Giving me a gleaming white smile, he elaborates. “Certainly. We can have a clause saying no acts should break the skin or cause permanent damage.”
I jump at it, nodding my head fervently. “Yes, definitely that.”
I eye the list again. “Also, I want to add that I’m not up for anything that causes me to pass out.”
He hums his agreement and makes notes on a tablet.
“Okay… Drowning, bloodletting, SCAT, piercing, and knife play all need to go on my hard limit list,” I tell him with an internal sigh. It still seems like a lot, but believe me, I’ve trimmed my limits considerably.
I’m still on the fence about anal, but I think I can cope with whipping, caning, fire, and electrical play as long as it won’t break the skin or cause permanent scarring. The same with asphyxiation.
Mummification… sounds weird, but I can deal with that. And Shibari actually sounds kind of cool.
I look him in the eye, steeling myself. "The rest, I'll do in accordance with the limits we just discussed," I say, my voice steadier than I feel inside. "Where do I sign?"
He studies me again for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nods, seemingly satisfied with what he sees… or maybe what I’ve said.
"Okay, then..."
Perhaps asking intelligent questions was the key to unlocking his flinty persona.
He slides a sleek tablet across the desk. "We'll need to do some paperwork and go over a few more details. But first, I want to make sure you understand what you're getting into. This isn't just about the physical acts - it's about the psychological aspects too. Are you prepared for that?"
I nod, even though my stomach wants to revolt. "I do understand. I'm ready."
As ready as I’ll ever be.
Mr. Smith's eyes bore into me "Very well. Let's begin with a basic health screening and some photos. Follow me."
My heart races as I trail behind him down a dimly lit hallway. We enter a sterile room that looks like a fancy doctor's office, where a woman in a lab coat greets us with a professional smile. "Good morning."
I raise my hand in a rather pathetic half wave. "Hi."
"This is Dr. Reeves," Mr. Smith explains. "She'll conduct your physical and take the necessary photos."
I squash the urge to rub my hands over my face. "Photos?"
"Full body, various angles. Nothing explicit at this stage," he assures me. "It's for our client database."
As Dr. Reeves begins her examination, reality crashes over me. This is really happening. I'm really doing this.
"You're doing great," she tells me in a voice meant to soothe. But as she pokes and prods, taking measurements and samples, I can't help but feel like a piece of meat being inspected. It's dehumanizing, but I remind myself why I'm here. For Mom. For our safety. For a chance at a life free from fear.
Dr. Reeves finishes her exam and passes me a thin robe. "Here you go. Put this on for the photos," she instructs, her tone becoming more clinical and detached now the intimate stuff is over.
"Thank you," I mumble, slipping behind a partition, my hands shaking as I undress. The robe is almost see-through, leaving little to the imagination. I take a deep breath to steel myself for what's to come, then lift my chin before stepping out.
Dr. Reeves is nowhere in sight, but Mr. Smith is waiting with a camera. "Follow me," he directs, taking me to another room where there's a permanent backdrop set up for photos.
"Stand here and follow my directions," he says. His eyes flick over me, no doubt assessing my best features.
"Turn around, nice and slow," he directs. I comply, feeling exposed and vulnerable as the shutter clicks.
"Now stand tall. No need to smile."
Just as well, because that might be beyond me just now.
"Good," he says after taking waaay too many pictures. "You can get dressed now and we'll process your application. There’s just one final thing I need to add to your profile.”
