Signed, Sealed, Owned: The Research Files No. 5

The 48-Hour Contract. She owns the company. He owns her.

The contract is printed on thick, cream paper. Of course it is. He would never hand me a flimsy sheet for something like this. My fingers tremble slightly as I skim the header:

"Agreement of Power Exchange – Duration: 48 hours"

"Read it," he says.

His voice is low, commanding. We’re in his apartment—his domain—high above the city. Windows stretch floor to ceiling, catching every flicker of light. And me? I’m standing in designer heels, a tailored dress, and a mind so rattled by how he looks at me that I might already be halfway under.

"You’re not my boss here, sweetheart," he adds, leaning back in the leather chair. "For the next 48 hours, you’re mine."

HOUR 0 – CONSENT

I sign it.

He watches me do it—not just watches—he devours it. His jaw ticks, his nostrils flare. The moment the pen hits the paper, something shifts in the air, like the contract conjured another reality.

"Safe word is red," he reminds me, standing. "Gesture is three taps. If it gets too much, use them. If you don’t, I’ll assume you want more."

I nod.

"No. Say it."

"Yes, Sir."

His smile is slow, feral. "Good girl."

HOUR 1 – SUBMISSION

He steps behind me, unzips my dress in a slow drag, exposing my spine inch by inch. The fabric pools at my feet, followed by my bra, my panties. His hands are warm, leaving a trail of shivers.

"Keep the heels."

Then he steps back and says, "Crawl to me."