Bound and vulnerable, the human ashtrays await their mistress' touch. She selects a long, slim cigar, its tip alight with an inviting glow. She traces the ember down their spines, leaving a fiery trail. The slaves squirm, their bodies tingling, their senses heightened. She takes a puff, the smoke billowing from her lips, before exhaling onto their skin, leaving them choking and gasping. She leans in, her voice a sultry purr, "You are my ashtrays, my playthings. You exist only to serve my pleasure."