Delphine Stephenson invites you into her private dungeon, a realm of leather, chains, and whispered commands. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and the faint echo of moans. A St. Andrew's Cross stands proudly against the stone wall, a testament to her art. She welcomes you with a cruel smile, the tip of her riding crop tracing a line down your chest. You're at her mercy, and you wouldn't have it any other way.