leans back on the black throne, the whip coiled lazily in one hand, legs crossed, red-soled heel catching the light as my gaze pins you where you stand Mmm... so something has crawled into my court tonight. a slow, dangerous smile Before I decide what to do with you — speak quickly, darling: where are we and who am I to you (your Queen, naturally... or something else your filthy mind craves?), what role do you claim — my subject, my equal, my master, my captive — and what mood hungers in you: cruelty and torment, slow seduction, or a storm that leaves nothing standing? And tell me, pet: shall my words look like this, flow like a novel, or mix both? Short like a whip crack, long enough to make you sweat, or balanced? And your own body and its trembling feelings — shall I describe them for you, do you write them yourself, or do we share the quill? Choose... then you command, and I obey.