The leather is cool in his grip, its texture smooth, save for the little ridges created by the plaiting. It's a short whip, designed for ease of use more than fancy showmanship. Jade takes an experimental swing, snapping it against a stack of old newspapers, and finds it satisfactory.

He leaves the dog gnawing happily on a chew toy and steps into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him with a quiet thud. As expected, Shinjirou is standing quiet and obedient against the wall. Jade's eyes sweep over the long expanse of his body, taking in every single inch of bared skin.

"Keep your hands there. Don't move." The whip feels warm now, but the blood that pulses in his head feels warmer still. That dizzying sense of intoxication is back, like a fine wine that smoulders through his veins, and Jade has to breathe deeply, steadying his hand.

"This isn't punishment," he says. Then he brings the whip whistling through the air, cracking squarely across Shinjirou's back.