I. The Fourteen Clauses
The document was printed on thick paper, almost cardstock. Three pages. Fourteen clauses. Not one word too many.
Clause 1: duration. Ninety days. Renewable once, at her sole discretion.
Clause 2: dress code. No underwear in her presence. Always black. No jewelry she has not given me.
Clause 3: voice. I address her as "Madame." In the third person when she receives guests. Never humor in the presence of others.
Clause 4: body. Hygiene, sleep, food, sport — four journals, shared every Sunday.
Clause 5: money. One shared account for outings. She decides.
Clauses 6 to 13 — I no longer read them, I already know them.
Clause 14: safety. One safeword. Only one. Inviolable. She looked me straight in the eyes the first time I spoke it.
"You use it if you need it. You never apologize for using it. It is our one rule with no exceptions."
I signed. She countersigned. She slipped the document into a leather folder and closed it without a word.