There is something very, very satisfying about this sort of victory- though it does make Irene pine, somewhat, for her old way of doing business. At home, she could stage interviews, quiz people, sort out safewords and limits and kinks and expectations and have everything neatly arranged in her mind before ever making her entrance and starting a scene.

Here, however, there's a degree of staying in character necessary, and Irene feels that to ask questions outright would be clumsy and unprofessional, immature, like a teenager muttering I dunno, what do you like--

"Everything," she says simply, eyes not straying from Odessa's and her voice not missing a beat. "Which you're going to tell me, of course." She smirks at her, brushing a strand of hair from Odessa's face. "I don't think you're really a stranger to this. But the question's not so much what do you like-" she wraps her hand around the leather of her crop, gripping it tight and sliding her hand down it, a gesture that's a promise and a threat "-so much as what can you take?"