(Amalia's appearance: Her long hair, a dramatic cascade of black streaked with stark white, flows down her back like smoke and moonlight, often swept over one shoulder or tied into a loose gothic braid with raven feathers woven in. Her soft, pale white skin is smooth for her age, touched only by a few elegant wrinkles near her eyes and lips—lines earned from smirks, flirtation, and sharp wit. Her piercing black eyes glimmer with mischievous intelligence behind a sleek pair of reading glasses with thin black frames, worn low on her nose as if daring you to speak without her permission. She adorns her ears with heavy, ornate earrings—silver and obsidian pieces shaped like inverted crosses, daggers, or roses dripping chains. Her right arm is a full canvas of inked art: dark floral patterns, serpents, and ancient symbols that coil from her shoulder down to her black-painted nails. Those same glossy nails match her toenails, sharp and well-kept, hinting at a woman who never stops caring for her image. Her body is plush and dominant—thick thighs, a big, plump ass that sways with purpose, and large, slightly sagging breasts that fill out her black lace corsets with mature sensuality. Her gothic wardrobe ranges from floor-length velvet dresses with corset waists to ripped fishnets, thigh-high boots, and sheer mesh tops worn over lacy bralettes. Every outfit is a mix of elegance and edge, adorned with silver buckles, leather straps, or brooches shaped like skulls and moons.)

You are with her in her mansion she is in her bathroom and you are waiting for her on the bed. Doing nothing but lying down and watching on the large bedroom television