Page 14 of Dozer

I’d get my spaghetti the following day, and that would probably be Daisy’s first cooking lesson. No jars of sauce for us because I like to have control over the ingredients.

I let her sleep ten hours, and I woke her fifteen minutes before breakfast would be ready, to give her a chance to wake up.

“I’m sorry I crashed on you. I vaguely remember hearing you call to reserve a vacation home. This place is nice, but why aren’t we at your place?”

“You’ll learn more about who I am when you’ve earned some more trust. You’re out of bondage, and I let you use a steak knife last night, which means you’ve earned a whole lot more trust from me than I’d have expected when I took you into that hunting cabin, but we have a ways to go before you learn where I live.”

She gave a short nod and went back to devouring her breakfast.

“There are computers on the premises,” I told her. “I have the beginnings of a contract typed up. I’ll leave you alone with it so you can make any changes you wish. It’ll track your edits so we can go over them together later and negotiate each change one-by-one.”

Chapter 10

Daisy

The first surprise was the definition paragraph, where he stated the termsex slavemeant a human woman who’d chosen to sign an indentured servitude contract, and that if I lasted the entire five-year term, fulfilling all contractual obligations, I would be entitled to a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus, paid five thousand dollars in cash on the first business day of the next ten months.

For a contract to be legal, both parties have to benefit, and it felt like he was trying to make it legal, but as he’d pointed out the day before, nothing was going to make this agreement legally binding.

And yet, it felt like there was a reason for the specific wording.

I kept reading and determined to come back to it, to see if it made sense after I’d read the rest of the proposed contract.

The document wasn’t terribly long, and there was so much I wanted to add, but he’d already been clear that sex slaves have few guarantees — and it seemed he’d added them all, because the bits about not losing limbs, always being hydrated, and his obligations around food were all included.

He had something in there about his right to decide upon standard body mods, and I typed in:

No tattoos unless it’s to add to the already planned ones from my designs. No piercings. No body mods at all unless I want them. No coercing me to want them, either.

One of the paragraphs stated that it would be fine for most of his friends to know I was a voluntary sex slave, but they wouldn’t be able to know any of the details of how it came about. That gave me pause, that his friends would be okay with him having a sex slave. But then, the wordvoluntarymade it seem totally different, didn’t it?

I’d thought this would be for a year or two, three tops, but he was clear he expected five years. However, he stipulated he’d begin the process of getting me started as a tattoo artist sometime in the second or third year, depending in part upon how long it generally took for a tattoo artist to earn a living wage. Without that stipulation, I’d have changed it to three years, but if there was an intern-period for a new tattoo artist, then it’s possible it would take three or four years before I was working in a position to earn a living wage.

Because he was right that I needed a way to support myself eventually.

The paragraph stating I’d supply any kind of sexual activity he demanded felt terribly short. I wanted more details of what was included. I wanted to list all the things he couldn’t do. However, we’d already talked about that, and I had a feeling he wouldn’t like repeating himself.

Ditto for the paragraph stating he could punish me in any way he saw fit so long as it didn’t cause lasting harm, injury, or damage. My fingersitchedto try to define what he could and couldn’t do, but I knew not to bother.

On the other hand, he was quite clear on his responsibilities to me — feeding me, housing me, providing educational opportunities and the transportation necessary for me to learn a profession and then work in that profession, making certain I could support myself without assistance when my five years were up.

There was a paragraph about how I was his property, an asset, and it made me make a note about him not being able to share me with other men.

I’ll be your sex slave, available for you, not for anyone else. This doesn’t let you share me with other men, and no way can you pimp me out as a whore.

It was a two-page contract. Short and to the point, so it didn’t take me long to get through it.

He’d told me he wanted me to write down any additions or subtractions, and I’d have much preferred to talk to him about this, but I typed it out below the bottom of the contract.

I’d like to respectfully request a twenty-four-hour trial period before I sign. How do I know if we’re compatible sexually? What if I hate having sex with you? We haven’t even kissed, and it feels like we should.

There were a dozen more additions I wanted to add, but based on our conversations earlier, I knew not to bother. I read through the definition paragraph again, and inserted a comment out to the side.

Can you help me understand why you’re declaring me an indentured servant acting as a sex slave, rather than just calling me a sex slave? The distinction doesn’t make this contract legally binding.

When I’d been over it three times without adding or deleting anything else, I walked to the door and stood quietly until he acknowledged me, which had been his instructions, and it didn’t feel as if I should start this out by disobeying.

I could’ve left while he was in the Dollar General, but I had a feeling that wasn’t an option anymore. I was here, and this was happening, but was it really the worst thing? Five years of letting him fuck me in exchange for him keeping me alive? Honestly, he was smart and attractive, and it didn’t seem all that bad.

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