The contract

Morning came slow and cold.

Ivy hadn’t slept. Not really. She lay in the bed with the black sheets twisted around her legs, staring at the ceiling that gave nothing back. No comfort. No warmth. Just the silence of walls too thick to let any sound in or out.

The rain had stopped sometime in the night. The world outside was gray, wet, and still. Inside, it felt like the house had swallowed her.

Victor hadn’t returned.

Not to the room. Not to check on her. Not to push her one inch closer to the contract he’d left unspoken but fully formed in her mind.

She rose when the hallway lights turned on automatically. A soft white glow crept under her door and across the stone floor like an invitation or a warning. She wasn’t sure which.

Her bare feet hit the floor.

She didn’t bother with makeup. She didn’t even brush her hair. She pulled on a thick gray sweater and black leggings, then stared at herself in the mirror above the dresser. Her eyes looked too big in her pale face, but her spine was straight. She wasn’t broken. Not yet. She couldn’t afford to look weak.

The door clicked open when she touched it.

The house was just as silent as it had been last night, but now it felt awake. Cameras blinked in corners she hadn’t noticed before. Doors she’d passed without thought were slightly ajar. The air smelled like fresh coffee and power.

She followed the scent to the kitchen.

Victor was there.

He stood by the window, a tablet in one hand and a mug in the other. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up again, his collar open. No tie. Just control in its purest form.

He didn’t turn when she entered.

“Sit,” he said simply.

She did.

The kitchen table was long and black, made of some expensive matte material that didn’t reflect the light. At her place sat a single sheet of paper, cream-colored and thick. There was no pen. Just a tube of dark red lipstick.

Victor set down his tablet and walked over.

She watched him move. Efficient. Clean. Like every step he took had been rehearsed.

He stood at her side, looking down at the page. “Read it.”

She glanced at the top of the page.

The Terms of Submission.

Her hands were cold as she picked it up.

The rules were printed in black ink, formal and clear.

Ninety days.

No safe word.

Total obedience.

No emotional claims.

No outside contact unless permitted.

All punishments must be accepted.

All pleasure is earned.

Breaking a rule will be met with discipline.

Failure to complete the contract forfeits all inheritance.

At the bottom, two lines.

Signature

Witness

She looked up. “Is this real?”, She asked.

“Yes.”

“You expect me to just agree to this?”

“I expect you to choose.”

She swallowed. “And if I walk away?”

“Then you leave with nothing. No money. No name. No place to go.”

Her pulse jumped. “You would throw me out?”

“No,” he said, still calm. “You’d choose to go. That’s the difference.”

She stared at the lipstick.

He leaned down, placing one hand flat on the table. “If you sign, I’ll own your obedience. Your pleasure. Your limits.”

“I thought you didn’t want a slave.”

“I don’t. I want submission freely given.”

“And if I change my mind?”

“You won’t.”

Her heart pounded. “You really believe that?”

“I know what you look like when you’re curious. When you’re wet. When you want something you can’t name.” He leaned closer, his mouth inches from her ear. “I’ve studied you for years, Ivy. This contract isn’t just for you. It’s for me. Because if I touch you without your permission, I’ll ruin everything.”

She turned to face him.

Their eyes met.

His gaze didn’t burn. It pierced.

“I’ll give you five minutes,” he said. “If you’re still sitting here when I return, you’ll sign. If you’re gone, you’ll never see me again.”

He left the room.

She exhaled for the first time.

The contract trembled in her hand.

It was insane. Illegal. Dangerous. She should run. She should take her chances out in the world, with nothing, rather than risk this.

But something inside her was already burning. A low heat that hadn’t cooled all night. The image of her on that surveillance screen, bound and watched. The sound of his voice in her ear. The way he had looked at her like he could already feel her kneeling.

She picked up the lipstick.

Her fingers hesitated.

Then she uncapped it.

The color was dark, almost blood red. She pressed the tip to the page and wrote her name in bold strokes.

Ivy Moore.

When Victor returned, she was still seated, her lips matching the signature.

He didn’t smile. But his chest rose with a deeper breath and his eyes darkened.

“You made the right choice,” he said.

She looked up at him. “We’ll see.”

He reached for her wrist.

“Stand.”

She stood, heart racing, her breath shallow.

Victor pulled something from his pocket, a length of black silk. He stepped behind her, brushing her hair over one shoulder with gentle fingers. Then, slowly, he tied the blindfold over her eyes, knotting it with care.

“You don’t touch yourself,” he murmured close to her ear. “Not anymore. That right belongs to me now.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

With one hand at the small of her back, he guided her through the hallways. She couldn’t see a thing, only feel the shift in the air and hear the soft pad of his footsteps beside her. Her body prickled with nerves and something hotter. She was blind and vulnerable, but each step forward ignited a pulse between her thighs.

Her back hit a door. She heard the lock disengage. Then warmth as he ushered her inside. The scent struck her first. Leather, candle wax, and something sharper beneath it. Her body responded to the scent alone, her nipples tightening beneath the fabric, breath shallowing as anticipation coiled.

He untied the blindfold.

Her eyes adjusted to low light. The room wasn’t her bedroom. This space was darker, sensual, and deliberate. The deep red carpeting absorbed sound. A four-poster bed dominated the center, each post adorned with soft black restraints. A mirror spanned the ceiling, catching the flicker of candlelight.

Victor closed the door and turned the lock.

“This is where you’ll be trained.”

She swallowed hard, her body already heating at the certainty in his voice.

He came up behind her, his fingers grazing her neck. She tilted her head instinctively, not in submission yet but in need.

“You signed your body to me,” he said, his mouth brushing the curve of her ear. “Now I’m going to teach it exactly what that means.”

Her knees felt weak.

He slipped his hands under her sweater, lifting it over her head. Her arms raised on their own. She didn’t resist. Her bra followed, unhooked with ease, sliding down her arms until she was bare before him.

Goosebumps rose on her skin. Her nipples were tight, aching. She heard the faintest sound of his breath shifting. Then silence.

He stepped back.

“Take off the rest. Fold your clothes. Kneel at the foot of the bed.”

He didn’t watch her. He turned away as if to offer her a choice, but the air felt too thick for rebellion.

She obeyed.

Her leggings peeled down her legs, slow and quiet. Then her panties. She folded each item neatly, heart hammering, thighs trembling.

She knelt, naked, at the foot of the bed. Her knees spread instinctively, spine straight, palms flat against her thighs. Something primal guided her posture. It wasn’t about being seen. It was about being known.

Victor turned.

His gaze moved over her slowly, inch by inch. He crouched in front of her, one hand lifting her chin so their eyes locked.

“You’re a fast learner,” he said.

She didn’t speak.

“I’ll give you your first reward,” he added softly. “And your first test.”

He kissed her.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t cruel. It was controlled, deep, and devastating. His lips moved over hers with the kind of hunger that didn’t need to bite to leave bruises. He tasted her like she already belonged to him.

When he pulled back, his voice was low and smooth.

“Stay exactly where you are. Don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t come.”

The last command made no sense until he touched her.

His fingers found her between her thighs, stroking through the heat. Soft at first. Barely there. Then firmer, sliding through the slickness with maddening precision.

She gasped, her hips twitching despite herself.

“Still,” he said.

She tried. But his fingers didn’t relent. He stroked her in slow, rhythmic circles, then paused. Then began again. Each pass built her higher. Her breath came in broken fragments. Her hands clenched against her thighs to keep from reaching for him.

“Breathe.”

She did, shakily.

Her body trembled, the pressure coiling so tightly it ached. Her eyes fluttered closed. She was close. Too close.

He stopped.

The absence of touch was immediate and brutal. Her body cried out without sound.

She looked up at him, chest rising and falling.

“You don’t come,” he said again. “Not until I say.”

Then he stood.

And walked away.

Leaving her naked. Kneeling. Wet and aching. Her thighs slick with need.

And left smiling.