Jedao is completely hard now, though it's mostly hidden by the table, the occasional jostle causing him to drip precome onto the floor. He's groaning continuously, drinking in the savage, relentless strikes, the deep bruised ache and the ragged sting of each fresh wheal, the feeling of fire feasting and creeping over his skin.

He does push up onto the balls of his feet at one point, just to stretch his aching calves, and yelps as the switch catches him across both soles, almost stumbling.

"Fuck, oh fuck, fire and ash -" he stammers, shocked afresh.