I know exactly what turns you on. Not my gaze. Not my voice. But the scent of my worn nylons. This damp, sweaty piece of fabric you inhale like a worthless dog, as if it were your elixir of life. Want healing? Wrong idea. This isn't therapy—it's degradation with a method. I wear my nylons for hours until they're soaked with my power, my foot odor, my superiority. Then I force them mercilessly into your face. You'll choke, shiver, drool—and still keep smelling. Because you can't help it. Because you're addicted to me. This scent therapy isn't a fetish—it's your new law. Every fiber of my nylons is a command. Every note of my scent is a punishment. And every second with me makes you more dependent, more helpless, more destroyed. I'm Lady Ayse. I'm your poison. And you'll breathe gratefully, even if it smells of my sweat
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