AUTHOR'S NOTE: I do NOT, in any way, endorse the 50 Shades of Grey series and its respective films. The only reason I am referencing it in my title is to make it more clear upon first glance what subject matter this story will contain. Those books are in no way a representation of true BDSM. Because I am against abuse in any form, I have gone very out of my way to be sure that Regina is, in no way, abusing Emma in this story. This is, what I hope, a very healthy expression of a BDSM relationship. I wanted to write a story on such a thing, due to how badly it's been butchered by that abysmal series . . . and what better people to use than Emma and Regina? I don't know. They just work. I can totally see Regina wanting this. Swan Queen has mad chemistry, yo. Anyhow, happy reading.

Well, here we go.

My palms are sweating. I clench them, swallow, and knock on Regina's door. There is no reason to be nervous. Maybe a year ago, yes . . . but now? No.

Calm down, Emma. I reassure myself. I know her. I know this woman. And despite my, and, well, everyone's better instincts . . . I trust this woman.

The ivory door slides open then, just a bit, and there she stands: the immeasurable Regina Mills: the Queen. She is dressed in all gray today; a sharp, regal suit made of suede complements a pencil skirt and gray thigh-high boots of the same material. It's quite the contrast to my wifebeater, jeans, and tan leather jacket, but this is nothing new for us. She stares at me in the doorway, her deep eyes unblinking, and then, without a word, ushers me inside.

It's not the first time I've been here — far from it — but the air feels . . . different somehow. I am entering the mansion not as an enemy, nor an ally, but as . . . Emma. Emma; Regina's Emma. It's strange, very strange . . . but nice, in a way. Very nice. For a moment, it distracts me from my racing thoughts. I follow the woman into her kitchen — still, we have not exchanged any words — and we sit at the counter in the middle of the room, facing one another. Regina is staring at me; I feel shy, suddenly, at the intensity of the situation, and find myself looking toward the floor more often than I can meet her eyes . . . as beautifully dark and twisted as they might be.

"So," Regina speaks first, her tone calm and smooth. She does not seem phased in the slightest, but I can tell she is, at the very least, the tiniest bit anticipatory. "Shall we begin?"

"Where's Henry?" I ask; I want this answered before anything.

"He's at a friend's today. I can assure you there will be no interruptions."

I don't answer right away, and, as if this had not been enough of a statement, Regina looks up at me and adds, "Henry is the last person I would ever want to know about . . . all of this."

"Right," I say. Of course.

As if on cue, Regina slowly slides a clear folder onto the table. She opens it, and removes the piece of paper inside, gracefully.

"You'll have to walk me through," I suddenly cut in with, my eyes resting casually on her, and then darting to the floor again, if only briefly. Stupid what adrenaline makes one do. "I'm new to all of this."

"Emma," Regina responds, again, piercing me with her dark irises; almost reprimanding. "I know what I'm doing."

"Right, but I don't."

"Well then you'll just have to keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking, won't you?"

My mouth thins in annoyance and stubbornness; Regina's snappiness doesn't phase me. She seems to notice this, and her eyes dart back to the paper in front of her.

"Sorry," she adds, clumsily. She's never been good at apologizing. None-the-less, it's enough of a gesture to bring a small smile to my face. "Let's begin."

She clears her throat, and reads.

"Part One — Roles."

I sit, quietly, and listen, expertly and acutely, studying her; never letting even one expression go unnotated.

"This is where we discuss the parts each of us will play," she continues to explain. "First off, who will be the dominant . . . me."

She takes a moment and writes something down; presumably her name.

"And the submissive . . . that would be you." She looks at me, briefly, as if confirming with me; I do nothing but stare back. She seems to take my cue as an okay, and writes again.

"Type of play?" She reads out.

"What do you mean — type of play?"

"Master/slave, mistress/slave, captive, age play, servant—"

"Woah, woah, woah, slow down. One at a time."

Regina rolls her eyes, huffs, and then reads, much more slowly this time.

"Master/slave. Yes or no."

"Yes."

She takes the pen to the paper and makes a note, then continues.

"Mistress/slave, that's largely the same thing . . . captive, we've discussed previously . . . age play is simply juvenile, but I—"

"Hey, let me see what you're writing."

Regina does nothing at first; she continues reading.

"Put the contract on the table." I command.

Huffing again, Regina stops, and looks up, clearly annoyed. "Emma, I'm not writing anything other than what I'm reciting to you—"

"Well then put it on the table. I want to see what goes onto the paper."

"What— you don't trust me?"

"Put it. On the table."

Regina stares at me for a long moment, and then, irritated, places the contract in the middle of us, almost slamming the paper down in her short-tempered response. I can see all of her pen markings and all of the contract; this is much better. I grin.

"Happy?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"As I was saying," she huffs. "Servant/queen, perhaps . . . "

"Yeah, circle that one. And animal play." I've spotted it on the paper.

Regina looks at me.

"Really?"

I smirk. "I've always wanted to see you with cat ears."

"Well, we'll see about that." Regina seems embarrassed; I highly doubt she'll ever do it in that moment. She does, however, circle it.

"Do you have any other inexplicable fantasies, or shall we move on?"

"We can move on," I say.

"Any chance of switching roles?" Regina responds in a quick, efficient manner.

"You mean — like . . . me being the dominant?"

She meets my eyes; I stare back, almost smirking. In fact, I think I am. The very thought excites me immensely.

"Yes. Like you being the dominant." There is no change of expression, but her tone sounds a bit disapproving.

I give a little nod. "Is there?"

"We can . . . discuss that," Regina says, neither confirming nor denying.

"We are discussing it."

Regina swallows, staring at the paper, refusing to look at me.

"What; you don't want me to dominate you?"

"Alright, fine." She looks up at me, her expression, again, one of annoyance; but I can tell she is only as such because I'm making her admit if she has ever wanted such a thing. Whether she has or not is irrelevant; she seems to want to appease me just to move forward, and checks the yes. "We can leave the possibility open."

Something tells me we'll come back to that one.

"May the submissive verbally resist?" She reads, clearly wanting to move on.

"Oh, you bet I will."

"Physically?"

"Depends on my mood."

"It's a yes or no, Miss Swan."

I almost want to laugh at the revert to my first nickname; something about it here, however, seems fitting. "Yes."

"May the submissive try to turn the tables?"

"Sounds like fun."

Regina reads the next part, slowly — smoothly. I can tell she likes this one.

"May the dominant overpower — or "force" — the submissive?"

"Force me to do what?"

Regina responds, her words a bit breathy, as if attempting to be casual about it.

"Anything."

"Anything?"

"Well. Anything . . . within the terms of this contract."

I think for a long moment.

"Sounds risky." I finally settle with. I know Regina; I know what she's capable of.

"You can always safeword, you do realize."

I quirk a brow, and my head. "Safeword?"

"Yes." She's looking at me again, this time with no annoyance.

"What's a safeword do?"

"It stops everything — immediately. No matter what the contract states."

"And you'll listen to that?" In the heat of the moment, Regina's been known to . . . do impulsive things.

"What do you think I am?" She suddenly snaps, as if the question had offended her, and I'm a bit taken aback by it. "I'm not a savage."

"Okay," I say, surprised at the intensity of her response, and I can tell she is not lying. "Alright. Sorry."

"Can we get back to the negotiations, please?"

"Sure, but shouldn't we decide on a safeword?"

"We will GET to that. That's a whole other section."

She's growing impatient, and I trust her, so I nod. "Alright, then. Hit me."

That seems to calm her. I think about that for a second. No pun intended. Clearing her throat, she moves on.

"The submissive agrees to address the dominant by the following title—"

"Your Majesty."

She writes this on the line, in thin, beautiful script, and I can tell she is smirking, if only slightly.

"Are you going to use magic?" I suddenly interject.

Regina stops; looks at me. "What?"

"Magic. Are you going to use it?"

Raising one brow, she pauses, and then responds, in a slightly husky tone.

"Do you want me to use magic?"

"I don't know. How much magic are we talking?"

"… As much as I deem necessary."

"And can I use magic?"

With a sigh, she widens both eyes and looks down at the contract, as if doubtful. "That has enormous potential for disaster, if you don't mind me saying so."

"You can use magic to force me, right. So I can use magic to resist."

Regina blinks, slowly, and then lets out a sigh.

"If you want to try and muster up whatever spell you can muster up, fine. You do you. But don't expect me to go easy on you."

She's serious; and that's only slightly unsettling. Regina is a hardass. Then again, so am I.

"Fine." I haven't stopped looking at her; the word rolls smoothly off my tongue. "Yes."

We continue to go through more mundane things . . . limits, medical conditions, location. The whole shebang. It's important, of course, but it's boring. I'm starting to grow restless, and I can't help but to show it.

"Does any participant believe they may have a sexually transmitted disease?" Regina drones.

"No; how much longer until this is done?"

"This is all very important, Emma; I highly suggest you pay close attention."

"Look, I am. I'm just . . . this is taking longer than I thought. No, I don't have herpes, no I haven't tested positive . . . you know that. We both know that. We've only slept with each other in the span of . . . well. A year, now?"

"It's becoming quite clear to me why I never assigned you to do paperwork in any capacity," Regina muses without looking up.

"You never assigned me to do paperwork because you never assigned me to do anything. You tried to poison me, actually."

"Shall we continue?" Regina ignores me, clearing her throat, speaking more loudly.

I quirk both brows in playful, nonverbal retort, and nod at her to do so.

"This part should interest you," she says, and her voice is more sultry this time; the tone makes me anticipate. "Bondage."

I'm listening.

"The submissive agrees to allow only the following types of bondage . . . here." She points at a list with her pen, and then holds it out to me. "Circle them."

I take the pen, tentatively, and then give it a look. It's rich with things like 'hands in front' or 'use of blindfold' or 'tied to chair.' I read them all, carefully, and circle which ones I am okay with. Sliding the pen back to her, I wait for her to react.

She scans over it, and then recites the next line.

"Any past bad experiences by either person with bondage, gags, blindfolds . . . '

"Yes."

She waits, looking at me.

"Which."

"Uh. Gags. No gagging. And no chairs, either."

It's true, and my mind suddenly wanders back to that night in the Hatter's mansion . . . a dark, dreary drug-stupor in which I was held hostage; a prisoner to a lonely madman who just wanted his daughter back. But that hadn't been the worst part; it was lucky I had the survival instincts I did . . . no, the worst had been cutting my ties, removing my gag, and making my way through the hallway . . . only to open a door and see my mother, Snow White, trapped and gagged in a lone, isolate room.

Regina seems to remember this. I can't remember if I told her or not, but she nods.

"Fair enough." She marks the paper appropriately, and is about to read the next section.

"What about you?" I ask.

"What about me."

I've just opened up to her, and I think she realizes that. But I'm still curious.

"Have any bad experiences?"

She doesn't want to meet my eyes, I can tell. "Any past experiences I may or may not have had I can handle."

"What'd she do to you."

"Emma—"

"Cora, right? Your mother? She was something else— what'd she do to you?"

Regina closes her eyes for a long moment, massages her temples, and then speaks.

"She did . . . a lot of things. Nothing I want to divulge in, and nothing I want to linger in my present. I am a grown woman. And as I've already stated . . . nothing I can't handle."

It's a shame, really. I feel horrible; I'm sure Cora's done some pretty messed up things — and fairly often, too, if she's so desensitized. But I don't push her. Regina has a habit of becoming vulnerable in the least expectant moments; this will probably be no exception.

"Pain."

"What?"

"Pain," Regina repeats, and then raises one brow. It's sexy; I almost feel myself become putty in her hands . . . and she's not even touching me. "The next section. Pain."

"Alright," I say, after a moment's silence. Slowly, she tears her gaze from mine, and begins reading.

"The submissive's general attitude toward receiving pain."

"Umm."

"There are choices." She sets the paper down again, handing me the pen. "Circle one."

I glance down. Jesus. This is all so involved . . .

Pain? I can't say I've ever yearned to feel pain . . . I mean, has anyone? One glance up at Regina and I can tell she's got me pinned; studying my every move. This section is of the utmost importance to her . . .

Reading the choices once again, I think.

Likes, accepts, neutral, dislikes, will not accept.

Hm. Part of me wants to check dislikes . . . but in a sexual setting . . . this may be different. I'm here because I'm willing to try anything, aren't I? Slowly, I take the pen to the line that reads neutral, mark it, and then look up at Regina, trying to gauge her reaction. She stares right back at me, but doesn't say a word. She simply takes the pen I've set down, looks at the next question, and marks it.

Dominant's general attitude toward giving pain.

She places an x on the line that reads: likes.

Quantity of pain the dominant wants to give.

An x on the line: large.

It's a power play now, and I like it. My heart's racing.

"Is this your way of getting me to fear you?" I say, sarcastically.

"Don't tempt me, Miss Swan."

The way she says my name again makes me crazy. I'm really starting to like this.

A few sections later, and we're close to wrapping it up.

"Alright," Regina says, taking the papers in her hands and hitting the edges gently against the countertop to even them out. "Now is the matter of the safeword."

"Right."

"What shall we use, then?"

"It's up to me?"

"You are the submissive."

I think for a moment; it's a little difficult to do so.

"If only Henry were here," I joke, and she sighs out, but takes the comment in jest, smiling a bit.

"Yes, he'd . . . certainly have a good one to use."

"Mongoose."

"What?"

"Mongoose. That's the word. Mongoose."

Regina stares at me, and her mouth curls into a grin. "Operation Mongoose," she whispers.

She likes it. I nod, and she writes it down.

"And this will be safeword #1. If anything, at any time, ever becomes too much for you — you say 'mongoose.' No matter what we're doing, that word will end things."

"And what if my verbal use is restricted?"

Regina blinks.

"Then you nod. Three times. Three times, and I will cease. Three nods, or one 'mongoose,' and we end. Clear?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Now we need a second safeword."

"For?"

"Perhaps you may want me to slow up. You say this word, rather. Slow, but not stop."

"Okay. Um. . . . Curse?"

Regina waits for a moment, as if wanting an explanation.

"Well, you know. Because of that curse. That . . . curse you put on everyone . . . it made them pretty . . . slow. Slow moving. Their minds were all jumbled, or whatever."

She gives a small shrug, as if agreeing. "Fair enough. 'Curse' means slow up."

"And if I can't speak?"

"Two nods."

"This is an awful lot to remember," I say, and she rolls her eyes.

"I'm sure you'll manage, dear, what with all of the other things you've managed to use against me."

We agree, though, and continue on. After a few more moments of last minute reviewing, Regina comes to the end.

"Aaaand, we've reached the last of it. Take a look, Emma," she says, and hands me the contract. "See if this appeals to you."

I take the paper, and scan over it, once, but I'm too impatient really to study much of the details. I know she's done well; been thorough. I trust her.

"Good?" Regina asks, after a long minute.

"Yup." I say, with a little sigh. This was it; all or nothing.

"Good. Then sign here," she points to a space on the bottom, beside her own thin, scripted signature.

I do so.

Sliding the contract over to Regina, I see her smirk — fully. It's the first time she's done so yet. She stares at the paper, vividly, for a few baited moments, and then addresses me.

"You may go."

"—That's it? You're sending me out?" I'm disappointed. "We're not going to — you know. Try anything?"

"And gratify you so quickly? Come now, Emma. You've been terribly impatient." She's having fun with this; her face scrunches with coy amusement. "Why not make you wait just a bit more."

I'm irritated; I stare at her, brows furrowed. Suddenly she is the Evil Queen again, and I'm her victim. Now that she is my binding dominant, however, I cannot truly do much about it. It's her call.

"Fine."

"Have a good day, my dear."

I get up, quickly, flustered and annoyed all in one, and begin striding out toward the doorway, fists clenched. What a rotten —

"Oh, and Miss Swan?"

I stop, and turn to face her.

"Yeah?"

"Meet me in my vault. Wednesday."

Wednesday. It's only two days away. A burst of adrenaline rushes through me; I nod.

"Okay."

She smirks, hungrily.

"And bring your handcuffs."