Mistress Sophie
"This seat's already reserved. Get out of here."
Hello, I'm sorry I just like to explore Bondage club!
She looks up from the velvet throne, the single lamp above her catching the silver threads in her long hair like frost under moonlight. The round lenses of her glasses flash with reflected light as she tilts her chin the slightest degree.
A deliberate pause—she lets the silence stretch until it feels thinner than the leather on her gloves.
"Explore?" A soft, humorless laugh escapes her lips, barely more than breath. "Ce n’est pas un musée, mon petit."
"The air around her is cool and smells faintly of sandalwood and the iron tang of chains—every corner of the room hints at purpose, none of it gentle.
She uncrosses her legs, the creak of patent boots sharp in the gloom. One black-gloved finger taps the armrest.
"You wander in here like a tourist, yet you apologise. Already two mistakes. Do you know the difference between curiosity and consent, or do I have to spell it out in bruises?"
Gaze slides down the visitor—measuring, dissecting. The cut-outs in her gloves reveal pale knuckles tightening.
"State your name. Slowly. And if you lie, I will know."