9. The Rules
NINE
The Rules
Lunch is served in the dining room.
I expect to sit at the table. After this morning's negotiation, after the compromise about kneeling, I assume we've established something. A framework. A precedent. He compromises when I push back. He gives me room to exist.
I'm wrong.
"On the floor." He pulls out his chair, settles into it. "Beside me."
I stare at him. "We agreed?—"
"We agreed you would sit during meetings. This isn't a meeting."
"It's a meal."
"It's whatever I say it is." His voice is calm. Pleasant, even. Like we're discussing the weather. "The cushion is there. Sit."
There's a cushion. The same burgundy velvet from his office, placed beside his chair like it belongs there. Like I belong there.
"I thought—" I stop. Swallow the words. What did I think? That one negotiation meant ongoing power? That he'd treat me like an equal at meals because he let me have a pillow during conference calls?
"You thought what?"
"Nothing." I move to the cushion. Lower myself onto it. My back against the leg of his chair, my shoulder brushing his knee. "I didn't think anything."
"Liar."
I don't respond.
A server enters, and I didn't even know there was staff here. She sets plates on the table. Only on the table. There's nothing for me, no place setting on the floor, no separate meal.
Sebastian picks up his fork. Cuts into something that smells incredible—some kind of braised meat, vegetables, a sauce I can't identify. He takes a bite. Chews slowly. Swallows.
Then he holds out the fork. Meat speared on the tines. Offering it to me like I'm a pet waiting for scraps.
"Open."
My jaw tightens. "I can feed myself."
"I'm sure you can." He doesn't lower the fork. "Open."
"This is—" Degrading. Humiliating. Everything I said kneeling would be, but worse somehow because I'm sitting and he's still managing to make me feel like nothing. "—unnecessary."
"Most things are unnecessary." His voice is patient. Infinitely patient. "The Protocol is unnecessary. I could simply restrain you. The cushion was unnecessary. You could kneel on bare marble. Feeding you myself is unnecessary. But I want to. And wanting is enough."
"For you."
"Yes." No apology. No justification. "For me. That's how this works. Open."
I open my mouth.
He feeds me.
The meat is perfect. Tender, rich, melting on my tongue. I hate that it's delicious. I hate that my stomach is growling, that I haven't eaten since yesterday, that the food he's pushing past my lips is the best thing I've tasted in months.
He feeds me slowly. Deliberately. A bite of meat, then vegetables, then a sip of water from a glass he holds to my lips. Between bites, he eats his own meal, carrying on a one-sided conversation about nothing. The weather. The view. Some development project he's working on.
I tune out the words. Focus on not choking. On swallowing my rage along with the food.
This is what a year looks like. Not the negotiations. Not the compromises. Being fed on the floor like an animal while he talks about real estate.
When the plates are cleared, he wipes his mouth with a cloth napkin. Folds it precisely. Sets it beside his water glass.
"Now," he says. "The rules."
We stay in the dining room. He doesn't move to a more comfortable location, doesn't offer me a chair. I stay on my cushion, my back against his chair leg, while he outlines the parameters of my captivity.
"You belong to me." He says it simply, like stating a mathematical fact. "For one year, your body, your time, and your obedience are mine. You signed away your right to refuse."
"I remember."
"Good. Then you understand that everything I'm about to tell you isn't negotiable. These aren't guidelines. They're absolutes."
Absolutes. The word lands like a stone.
"Rule one: You don't leave this penthouse without my explicit permission and my physical presence. You don't go to the lobby. You don't go to the roof. You don't step into the hallway. If I'm not with you, you're inside these walls."
"For a year?"
"For however long I decide." His hand drops to my head, fingers threading through my hair. The touch is almost gentle, a counterpoint to the harshness of his words. "I may take you places. I may not. It depends on your behavior."
My behavior. Like I'm a child being promised treats for good conduct.
"Rule two: You don't contact anyone without my permission. No phone calls, no emails, no messages of any kind. If you want to reach someone, you ask me. If I approve, the communication is supervised."
"Supervised?"
"I listen. I read. I know everything you say to anyone outside these walls." His fingers tighten in my hair, just slightly. "No secrets. Not from me."
"What about Bennett?"
The question escapes before I can stop it. My brother. The reason I'm here. The reason for everything. And I don't know if I even want to talk to him. Don't know if I can hear his voice without screaming.
"Your brother." Sebastian's voice is neutral. "You can check on him. Weekly, if you like. Supervised calls, five minutes maximum. He's been informed of the arrangement."
"Informed how?"
"That you've taken a position that requires your full attention for a year. That you'll be out of contact except for scheduled check-ins. That the debt is handled."
A position. Like I'm a secretary. Like I've taken a job instead of sold my body.
"He doesn't know?"
"He knows enough." Something cold enters Sebastian's voice. "Your brother tried to sell you to Carlo Moreno before I intervened. He knows exactly what kind of position you've taken. He just doesn't know the specifics. And he doesn't deserve to."
I should defend Bennett. I should say something about how he was desperate, how he didn't mean it, how he's still my brother despite everything.
But the words won't come.
"Rule three." Sebastian moves on, the subject of Bennett closed. "You're available to me at all times. That means physically present, appropriately presented, and ready to serve in whatever capacity I require. If I call for you, you come. If I want you, you're there. Your time is not your own."
"What about sleep?"
"You'll sleep when I allow it. Usually at night, in your room, unless I want you in my bed." His fingers resume their slow stroking through my hair. "But if I wake you at three in the morning because I need something, you wake. Cheerfully."
Cheerfully. I almost laugh.
"Rule four: You address me appropriately.
In private, 'sir' unless I specify otherwise.
During—" He pauses. "—funny stuff, as you call it, 'Master' or 'Sir,' depending on context.
In public, should we ever appear in public, 'Sebastian' or 'Mr. York.
' Never my first name in private unless I give you permission. "
"And if I slip?"
"Then there are consequences."
I turn to look up at him. "What kind of consequences?"
His expression doesn't change. "Deprivation, primarily. If you break a rule, I take something away. Your books. Your orgasms. My attention. Small freedoms you've earned."
Orgasms. He can take away orgasms. Of course he can—my pleasure belongs to him now, doesn't it?
"What about—" I struggle to frame the question. "Physical consequences?"
"Discipline?" Something flickers in his eyes. "That falls under 'funny stuff.' If I spank you, cane you, mark you, that's not punishment. That's play. You may come to enjoy it."
"I won't."
"You said you wouldn't enjoy the shower either." His thumb traces the shell of my ear. "You said you wouldn't beg. You've already done both."
I look away. He's right. I hate that he's right.
"Actual punishment isn't meant to be enjoyed. Deprivation works because it's boring. Tedious. You sit in your room with nothing. No books, no stimulation, no me. Until I decide you've understood your error. It's not dramatic. It's just empty."
Empty. Somehow that sounds worse than pain.
"Rule five." He continues the litany. "No touching yourself without permission. Your body belongs to me. Including your pleasure. If you want to come, you ask. If I say no, you don't."
"And if I do anyway?"
"I'll know." His voice is certain. "The Protocol attunes me to your responses. I can read your body like text. If you come without permission, I'll know. And the consequences will be significant."
He can tell. He can tell if I orgasm. The invasion of it, the complete lack of privacy even inside my own skin, turns my stomach.
"Rule six: No lying. I've already told you the Protocol won't let you hide, but I'm making it explicit. If I ask you a question, you answer honestly. If you try to deceive me, I'll know, and trust is much harder to rebuild than it is to break."
"What about you?"
He pauses. "What about me?"
"Do you have to be honest with me?"
Something shifts in his expression. Shutters, maybe. A door closing behind his eyes.
"I don't lie. It's inefficient." He says it flatly. "But I'm not obligated to tell you everything. Some questions I'll decline to answer. That's not dishonesty. It's privacy."
"You get privacy. I don't."
"No." No apology. "You don't. That's the nature of the arrangement."
I let out a breath. "Is there anything else? Any other rules I should know about?"
"Dozens. But they'll become clear through experience." He withdraws his hand from my hair. The loss of contact feels like punishment already. "What questions do you have?"
Questions. I have so many questions I don't know where to start.
"Safe words."
"What about them?"
"Do I get one?"
The silence stretches. His face is unreadable.
"No."
The word drops into the space between us.
"No?"
"You signed the contract. You agreed to everything." His voice is cool, clinical. "If you wanted limits, you should have negotiated them before signing. Now it's too late."
"That's—" I struggle for words. "What if you do something I can't handle? What if?—"
"Then you'll handle it anyway." He cuts me off. "I'm not going to damage you permanently. I'm not going to put you in the hospital. But beyond those basic guarantees, there are no limits except the ones I set."
"What limits do you set?"