A Contractual Affair

My foot tapped idly on the floor as I finished reading the contract in my hands. It was seventeen pages long, with clauses and addendums explaining in legal terminology what I had been discussing with the man in front of me for the past two weeks. Whether it would truly hold up in the highest courts of law was still a question in my mind, but I knew it didn't matter. I wouldn't be digging up this contract once I signed it. I knew what I was in for.

I glanced up at Krutzman to find him looking out the window, though I could tell he knew he was being watched. His first name didn't matter to me, only the large fortune that sat behind his family name that would absolve me of not only my own bad decisions, but the much longer list of sins and crimes that my family had passed down to me. What I would give in return could be seen by some as far too much, yet perhaps others--likely those in Krutzman's position--as not nearly enough. To me, though, it was exactly the price I was willing to pay.

Without another hesitation, now feeling his eyes on me, I signed my name in neat cursive at the bottom of the last page. Placing the contract on the desk, I met his cold stare with a calm I wasn't sure I felt. Krutzman brushed a finger along my signature as though he were fondling it. For the first time since I had met him, a small smile graced his lips. "You truly know what you're signing up for, don't you?" He asked. His voice was deep and quiet and smooth. He rose after he spoke--he was tall, I believe in his early forties though I hadn't confirmed it. I stared up at him, an errant thought passing my mind that it was likely to be a common position from now on.

I nodded in response to his question, and his face hardened. "Yes, Sir," I added.

"Come to me," he said.

I rose from my seat in front of the desk and walked over to him. Faster than I expected, he reached out and pushed down on my shoulders with rough force. I felt my body instinctively resisting, but I forced myself to give in to the pressure and fell to the ground on my knees gracelessly, my hands catching my fall before my torso hit the ground. I stayed there on all fours staring at his perfectly polished shoes, not daring to move on my own. One of those shoes reached out and made contact with my shoulder, tipping me back so my ass hit the back of my shins. I looked up at him, feeling myself getting wet at the rough contact.

This is what I was to be for the next year. Krutzman's plaything. His toy, his pet, his slave. I had just signed away my consent to be treated in whatever way he wished, without nearly any boundaries. That included any additional given consent. It included consciousness. I was not to be given any lasting injuries or scars, or made to consume the agreed upon taboos, but beyond that, there was very little off limits. In the circles he ran in, it wasn't completely uncommon for these kinds of escorts to exist, but the sheer extent of control he was to have over me was on the rarer side. I had no family that would be concerned about me, and all my friends thought I was about to go off on a year's long adventure to find myself.

It wasn't completely untrue. The multiple lifetimes worth of debts that had amassed in my name had made it impossible for me to have peace since I turned 18 six years ago. I had tried to go about clearing them the right way, but then there were the shadier outstanding debts. The ones that promised violence to repay. I had big dreams for my life and I wasn't about to spend every waking minute worrying that the bogeymen would find me and fuck up my ambitions. So instead of continuing to run from the violence I couldn't handle, I sought out what I could handle. And what I could handle--what I had always been able to handle--was this. Being used for sex, my body stripped of all its autonomy. What has always turned me on has been beyond submission, it has been the idea of having my humanity and free will ripped away from me and being completely at the mercy of another person.

As though hearing my thoughts, Krutzman reached into a side drawer, dragging his shoe down from my shoulder to rest against my thigh while the toe dug uncomfortably into my abdomen. From the drawer he pulled out a chain collar. I've seen collars that the high end escorts wear, and this was not that. It was no thin chain of diamonds for show, nothing that could be mistaken for jewelry. It wasn't even the leather collars that I'd seen online--and of course I've looked. It was a thick, steel collar with a thick chain beneath, and it looked like it had been made for a large, mean dog.. It had no opening that I could see, until I saw him pull out a key fob and click it once. It popped open seamlessly so I couldn't even understand how the mechanism worked. But before I could think about it any further, Krutzman--my Master--was placing it around my neck. With another click of the fob, it snapped shut with a loud click. It was uncomfortable and cold against my skin.

"This will stay on you from now on. There is nothing you can do to remove it, nor can anyone else. When you are out in the world for any reason, it will be obvious what it is. People will stare at you. Some may be concerned that you are being trafficked. When you get these stares, always remember that you came to me of your own free will. When this metal digs into your skin and keeps you up at night, remember that you signed up for this. You are my slave because you asked for it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

Master pulled out another object from the same drawer. It was a long rope of chain that he attached to the chain beneath my collar. He gave it a harsh tug that sent me flying forward again. I could see why the chain had been added beneath the steel--when he tugged on the leash, it tightened its grip around my neck. It was extremely uncomfortable, as it had been designed to be.

I was on all fours again, and he brought his foot up to the nape of my neck. He pressed down until my face met contact with the floor. He dug his heel behind my skull and dragged my face painfully against the floor so that my mouth was brushing against his other shoe. "Open your mouth," he said. Dutifully I did so and he shoved the toe of his shoe into my mouth, then pressed down so my jaw was caught between his shoe and the floor. He stood like that for a while--it may have been one or two minutes, and I inhaled the smell of his Italian leather loafers through difficult breaths. He let me up and I choked down new air.

"Welcome to your new life, slave."

With those words, for the first time I felt my confident nature punctured with anxiety. What had I gotten myself into?