"The contract—does it include the bedtime stories? The ones in Russian?"
The question made my chest tight with something that might have been hope. "Every night, if you want them."
"Okay," she said softly, then disappeared into the corridor.
Sheemergedfromthebathroom twenty minutes later, hair damp and twisted into a messy bun, wearing my black t-shirt and nothing else, exactly as instructed. The shirt hit mid-thigh, leaving her legs bare, and she'd foregone underwear—I could tell by the way she moved, careful and aware of her nakedness beneath the thin fabric.
We settled at the kitchen island, the overhead lights creating a pool of brightness in the evening dimness. I'd made tea while she showered—chamomile with honey, something calming for negotiations that would determine everything. She wrapped both hands around the mug, using it as armor or anchor, those mismatched eyes tracking my movements as I opened the contract folder.
"Twelve pages," she observed, trying for casual but betraying nervousness in the way her fingers tightened on the ceramic. "Seems excessive for saying you own me."
"It's not about ownership," I corrected, spreading the pages between us. "It's about responsibility, structure, and mutual agreement. You'll have as much power as I do—more, in fact—just expressed differently."
"Right." The sarcasm was defensive rather than dismissive. "Because the person getting spanked has equal power to the person doing the spanking."
"The person getting spanked has the power to stop everything with a single word," I reminded her. "The person doing the spanking has no such escape. I can't safeword out of responsibility for your wellbeing."
That made her pause, tea halfway to her lips. "I hadn't thought of it that way."
I turned to the first page, the rules section Clara had written in purple ink. "Let's start with the foundation. Five core rules, expandable as trust builds."
I read them aloud, watching her face for reactions. At "no self-harm including food denial," she flinched slightly. At "no running without permission," her jaw tightened. By "daily check-ins," she was squirming on the bar stool.
"These are about safety," I explained, though she was smart enough to understand that. "Not arbitrary control."
"The running one," she said, finger tracing the words. "What if I need space? What if you're being an asshole and I need to get away?"
"Then you communicate that. 'I need space' or 'I need to leave' and I let you go, no questions until you're ready to talk. But you don't just disappear, don't vanish without word, don't make me wonder if you're dead in an alley somewhere."
The brutal honesty of that—the image of her hurt and alone—made her breath catch. "Oh."
"Every rule exists for a reason," I continued. "We can modify them, discuss them, but I need you to understand they come from care, not control."
She nodded, still processing. "The daily check-ins—what does that mean exactly?"
"Morning and evening, you tell me how you're feeling. Physically, emotionally, mentally. Even if it's just 'fine' or 'not fine.' I need to know where you are so I can provide what you need."
"What if I don't know what I need?"
"Then you say that. Honesty is all I require, not perfect self-awareness."
We moved to the safewords section. She'd mentioned wanting the traffic light system earlier, but seeing it written formally made her shoulders relax slightly.
"Red, yellow, green," she read. "Plus 'pause' for emotional overwhelm." She looked up at me. "What if I can't talk? Sometimes when I'm really upset, words just . . . stop."
"Good question." I flipped to a subsection Clara had added. "Non-verbal signals. Three taps means red, two means yellow, one means green. Head shake for no, nod for yes. If you're completely non-verbal, we stop everything until you can communicate."
"You've really thought this through," she said, something like wonder in her voice.
"Alexei and Clara helped. They've been doing this longer, learned from their mistakes so we don't have to repeat them."
The punishment section made her squirm again, thighs pressing together under the shirt. I read through the distinctions—funishment versus discipline, scaled consequences, mandatory aftercare—watching color rise in her cheeks.
"So when I came during corner time," she said, voice smaller than before, "that would be real discipline, not funishment?"
"Yes. You endangered the trust we're building by directly disobeying when I wasn't here to monitor you. That requires serious consequences."
"Like?"
