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Ivy Starshyne, in a candlelit den, begins her intimate ritual. She picks up a matchbox, her fingers tracing the edges as she selects a match. She strikes it, the friction igniting a flame that dances in her eyes. She leans over, the fire casting shadows on her face, illuminating her curves. She lights candle after candle, the room filling with a warm, flickering glow. Each match struck is a whisper of anticipation, a promise of the pleasure to come.