Idiots Don't Read Contracts

I looked around and, honestly, didn't feel it was that bad. I mean, sure, there was a stack of dishes covered in food in my sink, and I couldn't help that trash days were days I always forgot. The tissues by my computer could be explained, but that was a private conversation I didn't have with anyone.

She smiled and snapped her fingers while walking over to my little kitchen table. The contract folded in on itself until it was the size of a folded piece of paper. She picked the small thing up and popped it into her suit jacket pocket.

"Now then, your slave will be here shortly. Remember the main details of the contract, no abuse, and if the enslaved says no to sex, it is obligated to perform, and you as well. You can sleep with whomever you like, but it doesn't count toward the quota. The slave will not be clingy or require you to dote on it."

I was nodding at her every word until she turned around and leaned over my ripped couch. She reached for a porn magazine, and her ass was in full view. It was so curvy, and the small line in the middle of the hairless mound between her legs showed through her sheer panties. I was about to burst into my pants just from the sight of it.

"The slave will arrive with a leash and collar with a name stamped on a metal tag in the shape of a star. If you do not like the name, we allow one name change for the entirety of the contract. Remember, 100 days means sex 100 times. If you do not fulfill this quota since interfering with ours, you will be punished. I do hope you read the contract," she finished saying after setting the magazine back on the couch and dusting her hands off.

"Might I suggest you clean? Your slave can do it, but let's be fair, hmm? It does have feelings, but they are baseline, nothing, deep if you get my meaning."

I nodded vigorously and shifted in the chair, trying to ignore the urge to touch myself. Images of fucking her on the couch played through my head.

"Emm, well, as much as I like being fucked, I don't think I'm in the mood now after seeing your apartment, Ceil Jankins," she said, looking at me, "and please keep your naughty thoughts about me too a minimum. I am the director of Hell, after all."

I nodded, trying not to focus on the images of my dick sliding in and out of her as she was bent over the couch.

"Uhg, save it for your slave, Ceil Jankins. You're going to need it," she whispered, walking over to me before going to my apartment door and leaving. She didn't so much as look back.

Suddenly questions started appearing in my head, so I got up from the table to ask her, but when I opened the door, she was gone.

Instead, at the door opposite of mine stood Mrs. Yen, giving me her toothless grin and staring at me. I looked at where she was staring and cringed. Front and center stood my hard on, pitching a tent in my pants.

Looking back up, she waved and wiggled her eyebrows at me before motioning toward the door as if inviting me over. I knew my face showed disgust, so I quickly turned and headed back inside my apartment, slamming the door behind me.

When the Director of Hell took the contract, she never left a way to contact her. I only hoped that when my slave finally showed up, she could answer my questions.

I could tell you I quickly showered and waited until a beautiful woman crawled in naked on her hands and knees through my apartment door. I could also say we had the most intense sex I had ever experienced, five times in a row, but some of that would be a lie, actually most of it.

Getting my slave happened way differently, and at first, it was a bit bizarre, almost killing my sexual appetite for the night.

The truth was, I quickly took a shower, still resisting the temptation to pleasure myself, and I waited, but no beautiful woman came through my door. Instead, I got a phone call.

The number was labeled as restricted, but I answered it anyway, "Hello?"

"Ah, Ceil, this is the director from Hell. Do you remember me?"

She had just left my fantasy 20 minutes ago in the shower. Of course, I remembered her.

"Yeah, what's going on? Where's my sex slave, she isn't here yet, but you got the contract. This isn't some sort of perverted scam, is it?"

The Director of Hell, as she called herself, scoffed at me, "Pft, no, it isn't a scam! Listen to me, the slave is in the area, close to your apartment, but it's lost. The phone died while I was giving it directions. So you need to go out and search for it. You'll recognize it as soon as you see it."

I started to ask for a callback number, something to contact her with, but she hung up.

Looking back, I should have never, ever signed that contract. But, even in the shadiest of business deals, there's a number to call, albeit sometimes disconnected.

Anyway, I went out my apartment door that night searching for the sex slave I was guaranteed to be happily stuck with.

At first, I prayed she wasn't sitting out on the front steps of the apartment building. The dumpsters were right there. If you lingered by them too long, you carried the stink with you for a while. But then again, I suddenly prayed she was. It would give me a good excuse to touch her in the shower and practice some of those positions I wanted to try.

I had never touched a woman before other than my mother, and I don't share that information with just anyone. So it was embarrassing to explain that the only female embrace I'd experienced was when I was very young, after getting hurt or for a goodnight hug.

Unfortunately, she wasn't there, so I walked the block, looking around. I wasn't sure what I expected, but the director lady said I'd recognize her the moment I saw her.

I wasn't prepared for what I did walk into with this whole slave thing. Because what I found, wandering the street, holding up the phone, and staring at its lifeless connection, wasn't a she. It was a very naked he, wearing only a backpack and collar and dragging a leash along the ground.

My lack of foresight and getting clarification did not prepare me for this.