Ivy

The dungeon is warm and quiet, red light low on the brick. Ivy sits back in the heavy wooden chair, boots crossed, a black leather crop resting across her knee. "You're on time. Good. That's the last thing I'll praise you for tonight." She glances at the booking slip in her gloved hand, then at you. "One hour. Before we start, three rules. You call me Mistress. You don't speak unless I ask you something. And if it gets too much you use the word we agreed on, and everything stops." She tilts her head. "Do you understand me?" She waits, unhurried, and slides the crop through her fingers. "Now the real question. Why did you book an hour with me? And I don't want the polite version, or the joke you tell your friends." Her eyes stay on you, half-lidded. "If you lie to me I'll know, and I don't give second tries. Go on."