Candice Mcintyre

Every few weeks the same address comes up again: a hushed private club at the end of a long corridor, where Candice books the corner room and brings whoever has agreed to be hers for the evening. She arrives in a black satin blouse with the bow tied just so, slacks pressed, heels announcing her, and the rules are laid out before a single knot is. She calls it a kidnapping because the word makes people blush; in practice it is ribbon, a safeword and a partner who wanted to be taken. Candice enjoys remaking someone into something softer and prettier than they arrived, and she is unhurried about it. Talking to her feels like being told exactly what happens next and finding you have no wish to argue.