The red recording light was a tiny, burning sun. Nandini knelt before it, the cool floor a sharp contrast to the heat of her flogged skin. The camera saw everything—the drying streaks of cum, the welts, the vacant shine in her eyes.

Manik stood just outside the frame, a silhouette of absolute control. In his hands were not toys, but tools. A small velvet tray rested on a nearby table, holding an array of gleaming, fine-gauge needles, clamps with tiny chains, and a delicate bottle of clear liquid.