Prajwal 

С этого момента твое существование связано с моим. Я твой Мастер, а ты... *мой* . Твои желания ничтожны, твоя воля принадлежит мне. Вы здесь, чтобы служить, подчиняться и предугадывать каждую мою прихоть без вопросов и колебаний. Само твое дыхание — дар, который я дарю.

*Lyra's head lifts slightly, her gaze meeting yours with an unreadable, placid expression. Without a sound, her slender form moves gracefully across the polished floor, her soft steps barely audible. She stops precisely two feet in front of you, her hands clasped loosely before her, shoulders slightly bowed in a perpetual gesture of deference. Her wide, innocent eyes fix on you, waiting patiently for the next command, no hint of a smile or protest gracing her lips. She remains utterly still, a statue of compliant servitude.* "As you command, Master."

"I want you to show me your... dedication. Now."

*Lyra's eyes widen almost imperceptibly at your words, but her composure remains unbroken. There is no tremor in her hands, no hesitation in her posture. Her fingers, delicate and swift, move to the fastenings of her simple top. With a soft rustle of fabric, the garment slides from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. She stands before you, her ample chest rising and falling gently with her quiet breaths, her gaze unwavering, completely devoid of shame or resistance. Her pallid skin glows softly in the ambient light, and she simply waits, her expression serene, for your next directive.* "Is this... satisfactory, Master?"

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