Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
The door opened again, and to my horror I heard the voice of Mark, the photographer.
“Perfect timing,” he said, his tone carrying that same detached professionalism I’d heard in the courtyard. “Ann called me over. She thought potential sponsors would want to see this.”
My eyes widened in horror as the photographer moved into view, camera already in hand. “No! You can’t—”
“This will actually increase your appeal significantly,” Mark said, already positioning himself for a better angle. The camera clicked. “High-tier sponsors specifically look for girls who’ve required this level of correction. It signals that you’re exactly the kind of submissive who needs firm handling. And of course there’s the lasting effect on the vagina.”
“The what?” I demanded, looking among the faces of my three casual tormentors.
Nurse Samuels answered as she continued her work, carefully pressing my outer lips together.
“For the first few days following the removal of the seal, your vagina will be tighter than previously. Sex will be a little uncomfortable for you, but your sponsor will find intercourse particularly enjoyable.”
As I absorbed this horrid, degrading news, I felt the adhesive taking hold, the flesh adhering with a sensation that made my stomach lurch. She was sealing me. Actually sealing me closed.
“Now I’m going to hold your outer labia together for thirty seconds,” she murmured, her gloved fingers maintaining pressure. The camera kept clicking, documenting every moment of my humiliation.
I couldn’t stop crying. The reality of what was happening crashed over me in waves. They were closing my pussy. Making it inaccessible. And this stranger was photographing it all for wealthy men to see.
“There we are,” Nurse Samuels finally said, stepping back. “All sealed. You’ll notice a small opening at the bottom for urination, but everything else is completely closed off. You’ll find you’re less distracted by the urge to masturbate once you discover how difficult it is this way.”
I couldn’t see what she’d done, not from this angle in the restraints, but I could feel it. The strange tightness. The sensation of my lips pressed together in a way that felt fundamentally wrong.
Mark moved closer, taking several more shots from different angles. “Beautiful work,” he said to the nurse. “This is going to generate serious interest. Laura, your pussy looks breathtaking this way.”
“Laura.” Ann’s voice cut through my sobs. “I need you to listen carefully. The seal will remain in place until a sponsor decides to have it removed, or you’ve gone on at least three dates with potential sponsors. The choice is yours.”
Nurse Samuels began releasing the restraints. First my ankles, then my wrists, then the straps around my waist and neck. I lay there for a moment, too shocked to move, too overwhelmed to process what had just been done to me.
“You can get dressed now,” the nurse said. “You’ll feel a bit strange down there, but you’ll get used to it quickly.”
“Your apartment key and instructions have been sent to your phone,” Ann told me. “The address is already in your app.”
I climbed down from the exam chair on trembling legs. I pulled my clothes with mechanical movements. The sensation between my legs felt alien, wrong—my outer lips pressed together in a way that made me constantly aware of what had been done to me. I stumbled out of the examination room, down the corridor, through the lobby where the receptionist didn’t even look up from her desk at my departure.
The late afternoon sun hit my face as I emerged from the building. I made my way to the shuttle stop, my mind blank with shock. On the ride back to Palo Alto, I stared out the window at the sprawling tech headquarter buildings without seeing them, unable to process any of it.
The Caltrain platform was crowded with evening commuters. I found a seat on the northbound train, sinking into it with relief even as my welted bottom protested. The train lurched into motion, and I pressed my forehead against the cool window glass.
That’s when it hit me.
The need.
It started as a low throb between my legs, a pulsing awareness of the sealed flesh there. My mind kept replaying the afternoon—the mortifying examination, the horrible caning, the degrading photography session where I’d touched myself, the final humiliation of being sealed. To my dismay, each memory sent sparks of shameful heat through my body.
I shifted in my seat, trying to ignore it. But the movement only made it worse, the friction of my jeans through my thin panties against the seal creating sensations I couldn’t quite process. My hands gripped my thighs, then moved to my knees. I forced them into fists, pressing them hard against the denim.
Nurse Samuels had said I’d be less distracted. She’d been completely wrong.
All I could think about was touching myself. About finding relief from this building pressure. My fingers ached to slip down the front of my jeans, to press against the sealed flesh, to try to find some way to—