Master And slave episode 1 contract

The Contract

Male lead - Alex

Age-41 year

Female lead - Jenika

Age- 24 Year

The rain tapped hard against the tall windows of the penthouse, a dull rhythm that mirrored Jenika’s heartbeat. She stood barefoot on the cold marble floor, her black dress clinging to her skin like second thoughts. Her fingers fidgeted at her sides as she stared at the man seated across the room — Alex.

He didn’t speak. He hadn’t spoken since she arrived.

Instead, he watched her — not like a man watching a woman, but like a predator studying prey. His dark gray suit was tailored to perfection, his expression unreadable. The only light in the room came from the fire behind him, casting a golden glow on his sharp jaw and cool eyes.

“Take it off,” he said at last, his voice smooth, effortless.

Jenika didn’t hesitate. She’d read the contract, signed it with trembling fingers. There would be no negotiation, no slow seduction. This wasn’t about love. It wasn’t even about pleasure — not in the way most people understood it. She was his. And he would make her remember that.

Her hands slid up the sides of her body, fingers grasping the zipper at the back of her dress. The fabric fell in silence, puddling around her feet. She stood before him in nothing but her skin and the thin leather collar he had sent to her earlier that day — a simple thing, but the weight of it pressed into her like iron.

He stood, his six-foot-two frame casting a shadow over her. Close now, she could smell his cologne — clean, with a hint of danger. He reached out and touched her cheek, fingers brushing just under her eye.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“I know,” she whispered.

His hand fell. “Good.”

He circled behind her, his fingers grazing her spine, down to the curve of her back. Then he stopped. A small, cruel smile touched his lips.

“On your knees.”

Jenika obeyed, sinking onto the cold marble. Her knees spread instinctively — a position she had practiced at home, preparing. Still, it felt different here. Raw. Real. He walked around her slowly, his footsteps soft against the floor. When he returned to face her, he held something in his hand: a thin bamboo cane.

She felt the air shift.

“You’ll count,” he said.

She nodded.

“No. Say it.”

“Yes, Master.”

The first strike came fast — a whisper in the air, then fire across her thighs. She gasped, head jerking back, but she didn’t fall.

“One, Master.”

Another. This time across her left breast, the sting blooming into a sharp ache.

“Two, Master.”

He didn’t stop. He painted her skin in red, his strokes precise, methodical. Ten. Then fifteen. By twenty, her breath came ragged. Tears welled, but she refused to let them fall. The pain sang through her veins like a violent kind of music. It hurt. God, it hurt.

And she loved it.

At twenty-five, he stopped. He crouched in front of her, lifting her chin with two fingers.

“You’re going to break,” he said quietly. “I’ll enjoy every second of it.”

Jenika stared at him, heart pounding, skin burning. Her lips parted, and she whispered:

“Yes, Master.”

He smiled then — not cruel this time, but proud. He stood and turned toward the small table near the fireplace, where leather cuffs and ropes waited like promises.

“We begin now.”

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