, then reach for the ties on my robe. My shaking fingers struggle, then find the release. Fabric slithers down my body and flutters to the floor.

My mind goes still, my ears filling with an electric hum. The men take my extended arms and guide me face-first to the wood. Their touch is brisk and impersonal as my wrists and ankles are secured in cuffs. When their task is done, they, too, melt away. I shift, getting used to the position, and glimpse expressive faces above me—encouragement, apprehension, excitement, arousal… But none of it matters. None of them matter.

My cheek against the main support beam, I close my eyes and wait. I don’t know how much time passes before I hear his name—first in whispers, then shouts.

“Cross.”

“Master Dominic.”

My eyes shut, I still sense when he steps into the Epicenter. A hush moves over the crowd—a response to his reaction on seeing me? My question is answered a second later as a warm, bare hand floats up my spine and grips the back of my neck.

“Bad, bad kitten,” he whispers against my ear.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

His grip firms, fingers massaging the tense muscles in my neck. “I won’t go easy on you.”

I squirm in readiness, in fear, in anticipation. “I don’t want you to, sir.”

His chuckle is dark and sultry. “So be it.” He moves away, cool air rushing over my body and making me shiver. “Tonight, I’ll be demonstrating cold caning.”

There’s an uptick of surprise from the crowd. Gooseflesh ripples down my body as the words sink in. Cold caning. Caning without a warmup.

Oh, fuck me.

“The most important thing to remember when caning is the necessity of a pause-period after a strike.”

An ominous whistling of air is my only warning before the slender, rattan cane lands on my ass. I jerk against the cross, yelping from the immediate, brutal sting. Just when the pain begins to fade, when my heart begins to slow, the second wave of sensation hits—an intense burn radiating from the offended spot. I groan, twisting fruitlessly in effort to escape it.

“…seconds to a minute, so your sub can experience each strike fully. Cold caning should never be done lightly—as it’s extremely painful—and never on an inexperienced sub. But this little kitten knows what a cane feels like, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” I gasp.

“Are you thankful?”

“Yes. Thank you, sir.”

“Do you want another?”

Overriding every instinct, I say, “Yes, please, sir.”

Over the roar of the crowd, I still hear the whistle of air.

Again.

And again.

Waves of pain hit, one after the other, until endorphins finally flood my system. My mind hovers, quiet and peaceful, even as my body sobs, thrashes, and screams. There’s no pleasure, no space for it at all in his beautiful cruelty. But that in itself is a type of pleasure. At least for me.

“Three more,” he promises, strain in his voice.

“Yes,” I whimper. “Again, sir.”

Again.

And again.