Contract

Signing of the Contract.

Lorenzo looks around the room, furnished with carpets and fine furniture, instead of at the woman sitting in front of him.

Madame Vivienne is in no hurry. Her hands rest on the desk, one on top of the other, and the unlit cigar is held between the index and middle fingers of her right hand. The smoke from the one lit earlier still hangs in the air, mingling with the scent of gardenia rising from her wrists. Lorenzo can feel it in his throat.

Madame Vivienne reads a file.

"Lorenzo. Is that your name?"

"Yes, ma'am."

”And you want to become a sissy slave.?

"I think I was born for this, Madame."

Well Lorenzo, you're in the right place.

It will be a long, painful, humiliating journey. But in the end, it will transform you into who you are. We will only bring out what you already are inside.

It seems like she's seen guys like me before. Lots of them. For her, it's just a job, or maybe a pleasure, I don't know...

The red-painted nail descends onto the sheet of paper. It doesn't touch it—it remains suspended an inch above the paper, as if the document Lorenzo has just read is something unworthy of being touched. The tip of the nail stops exactly under the last clause, the one Lorenzo has read three times without fully understanding.

Lorenzo nods. He can't do it right now, and he knows it—

"Have you read everything, Lorenzo?"

"Yes."

His voice comes out firmer than he expected. Good. He clings to that firmness like a handrail.

«Everything, everything?»

“Yes, ma’am.”

She tilts her head to the side, just a tiny movement that shifts a strand of platinum a millimeter. She slowly rolls the unlit cigar back and forth between her fingers.

“Repeat clause four for me.”

Lorenzo feels the blood rush to his ears. Clause four. He's read it. He's read it over and over again,

Madame urges him.

“Clause four, Lorenzo.”

"He stutters..." His voice cracks on the first syllable. He clears his throat, and the sound is too loud in the quiet room.

"I surrender all rights to my body. For the duration of the course."

«ALL RIGHTS LORENZO.»

"Does that seem like a reasonable formula to you?"

Lorenzo looks up. It's the first time since he's sat down that he's actually looked at her face, and he immediately regrets it—his hands are sweating around the crystal pen.

«I don't know, Madame, I think so..I think so.»

Something moves at the edge of his mouth. It's not a smile. It's his shadow.

His voice becomes harder, more determined.

"What the fuck are you saying... do you think so?"

"And it's an absolutely fair and necessary rule. For your training."

With my gaze downcast. And in a faint voice I answer.

"Yes, ma'am, that's right. I apologize."

The woman puts the unlit cigar back in the ashtray. She moves around the desk calmly, and stops beside her chair — she picks up a several-page file, the "CONTRACT _

Finally, on the last page, the usual bureaucratic formula that leaves no room for second thoughts.

FOR VIEWING. READ. UNDERSTOOD. AND ACCEPTED.

"Business…………."

"Sign. Lorenzo."

It's not just a request. It's an order.

My hand shakes. The name comes out crooked. Lorenzo's "L" is too big, the final "o" too small, and the black ink sinks into the paper as if the sheet had been waiting its whole life to absorb that signature. When I lift the pen, a tiny dot of excess ink remains at the end of the last name. I look at it. He doesn't erase it.

Madame Vivienne takes the paper. She holds it up to the lamplight, reads it—or pretends to, because her eyes are darting too quickly to be truly reading anything—and then places it in a black leather folder that was already open on the edge of the desk.

"You're our property now, Lorenzo."

«The left arm.»

Lorenzo hesitates. He looks at his arm as if he doesn't know it.

"The left arm, Lorenzo. Don't make me repeat myself."

He obeys. He stretches his arm across the table, palm up, and Madame Vivienne pulls a silver bracelet from the drawer. It's thin, smooth, unadorned—just a shiny metal band with a small black capsule set in the center, the size of a fingernail. It doesn't look like anything special. It looks like the kind of bracelet a girl might wear to a party. Then the chip beeps.

A short, electronic sound that doesn't belong in this room of wood, marble, and leather. The black capsule flashes red once and then goes off.

"From this moment," he says, his voice returning to a cold, professional tone, as if reciting a formula he's recited a thousand times, "your body no longer belongs to you. Every hour, every gesture, every inch. The chip records your location within the building. If you leave without permission, we know it. If you try to masturbate or touch yourself without permission, we know it."

"Do you have any questions?"

Lorenzo opens his mouth. He closes it again. He has one question: he has a hundred, a thousand. But only a resigned sound comes out of his mouth.

"No, ma'am."

"Well."

Madame Vivienne returns behind her desk. She doesn't sit down. She stands, her hands resting on the back of her chair, and for the first time since Lorenzo entered, she looks toward the door.

«You may come in.»

Lorenzo turns in his chair. He hasn't heard anyone approaching—the corridor outside is silent, the marble floor hasn't betrayed a single footstep—yet the door opens, and two figures slide into the room from either side, as if they'd been there the whole time, waiting.

They are two men. Tall, black, and muscular. Muscular. Muscular legs, massive like trunks. They are wearing only a thong. Made of white fabric that stands out against their shiny black, ebony skin, the thongs can barely contain their large packages between their legs. My eyes are drawn precisely to that bulge that suggests two enormous cocks.

Madame notices it and asks me point blank.

Have you ever stroked black cocks, Lorenzo?

I turn red with shame. and with a thread of voice

"Yes, mistress. In college, for a lot of my black classmates, I was the little white whore. Always ready to suck cock in the bathrooms. Boys'. Always and only black cocks."

Madame. She smiles.

"Those were just kids here you will learn to serve real men real hard black cocks."

“Would you like to pet these two?”

I don't know what to answer...then the words come out on their own.

"Yes, madam, I would like that very much."

Madame gestures to the two men. To come closer to me, one on the right and the other on the left.

"What are you waiting for? These are real human birds."

«Come on Lorenzo, put your hands inside the thong.»

This time I won't make you repeat it.

My hands tremble with excitement as I follow my mistress's command. I feel the warm skin of both cocks, they throb, huge and enormous. I feel their veins, and I instinctively caress them. I feel the beginnings of erections in both of them.

"That's enough," Madame orders sharply.

“We have a job to do.”

Then the two men's hands move.

The fingers of the one on the right find the buckle of Lorenzo's belt—a simple, brown leather belt, bought at the market—and undo it in two movements.

The two men's hands move to the buttons of his shirt.

The first button pops open with a small click. The second. The third. His fingers work methodically from bottom to top, and each button that pops reveals another strip of skin—his flat stomach, his navel, the edges of his ribs. The air in the room touches Lorenzo's bare skin, and the air is warm, but he shivers all the same.

"Breathe," says Madame

The one on the left grabs the shirt by the shoulders. His hands grip the blue fabric.

The shirt touches the floor next to the leather belt.

Lorenzo stands before Madame Vivienne, his chest bare. His skin is pale, smooth, and hairless—

His mother always told him that he was lucky, that he'd never have to worry about the razor—and under the lamplight you can see his ribs rising and falling too quickly. His narrow shoulders. His collarbones just barely protruding. And the silver bracelet.

Madame Vivienne looks at him. The unlit cigar rests between her fingers. She looks at him as if he were an object to be purchased.

“Good,” “Very good.”

PREPARATION.

The two black men haven't moved an inch since they took off his shirt. They stand on either side of the door like two magnificent living sculptures.

“Good,” Madame repeats.

“Look at me when I talk to you.”

Lorenzo looks up again. His mouth opens slightly, but nothing comes out.

“Like this.” Madame Vivienne tilts her head to the side.

He opens a drawer and takes out an old tape recorder, positions the microphone and presses the play button.

"physical exam"

As if addressing someone who isn't there.

"The raw material is good. The shoulders are narrow, the skin is hairless. The ribs are visible, but they're covered." His gaze moves slowly up and down, as before. "There's a lot to do. But the foundation is there."

He turns to the desk. He opens another drawer. — and takes out something Lorenzo doesn't immediately see. When he straightens, between his fingers is a tape measure, the kind used by tailors, rolled up.

“Now that we have seen the raw material,” says Madame Vivienne, “we can proceed with the first measurements.”

Madame Vivienne hands the tape measure to the assistant on the left. She doesn't turn to look at him. She simply extends her arm, the tape taut between her fingers, and waits.

"The girth of the penis at rest," says Madame Vivienne. Her voice is calm, professional, as if dictating a shopping list. "And the length of the balls."

The assistant is leaning forward. The yellow ribbon dangles from his hand.

“The trousers,” says Madame.

It's not a direct order to him. One of the two assistants approaches Lorenzo.

With a sharp gesture, she unbuckles his belt and his trousers fall to the floor.

I wear a crotchless jockstrap.

“Stop,” says Madame Vivienne.

Madame looks at him from behind the desk.

“You're scared,” he says.

“Yes,” she says. “No. I don’t know.” She looks at him for a moment longer. Then she straightens up.

«Continue. With the measures.

The tape rests on the skin of his little cock.

Lorenzo closes his eyes.

It's not the coldness of the tape measure. It's the fact that someone, in this room, is taking a measurement of him. Of that part of him. With a tape measure, like you measure a piece of furniture.

“You’re not shaking anymore,” he says.

Lorenzo lowers his gaze.

"No," mistress

Madame Vivienne nods. A brief nod. Then she looks at her assistant and, with a movement of her chin, indicates that he should proceed.

The tape tightens around his penis.

Ok here a size "s" cage is enough

"Lorenzo: Now bend over. And spread your ass with your hands. Let's see if it's wide or narrow."

I hesitate for a moment before carrying out the order. Then one of the men puts his hand on my neck and pushes my head down.

Madame Vivienne.

"When you're given an order, you must carry it out immediately. You still have a lot to learn about discipline. But you will learn, I assure you."

On the desk a black collar, with a tag with my name.

And a chastity cage with a lock.and a key

Madame Vivienne turns to the two assistants.

«Make him wear these.»

One puts the collar around my neck. The other, as if he's done it many times before, locks my penis in the cage. After closing the padlock, he hands the keys to Madame.

"You'll have to wear both the collar and the cage at all times. Day and night, understand?"

"yes, mistress"

Behind me. Another sound—a footstep. Heavy. Slow. Coming from the door.

“Big M,” Madame Vivienne says, without raising her voice. “You’re late.”

"I'm not late," says a voice behind Lorenzo. Low. Slow. With an accent that elongates the vowels typical of the Caribbean region.

as if he had all the time in the world. "I was watching."

Big. M. The instructor.

He's also 6'3" tall, with a powerful build, dark chocolate skin, and a shaved head. He's wearing military pants, an unbuttoned white shirt, and a thick gold necklace, probably from Jamaica. He's a fearsome figure.

And leaning against the doorframe. With his shoulder.

In his right hand a leash.

I'm standing there practically naked. With the cage and collar around my neck. I'm shivering, but it's not just the cold.

Big M. He comes over and walks around me looking me up and down.

Then, without saying a word, he clips the leash to my collar. I distinctly hear the metallic sound of the snap hook. It closes... Click.

With a tug on the leash.

«Follow me»