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)
Stop it, I told myself firmly. You can’t. They… they sealed you.
But that only made it worse. The knowledge that I couldn’t access myself, couldn’t touch my clit or slip my fingers inside, made the need more intense. More desperate.
By the time the train pulled into my stop in the city, I was trembling. I had to get my things from my old apartment, I reminded myself. Just focus on that. One task at a time.
The walk to my old building felt endless. Every step reminded me of the seal, of the welts, of everything that had been done to me. I let myself into the cramped studio I could barely afford, looking around at my meager possessions with new eyes.
This had been my life twenty-four hours ago. Before the application. Before Selecta.
I grabbed my suitcase and started throwing in clothes. My laptop. A few books. Some toiletries. It took less than an hour to pack up my entire existence.
The address in my phone led me to a building in the Presidio that made my breath catch. Beautiful and unmistakably modern, but with lovely neoclassical touches, too. A doorman nodded at me as I entered, glancing at his screen, where I got a glimpse of my own face. I colored as I realized that it was a cropped image from my session with Mark in the courtyard. I worried the inside of my cheek, wondering if Selecta doormen were allowed to access the whole image, and I couldn’t look the doorman in the eye.
“Have a good day, Laura,” he told me as I walked to the elevator. “Welcome to the building.”
I nearly choked on my “Thanks” as I thought I could register a bit of… well, of knowingness in the man’s tone. I told myself I had imagined it as I rode the elevator up to the fifth floor. The apartment door unlocked with a soft beep as I held my phone near the sensor. I pushed it open, dragging my suitcase behind me, and stopped in the doorway.
It was gorgeous.
Floor-to-ceiling windows flooded the space with golden late-afternoon light. Hardwood floors gleamed beneath my feet. The furniture was modern and elegant—a plush gray sofa, a sleek dining table, a bed with crisp white linens visible through the open bedroom door. The kitchen had marble countertops and stainless steel appliances that probably cost more than a year’s rent at my old place.
I hated it.
Or I should have hated it. I wanted to hate it. But as I stepped inside and let the door close behind me, I couldn’t deny the traitorous flutter of relief in my chest. This was mine. For three months, at least. I wouldn’t have to worry about rent, about eviction notices, about where I’d sleep next week.
All it cost was my dignity. My privacy. My body. My virginity.
I wheeled my suitcase to the bedroom and left it there, unable to summon the energy to unpack. The apartment felt too clean, too perfect, like a stage set waiting for the real performance to begin. I wondered how many other girls had lived here before me. How many had stood in this exact spot, looking around at their beautiful cage.
The need between my legs hadn’t diminished. If anything, it had grown worse. I pressed my thighs together as I walked back to the main room, trying to ignore the constant awareness of the seal, how my outer lips felt pressed together in that unnatural way.
I needed to shower. To wash away the afternoon, even if I couldn’t wash away what had been done to me.
The bathroom was as pristine as the rest of the apartment. White subway tiles, a rainfall showerhead, fluffy towels that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and stopped.
I looked wrecked. My hair was a mess, my eyes red and puffy from crying. My face was blotchy and pale. But it was the look in my eyes that made me pause—something desperate and frightened that I’d never seen there before.
I stripped off my clothes, wincing as my jeans scraped over the welts on my bottom. The marks were visible in the mirror when I turned—six parallel lines of raised, reddened flesh. I reached back and touched one gently, and the sting made me gasp.
But underneath the pain was that shameful heat again. I snatched my hand away.
The shower was hot and powerful, and I stood under the spray for a long time, letting the water cascade over my sore body. I tried not to think about the camera. Ann had said I had full privacy until I accepted a sponsor, but how could I be sure? How could I trust anything they’d told me?
My hand drifted down almost of its own accord, sliding over my hip and between my thighs. I gasped as my fingers found the seal.