Objectification

The contract was not a contract. For one, there is no legal framework for one to give up their sexual rights. No court would enforce it; in fact, the law would likely take the view that she needed to be 'rescued'. Women are people now, not property. But she did not want to be a person.

Second, by accepting its terms, she accepted that she would enter into a situation where the law would not, could not, mediate.

Third, she had traded herself away for... nothing. He might acknowledge her, he might fuck her, or he might lock her away in a dark corner until she died of thirst. No promises.

But she was desperate. She needed him. She would give anything, do anything, just for the chance to be near him. So she did.

No job, no family, no friends. No other passions or pleasures. She would not be missed, and would miss nothing.

Before, he had captured her, in more ways than one. But whatever romantic spark that had existed in his heart had gone out. But it was not over, not completely.

He was good enough to break her heart in person, to tell her that he did not value or respect her. But he was twisted enough to make her an offer in writing: they could remain together, in a sense, his will and her body. Nothing more and nothing less.

* * *

The door was unlocked, as specified. She stepped into the anteroom and turned the deadbolt behind her.

Thlud.

Flats, sundress, nothing else adorned her body. No makeup. She carried only a small handbag with her phone, wallet, keys, a paper with her passwords on it. She would need none of it going forward.

She turned toward the small chest on her right, left open just for her. Did she really want to do this? Soon, there would be no going back. But no. There was nothing to return to. Or she would not have come this far.

Heart pounding, She lowered the bag into the chest. Stepped out of the flats and placed them next to the bag. Pulled the hem of her dress over her hips, bust, head, quickly because she was running out of time and did not want to go to that place in her mind again. The dress hung from her outstretched hand.

Gulp.

The dress fell. She closed the chest.

Click.

Locked. There really was no going back.

Now, the table on her left. First, the stylish black choker. She knew it well.

Following that, the chain and leather leash: shorter than her wingspan, longer than her arm. Short enough to afford him the pleasure of keeping her on a short leash; long enough that it was feasible to tie her up to some emplaced object.

The blindfold. Her world went dark.

The last item was new. She had not recognized it. Handcuffs, of brilliant silver steel. Small, but strong. Not a toy - intended for the enemies of society.

Trembling, she felt for it, but only succeeded in knocking it off the table.

Clang-clickle.

She dropped to her haunches. Clammy, sweaty hands accumulated dust and dirt. Which direction did it go? Where did the sound come from?

She was considering removing the blindfold when she finally found it. The new grime on her hands was transferred to smooth, pale, succulent thighs and buttocks. Was it visible? Would he punish her?

Click.

That's one delicate wrist, at the loosest setting... but that's not what he ordered.

Cliiick.

Ouch. Now the other.

But she was frozen. Hands vibrating like a tuning fork and. Heart beating like a double bass drum. Why now? She could not change her mind, get dressed, and walk away. And if he found her like this... she would probably end up naked, blindfolded, leashed, and handcuffed anyway - but on the outside of the house. She gritted her teeth.

Cliiiick.

Out went the breath she was unaware of holding. Two steps forward, to the approximate middle of the anteroom. One knee on the cold marble floor, then the other. Her buttocks settled on the back of her heels.

She pressed her forehead to the floor, and waited.

* * *

She did not wait long. The door opened, closed. She could feel his eyes on her. Were she not prostrated on the floor, she would have lost her feet. She needed some kind of acknowledgement, but knew better than to speak.

He walked past her, picked up the chest, and exited through the door he came in.

Face still pressed to the floor, she was overcome by his scent, his economy of movement that she could sense but not see.

A wetness accumulated beneath her forehead.

* * *

He soon returned.

"You understand why you are here."

Speaking into the tile: "Yes, sir."

"You understand that you will obey my commands."

"Yes, sir."

"You understand that you belong to me now."

"Yes, sir."

"You understand that I do not love or even like you."

Gulp.

"Yes, sir."

"Rise."

Slowly, unsteadily.

He took a step forward and grasped the leash dangling between her thighs.

"You are beautiful, though."

"Th-"

Suddenly, a sweet fire between her legs. His finger surged up the length of her vagina, jabbed her cervix. Just as suddenly, it was gone.

Gasping for breath, she was on her knees again. Her face was pressed against his torso; if he were not there, she would have fallen face first.

He inhaled deeply. A hand held the back of her neck; now she could smell it too.

"Thank you, sir."

"Look up at me."

Her face turned up, though of course she could see nothing. His hand caressed her face, leaving trails of her juices. She felt a hardness against her chest, though she knew very well that he was a patient man. There was a tugging on the leash.

"Rise."

Again, she took to her feet.

Without warning, a harder jerking on the leash.

She followed him through the door.