Chapter 2

Arlari's POV

“BDSM,” I repeated. I knew the “B” stood for Bondage. The rest? I didn’t know what it stood for.

I had heard of it, sure. People talked. People liked it. But I had never cared enough to look deeply into it.

“You’ll catch up,” he said, casually.

“Sir…” My throat tightened. “What does this have to do with my brother?”

He leaned back against his desk. “Everything. Did you really think a ransom would make me let him go?”

I blinked. “That was the only option I could see—”

“Even if you offered me billions, which I know you don’t have, it wouldn’t matter.” His eyes hardened. “That file he attempted to steal is worth more than you can imagine. People would kill by the hundreds for it. Thousands have placed bounties for it.”

My stomach dropped. “Danny—”

“He is skilled and stubborn,” Severiano cut in. “Which makes him a threat. Which is why tonight, I planned to make an example of him.” He tapped the wood beneath his hand. “But then you walked in here. And when prey walks into my den… it means the prey was always meant for me.”

I froze. “Prey?”

His gaze didn’t deter from mine. “What I want in return for your brother’s life is a submissive. You.”

My voice cracked into a laugh that sounded nothing like humor. “I wouldn’t even know what I’m doing. I would be terrible at it.”

“That is fine.” His tone softened, “A potter doesn’t expect a perfect vase. He shapes it. Breaks it if he must and then molds it again.”

Did he just refer to me as clay?

“I don’t…” My hands trembled. “I don’t know.”

“It is your choice,” he said. “You have ten minutes to think. Tonight, your brother is definitely scheduled to die. Unless you decide otherwise.”

°°°°°°

Ten minutes felt like hours. My palms sweated into the denim of my jeans.

My fingers wouldn’t stop shaking.

I didn’t understand what I was about to become. I had the vague shape of it in my head, giving myself over in some formal way to this man.

I kept thinking of Danny. I couldn’t live with him being dead because I let him be.

Severiano swiveled his chair and the motion felt like the final stepping of a trap. He watched me as if I were a clock he was winding. “Decide,” he said.

“I—If I do this, what is the assurance that my brother will most definitely be released?”

He leaned forward. The lamplight caught on the pale line of his scar.

“You have my word,” he said. “He will be treated tonight. If you accept the terms, he will be released.”

“O-Okay.”

His lip curved up.

"I'll need you to put your 'yes' on paper."

“W-why?”

“All my submissives must sign a binding contract with me where the terms of our agreement and expectations will be explicitly stated in conference to the time frame.”

“Three months,” I half-yelled, bowing my head in apology soon after.

“90 days.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. I had feared that he would demand half my life.

“Or, should it be increas—”

“No,” I shuffled forward, still on my knees. “Please sir, please—90 days, sir, please.”

He slid the slim folder from beneath his desk like it had been waiting there forever.

“Stand,” he said, and when I obeyed, he tapped the chair with one finger.

“Sit. There will be time to kneel later.”

I sat. He opened the folder and spread a single page between us.

The header read, Agreement of Consensual Power Exchange (90 days).

My stomach did a small, traitorous flip.

“Read it,” he said. “Take your time and ask any questions.”

I read.

The first paragraphs were plain, stating that consent may be withdrawn at any time, safewords were in place, medical disclosures were required and aftercare was expected.

My nose wrinkled at some of the terminology and I scrunched it without realising.

“Point at them and I’ll explain.”

I pointed at a block of checked items he had left as examples. He looked at each, one by one, and explained them out.

“Bondage (rope, straps etcetera),” he read, tapping the line. “That means being restrained by the hands, ankles, wrists, perhaps chest and throat. I use quick-release knots and quality restraints. Safety shears are always within reach. You can always feel free to tell me if it is too tight.”

I blinked. “So it’s… tying,” I said. “Not being suspended from, like… somewhere?”

“Not unless you sign a separate suspension addendum and we train first,” he said. “Hard no without training.”

He moved his finger down the paper. I noticed how long they were… how strong—

“Impact play, spanking, paddles, floggers. We will list safe zones, primarily buttocks and thighs, and we will agree on intensity, whether light, medium, or hard. I won’t strike near your spine, kidneys, or joints.”

My nose wrinkled again. “That sounds painful.”

“It can be,” he admitted. “But many people prefer a controlled pain that turns to sensation. If it is not for you, you can cross it off the list. Don’t overdo it though.”

He read the next line and I watched his face for anything like pressure. There was none.

“Sensory play, blindfolds, earmuffs, temperature play like ice or warm materials. It heightens other senses. We use it to shift power by taking away information so that you can focus on touch.”

“Orgasm control/edging,” he said next. “We will define whether you can orgasm, when, and how often. You can opt for enforced denial or for limits that stop short of full denial.”

“Oral,” he said plainly. “Explicit consent is needed for either direction. Hygiene standards apply very much, STI status, and safekeeping of any media or photos that we might indulge in.”

“Media?”

“Sometimes, I like to see my sub on my screen while I’m at work. Keeps me… entertained.”

I swallowed.

“What if they—”

“Leak? Never.”

He paused at a line that made me look away.

“Humiliation/Verbal Play, these are words used as part of a scene,” he said. “We write out what is permitted. If you mark it as allowed, we still sign off on the specific language you permit and language you forbid. Emotional aftercare for this is critical.”

He tapped another line and his voice got softer.

“Breath play, otherwise known as asphyxiation.” He looked at me directly. “I include it on the sheet only to be explicit. I do not recommend it; it carries real risk. Most experienced communities treat it as a hard limit. You can mark it as ‘never’ and I will not raise it again.”

I exhaled. “Good,” I said, relief almost audible.

But something in me, one stupid devilish part of my tongue, was curious…

"Let's keep it on, a probability… I think."

He held my gaze for a long minute.

“Okay.”

He slid a small checklist across the page to me, each item with three boxes that stated Yes, No, or to discuss, plus a short line for notes and maximum intensity.

“I want you to choose,” he said. “Tick what you want. Don’t tick what you don’t.”

“What if…” The coward in me resurfaced, “I tick the lowest intensity for all of them?”

His fingers started undoing his shirt buttons.

“Then you get your first punishment.”