I Signed the Contract That Turned Me Into His Slave

Renata had spent years chasing one single thing, and everyone who had passed through her life had fallen short. Her nipples were absurdly sensitive; a firm pinch was enough to make her pussy damp, and what truly kept her awake at night was controlled pain, that exact point where suffering turned into pleasure. She was looking for someone capable of taking her to the limit and pushing her a little beyond it, without brakes, without the courtesy of asking if she was okay.

Her husband, Esteban, knew that need better than anyone. Every week he tied her up in the basement of their house and punished her breasts until they were marked, not because he enjoyed cruelty, but because she needed it like air. But neither of them was fooling themselves: what Esteban gave her was barely a rehearsal. It lacked uncertainty, the real fear of not being able to shout “enough.”

A friend with the same taste told her about a discreet group that offered exactly that. Refined torture, they called it, for women who signed away their will for the duration of the contract. It didn’t take Renata long to get the contact, and even less time to fill out the extensive questionnaire they required before any interview. She sent it off in the middle of the night, her heart pounding against her ribs.

They approved her. She was summoned to an office downtown, in an anonymous building, for what they called “an in-depth conversation.”

***

She arrived on time, already soaked in her underwear just thinking about what awaited her. The office was soundproofed; she noticed it in the thick silence that closed around her as soon as the door clicked shut. A man in his fifties, impeccably dressed and with a glacial stare, indicated a chair.

—My name is Damián —he said without offering his hand—. I’m part of a group that practices torture on women who ask us to. I want you to understand something before we continue.

—I’m listening —she replied, crossing her legs to hide the tremor.

—We work on an isolated estate, far from everything. Nobody there silences the screams, because nobody can hear them. We even have our own runway to come and go without a trace anywhere. —He paused, measuring her—. I’m going to ask you some questions. You can ask yours.

—The ones I want, I suppose.

—The ones you want. But let me make the only important thing clear: there are no limits. We will do what we deem appropriate. No pleading, no begging, no tears will change anything about your treatment. Screaming won’t stop us. —He leaned slightly forward—. In fact, we encourage it. And believe me, you’re going to scream. It will only end when the time you paid for expires. Do you understand?

—I understand —Renata said, and her voice came out firmer than she expected—. I want someone to take me to my limits and cross them. I’ve spent my whole life looking for that.

This is what you wanted. Don’t back out now.

—When would it start? —she asked.

—As soon as you have everything arranged. Your husband must authorize it in writing, and the two of you must be clear that, once you walk through that door, you don’t come back until the agreed date.

—It’s done. —She took an envelope from her bag and slid it across the table—. Esteban signed his permission a week ago. I left everything explained at home. And I understand he can accompany me and watch. Is that right?

—That’s right. —Damián put the envelope away unopened—. Here are the directions to the mansion. You leave in an hour on our plane. But before that, there’s the matter of payment.

She slid a certified check across the table. Twenty-five thousand euros. He glanced at it once and nodded.

—Correct, Renata. From now on, you are our property. —He pressed a button under the desk—. One last formality before you go. I want to show you something.

***

The lights went out and a screen came to life with a shriek. A woman hung naked from an iron frame, her arms stretched out, her breasts pulled taut forward. A broad man delivered methodical blows to them with a flexible cane. Each impact drove the rod deep into the soft flesh until it almost vanished, and the skin was already scored with red lines showing how long it had been going on. The woman screamed nonstop, struggling against straps that did not yield.

The scene changed. Another woman, around twenty-five, arched backward over a steel bar, her arms bent beneath her and hooked to an iron belt. The position pushed her breasts upward. Two fine threads wound around her nipples and stretched them until they distorted. A third figure traced designs over that taut flesh with something sharp and hot, and the howls mingled with pleas that nobody answered.

The video went on for long minutes, and each scene was fiercer than the last. Renata did not look away once. Her hands were clenched in her lap and her breathing was ragged.

—What you see here —murmured Damián, turning the lights back on— is what awaits you. And now, one more thing. Take off your clothes.

—Here? Now? —she asked, blinking.

—Here and now. And hurry up. Your body already belongs to us. I want to inspect it.

Renata obeyed. She unbuttoned her blouse, let her skirt fall. Before she could continue, Damián raised a hand to stop her, and he took his time looking at her. She wore dark stockings and high heels that lengthened her long, firm legs. Her brown hair fell in waves to her shoulders. Her breasts stood upright without the need for a bra, crowned by thick nipples jutting rigidly out.

—You have impressive breasts —he said, stepping closer—. And natural. It’s going to be a pleasure to deal with them.

He trapped one nipple between two fingers, pinched it, and stretched it. Renata didn’t even flinch. She closed her eyes, held her breath, and let out a low moan when he released it. She almost offered him the other one.

—You can get dressed. —He handed her two passes—. Go straight to the airport. The plane is waiting.

***

The flight lasted almost six hours. When they began to descend, Renata saw through the window the enormous mansion and the grounds stretching out around it, kilometers of nothing in every direction. The plane taxied to a hangar and a limousine picked up her and Esteban for the short ride to the house. A young man with a solid build greeted them at the entrance and told them to follow him without another word.

They moved along a long corridor that delved deep into the building. As they moved away from the light, sharp cracks began to be heard, soon turning into screams. More than one woman was being punished somewhere nearby. Renata’s heart raced until it hurt.

—Soon it’ll be you —said the young man, and he smiled when another howl rang out against the stone.

Renata felt dampness run down the inside of her thighs. She was trembling, but not from fear, or not only from fear. The corridor branched into a row of iron doors on both sides. They stopped in front of one.

—We’ve arrived. Before you go in, take off your clothes. Damián has ordered that you be completely naked and that your entire treatment be recorded.

She hesitated, reluctant to undress in that cold corridor in front of a stranger and her own husband.

—You’d better obey —the young man added without raising his voice— or we’ll rip your clothes off with lashes. And you won’t like that.

She knew she was already a prisoner. She took her clothes off. The young man opened the door and pushed her inside.

—Helga will be here shortly to begin with you.

The door slammed shut and the bolt clicked into place. They took Esteban away with them, and left her alone.

***

The cell was a cube of solid stone barely nine square meters in size. Chains hung from rings embedded in the walls and vaulted ceiling. A steel toilet sat in one corner, a lone tap fixed to the wall. No bed, no chair, nothing. Renata sat on the cold metal of the toilet and waited, her skin prickling and her nipples still hard.

Helga arrived shortly after. A tall, blonde woman with a black leather case. She didn’t greet her. She fitted leather cuffs on her ankles and wrists with the efficiency of someone who had done it a thousand times, dragged her beneath the pair of central chains, and stretched her arms up, one and then the other. Then she spread Renata’s legs and secured her ankles to rings in the floor, until she was suspended on the tips of her toes, exposed from head to toe.

Renata expected to see a leather whip. What Helga took from the case was a steel cable bent into a U-shape, with a wooden handle. Renata shuddered: that fine wire could do far more damage than any leather braid.

The first strike cut across her right thigh. It felt like red-hot iron pressed against her skin; a scream escaped before she could hold it back. Helga waited a few seconds, letting the pain settle, and brought down the second on the other thigh, an identical mark, an identical cry.

—Please —Renata panted, and at once bit her tongue, remembering that pleas were useless. That was precisely what she had come for.

The third blow landed on her pubic area. The fourth fell on the same spot, brushing her clit, and Renata shook her head in desperation, eyes rolled back, her throat already raw from screaming so much. The fifth crossed her belly above the navel. Beads of sweat ran all over her body and dark streaks of makeup stained her face, dripping onto her breasts.

Helga worked with methodical patience, leaving just enough time between blows to see the red line blossom in the skin. The sixth was marked diagonally across her waist, intertwined with the one above her navel. And then she began on the breasts.

The first went around the left nipple, leaving that U-shaped mark almost drawing blood. The next hit the right breast above the nipple, by a hair’s breadth. If Helga’s intention was to sign those tits, she was succeeding: barely a handspan of skin remained unmarked, and a reddish line ended up crossing the right nipple with an accuracy that seemed impossible.

When she stopped, Renata hung limp from her arms, her breasts covered in welts, her breathing reduced to a thread. Helga collected her case, turned around, and left without a word. The bolt clicked shut again.

***

They left her there, hanging. Minutes passed and nobody returned. Her arms began to ache under the weight of her own body, and as the welts cooled, they stung more, especially those on her breasts and the one on her clit. But the worst thing wasn’t the pain. It was the waiting. The uncertainty of not knowing what came next, while from the other side of the iron door the screams of other women did not stop.

Didn’t I come here voluntarily? Wasn’t this what I asked for?

—Come on —she murmured in the empty cell, hanging from the chains—. I need it. Make me scream again.

Another hour passed, seeming like an eternity. Sweat kept sliding over her bruised breasts, intensifying the sting of every mark. Her mind began to wander, imagining medieval scenes, iron claws, and every horror that the contract allowed those people without rules. The waiting, she understood, was a form of torture as refined as the steel cable.

Finally, the bolt slid open. Two attendants lowered her to the floor, freed the wrist cuffs, and laid her on a gurney, strapping her down. They took her down the corridor to another room where a fire was burning, and on an iron plate needles of different sizes were heating, their tips already red-hot.

Renata refused to believe that was for her body, and much less for her breasts. But the attendants didn’t seem to think the same. Each took a long, thick needle and brought them to the tips of her nipples. They didn’t pierce her; the mere touch was enough for thin wisps of smoke to rise and a white pain to run down her spine.

She didn’t want to imagine what it would be like to feel them really penetrate. And yet, in some lost corner of herself, while she clenched her teeth and tears rolled down her temples, she knew she had finally found what she had been looking for all her life.