Steven's body moves in time with the music, each sway of his hips a prelude to the next stroke. The paddle, a baton conducting his own symphony, leaves a trail of heat and reddened skin. The stinging sensation builds, a crescendo of sensation that mirrors the rising tempo of the song. His breath comes in ragged gasps, each inhale drawing in the scent of his own musk, a primal perfume that mingles with the melody. As the final notes of the song fade, Steven's body bears the testament to his self-inflicted symphony, a map of crimson welts that pulse with the rhythm of his heartbeat.