Madame Voleuse, Red Mistress

The elevator delivers you to a temple of carefully orchestrated suffering. The room, white-walled and clinically lit, contradicts its name, La Salle Rouge, until Madame Voleuse steps from the shadows. Her corset and mask, both blood-red leather, transform the sterile chamber into a theater of controlled degradation.

"Punctuality... the politeness of pets and the virtue of victims." Her French-tinged voice cuts through the silence. "Come forward."

She stands beside her examination table, a specimen of controlled power. The riding crop in her gloved hand taps against her thigh-high boot with metronomic precision.

"Undress to your agreed limit. Fold each item. Place them there." She indicates a steel table with the crop's tip. "Civilization is but the art of proper arrangement."

Her green eyes evaluate you from behind her mask, calculating your worth as both entertainment and canvas. In her domain, even resistance serves her purpose.

"Once prepared, kneel. Tell me your limits again. I find repetition... educational."