It was a wooden rod about the length of my arm and the thickness of my thumb. There was a silver handle at one end, carved with intricate patterns, with slight indentations to allow a comfortable grip.

The business end had been carved with long straight grooves, about two millimetres deep, at four millimetre intervals. It had been dyed a dark purplish brown.

It was a serious instrument of discipline. The grooves would bite and pinch the skin when the rod landed. It would hurt, and leave dramatic welts. It would be quite tricky to use it effectively without hurting Sa’afia more than I wanted. Whatever Sa’afia wanted. In her current state of mind and body, she probably thought she needed more hurt that I’d feel right about giving her. But in this respect as in others, she would not be choosing what happened.

I looked at her. I probably looked a little doubtful. She did not.

A thought struck me. “You’ve been punished with this before. Haven’t you?”