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The woman knelt in front of him, bathed in muted light, head bowed, motionless but for the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed. She occupied the exact center of the room, as if posed like a doll. A trellis of fishnet stocking climbed the slope of her legs. Red leather bound her neck, the buckle at the hollow of her throat, a chrome metal link chain leading from a loop below the buckle down to the floor, where the handle lay at her feet. Her wrists crossed behind her back, unbound.
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She had arrived at the door exactly when asked, an hour and a half before he was expected to return to the room. She was wearing a sleek blood-red pencil skirt and a tightly tailored, high-buttoned black shirt that clung to her arms, her belly, her tits like a carapace. She wasn’t showing much skin, but in the way her clothes caressed the contours of her body it was clear she had put some thought into what she was wearing. Her raven hair was tied up in a band of leather, a thicker band attached around her neck as a choker. Twin strands of silver earrings framed her face. Her lips were full and inscrutable. Her dark eyes danced.