Title: The contract.
By day, Quentera and Richard were the perfect office duo--whispers of "work husband and wife" floated around the cubicles like perfume. She was confident, sharp, always two steps ahead. He was composed, charming, and maddeningly unavailable. A wedding band glinted on his finger like a warning sign... one that Quentera chose to ignore. But behind the conference room doors and text messages hidden under the hum of printers, something darker simmered.
One night, after a late meeting turned into drinks, Richard handed her a single envelope. Inside was a contract.
"Terms of Submission."
"I, Quentera, consent to becoming the submissive property of Richard, for use, pleasure, and discipline, during the workweek and at his discretion. This relationship will remain secret. I surrender control, boundaries negotiated in person." Her hands trembled. Her pulse danced. This wasn't flirting anymore--this was a game with no safe edges. And she wanted it.
She signed.
Part 2: The Rules Beneath the Suit
Quentera arrived at the storage room after hours. It had once held office supplies--now it held secrets. Richard had transformed it subtly. A black folding chair. Rope. A leather crop laid carefully on the table beside a second contract--this one handwritten.
"Tonight, you are not Quentera. You are My Property."
She read it slowly, her breath hitching. He didn't speak as she signed. Words were for coworkers. Obedience was for her. "Strip butt naked," he said simply.
She obeyed, folding her clothes with trembling hands, leaving them on the filing cabinet like an offering. He took the Rope and bound her wrists behind the chair. Tight, but practiced. He had prepared for this. Fantasized about it. Dreamed about it.
"Good girl," he whispered, stepping close. "You know who owns you now."
She nodded, head lowered. "You do, Master." He circled her like a predator--slow, deliberate--trailing a single gloved finger along her shoulder as he lifted the leather crop. The first crack echoed in the stillness of the office. Not pain. Not yet. Just the sound. The sound of surrender.
In that moment, she wasn't his co-worker. She wasn't even his mistress.
She was his sex slave.
And he... was something darker than a husband. Part 3: The Guilt Between Sheets
At home, Richard scrubbed the smell of her pussy from his dock like a stain.
His wife, Mariexa, noticed the change in him--the long showers, the hollowed-out gaze. He touched her less. Kissed her less. When she asked if work was stressing him out, he nodded and told her yes.
He never lied directly.
He said the late meetings were about quarterly reports. He said the bruises on his wrist were from lifting copier paper boxes.
He said nothing about rope. Or contracts. Or the way Quentera whispered, "Please, Master," like it was a prayer.
At night, he laid in bed beside Mariexa while his mind replayed the scene from hours earlier--Quentera bound, gasping, obeying. He wanted her pussy again, but the guilt was beginning to rot the edges of the fantasy. And still, he couldn't stop. She had signed the contract.
But so had he--just not on paper. Part 4: The Session
The basement of the empty corporate annex had become their sanctum.
It was Friday. The end of a long week. The door clicked shut, and Richard turned the bolt. No cameras. No eyes. Just her--and the low hum of fluorescent lights above the concrete floor.
Quentera was already kneeling butt naked, just as she'd been told. She wore nothing but 10 inch heels and a blindfold. Her arms were behind her back, wrists tied with rope that looped around her torso and squeezed her chest in an intricate weave. Her breathing was steady, practiced.
"Speak," Richard commanded, voice low and dangerous.
"I'm yours, Master. Take what you own." That was the beginning.
He circled her like a lion, trailing his fingers across her bare skin, listening to her breath hitch with every step. He gave no warning when the flogger landed across her ass--not hard, not soft, just enough to pull a whimper from her throat. Again. Then again. The marks bloomed on her skin like red petals.
She moaned softly.
"Do you want me to stop?" he asked coldly.
"No," she gasped. "Please, Master... more. I need more." Her words weren't just consent--they were hunger.
What followed was a storm. Rope tightened. Her cries echoed off the walls. She begged for release, then begged for more pain. Richard didn't hesitate. In this room, he didn't have to be a husband. He didn't have to lie or pretend. Here, he was only Master. Here, she was only his slave.
After, when her body trembled and her lips kissed the floor in obedience, he knelt beside her. He opened a black velvet box.
Inside was a polished steel collar, engraved with one word:
"Slave."
He placed it around her neck and locked it with a satisfying click.
"This," he whispered, "makes you mine." Then, from his coat pocket, he produced a second box. Smaller. White velvet. He opened it slowly.
A diamond ring--not simple like a wedding band. This one was bold, heavy, dominant.
He slipped it onto her left ring finger, just above the bruises on her wrists.
"You wear this," he said, "and it means I own more than your body. It means your soul belongs to me." Tears welled in her eyes. Not from pain. From something deeper. Surrender. Love. Desire.
Part 5: Cracks in the Mirror
Two weeks later, the mask began to slip. Mariexa--his wife--found the ring.
It was in the glovebox of his truck. Wrapped in tissue. Too feminine. Too new. Too damning.
She didn't confront him immediately. She waited. Watched. Tracked his late nights. Smelled his clothes.
The moment came on a Sunday morning.
"I found something," she said, holding up the velvet box like an accusation. "Tell me who she is." Richard froze. The breath in his lungs felt like broken glass. He opened his mouth. Closed it again.
He wanted to lie. But part of him wanted to be caught.
He said nothing.
That silence said everything.
Mariexa turned, walked upstairs, and didn't come back down.
Part 6: The Reckoning
Mariexa didn't speak to Richard for three days.
He thought she would leave. He even hoped for it, in a twisted way--clean endings were easier than unraveling truths. But on the fourth day, she came downstairs with the velvet box in her hand.
"Who is she?"
Richard hesitated, then: "Her name is Quentera."
Mariexa's eyes didn't narrow. They didn't widen. They just held him like a knife to the throat. "And what is she to you?"
He swallowed. "She's my sex slave."
A long silence passed. Then: "Invite her here."
He blinked. "What?"
"You said you own her," Mariexa said. "Let me see what you've done with your property." Part 7: The Hidden Wife
Quentera's heart pounded like a drum beneath her collar.
The invitation had been clear. Short. Terrifying.
"My wife wants to meet you. Wear the collar. Wear the ring. Obey her." She had imagined this moment--imagined being caught, punished, discarded. But she hadn't imagined being shared.
When she arrived at the house, she was taken to the parlor and told to kneel.
Mariexa entered minutes later in 10 inch heels and fish net thigh high stockings.
"Look at you," she said. "You think that ring makes you a wife? No. It makes you a fuck toy." Quentera lowered her head. "Yes, Mistress."
That one word changed the room.
Mariexa circled her, just like Richard had. But where Richard had worshiped her surrender, Mariexa challenged it--mocked it. Tested it.
"You've pleased him," Mariexa said, trailing a gloved finger down Quentera's ass cheek. "But now you'll please me." In whatever way I see fit. Part 8: Shared Fire
Richard sat in the corner, silent. Watching.
Emily held the crop in one hand, a flogger in the other. Her strikes were cruel--but they were deliberate. Each one a test. Each one a punishment Quentera accepted with tears and trembling thighs.
"You like this, don't you?" Mariexa whispered into her ear. "You want the pain. You want to prove you're better than a wife."
Quentera gasped, body trembling. "Yes, Mistress."
As the night went on, the power shifted. Mariexa's jealousy became something darker. Hungrier. She wasn't just punishing a rival--she was strap-on fucking her. And she was going to make her suffer. And Richard, silent in his chair, realized something terrifying and thrilling:
He was no longer in control. Part 9: Master in the Shadows
The air was thick the morning after.
Quentera lay on the silk-covered chaise in Richard and Mariexa's guest room. Her skin bore fresh marks--lines from the cane, circles from the crop, bruises she wore like tattoos of devotion. But deeper than the pain was the ache of disorientation. She had surrendered herself to him. But now there was her.
Mariexa's voice still echoed in her head. The sharp, delicious cruelty. The way she forced Quentera to her knees, then rewarded her with a brutal strap-on face fucking. It wasn't just pain. It was ownership. And worse--Quentera had liked it.
She traced her fingers along the steel collar still around her neck, then looked down at the diamond ring. His ring. Her Master's mark. But now, whose slave was she, really?
⸻
Downstairs, Richard watched Mariexa pour herself coffee.
"You enjoyed it," he said, not a question.
"I did," she replied fucking that slut with a strap-on, sipping slowly.
"I still own her," he said, not as firmly as he meant to. Mariexa smirked. "Do you?"
He didn't answer.
Because something had shifted. Mariexa wasn't just punishing his betrayal--she had stepped into the void he created. And she had filled it beautifully. Dangerously.
But he couldn't lose control.
He wouldn't. Part 10: The Proposition