On the second day back home, I wake up to find a large manila envelope that was slid under my door in the night. There's a yellow Post-it stuck to the top, a handwritten note scribbled on its surface.
Grace, take your time filling this out. I'm here if you have questions. -Asher
I'm not sure what that means as I unseal the envelope, pulling out the stack of papers.
And then I see it. The bolded letters at the top.
Dominant/submissive Power Exchange Relationship Contract
Knees weak, I immediately sit on the bed, laying out the contract on the comforter in front of me. This is what I wanted. This is what I asked for in Bali. But now seeing it in plain writing… I can place the feeling. A churning in my stomach, my hands going clammy, yet it’s not with dread. It’s exhilaration.
I take a deep breath and begin reading.
The submissive willingly consents to the Dom/sub relationship and BDSM activities and understands consent can be revoked at any time by using the safe word.
The submissive will trust their Dominant to care for them during and after a scene and trust that this care will be reflected in expectations, requests, and rules.
The submissive will obey the Dominant’s requests/commands.
If the submissive breaks any of the aforementioned rules, they will receive discipline from the Dominant.
The submissive will review the attached BDSM checklist and rate their limit/interest on a scale of 0-5. 0 being a hard limit, unwilling to try, and 5 meaning they love it.
I flip the page to the checklist, finding sexual acts broken down into categories. Bondage and suspension. Impact. Sexual activity. Sensation and edge play. Breath play. Humiliation. Body part torture. Fetishes. Roleplaying. Service and Restrictive behavior. Voyeurism and exhibitionism.
This is way more than I anticipated. I just liked when Asher took control…
But I have a feeling he's not going any further with me until I fill this out.
I leave the contract on my desk and ignore it for the next week. Every once in a while, I glance at it and consider going through the checklist and rating each item. But then I lose my nerve before I even start. I keep the Post-it note that encouragesme to ask him questions, but I don't bring any of my thoughts up to him, despite him joining me for dinner each evening.
Instead, I spend my free time researching. Most of what I find online scares me. Intense scenes where women are pushed to their limits or tied up in unsettling positions. There are so many things I find that make me sick to my stomach. And then, I start reading stories of women who like to be degraded and used. That enjoy giving all their power to another person, knowing they have their best interests in mind. I read about women who have had the best orgasms of their lives. Women who find calm and peace in handing over their power.
I think about texting Kacey, but something stops me each time. A nagging insecurity telling me something must be wrong with me for wanting this.
My newest distraction from the contract comes in the form of Vivian showing up at the penthouse with dresses. It’s silly, really, how surprised I am when she wheels a rack of white and ivory gowns into the foyer.
Lisette immediately drops what she’s doing, excitement perking her features when she sees the dresses.
I’m getting married, so obviously, a wedding dress is needed. But it’s not something that’s breached my thoughts. Maybe because none of this is real… Or maybe because I’ve been too focused on thinking about what it will be like if I do sign this contract and let Asher begin ordering me around again, but this time in a kinkier way.
“I know you hate dresses, but it’s a wedding!” Vivian announces once she greets me with her usual kiss on each cheek. “I’ve taken the liberty to narrow it down to just a few.”
“This is just a few?” I do a quick scan, noting that there are easily eight dresses on the rack.
“Yes.” Vivian is absolutely serious, and I’m afraid to know how many I would have tried if she’d dragged me to a shop instead.
“Come on now. Try this one first.” She pushes a dress with far too much tulle into my hands.
Vivian helps me into the dress, but there’s this feeling of dread welling up inside me that I can’t shake. When I look in the mirror and shake my head, Vivian agrees. “Too much tulle.” And she helps me slip out of it before going to the rack to grab the next one.
But it’s not the tulle that’s the problem.
Guilt rears its ugly head. This is supposed to be something little girls dream about. Wedding dresses are something you only try on once in your life. Or at least, you're supposed to only try them on once in your life. But I’m doing this while knowing that this wedding ends in divorce.
And then I think of my mother and how disappointed she’ll be—not that she’ll tell me—that she didn’t get to be here for this moment. Maybe it’s something I could have arranged, for her sake, but then my guilt would have been even worse.
I’ve done my best to avoid my family and all thoughts of them since I announced my engagement. My mom still texts, and I dutifully respond. But it’s not the same as it used to be.
