Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 76329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
I rolled onto my stomach, then followed her instructions to get onto my knees and elbows, my bottom raised high. The position was mortifyingly exposed, but I was beyond protesting at this point.
“You’ve got a very pretty little hole,” Simone commented casually as she applied wax between my cheeks. “Your sponsor will appreciate that.”
I buried my face in my arms, unable to respond. Simone ripped a strip away, and I whimpered, biting my lip, as I thought again about the man Nurse Georges had conjured up—the sponsor who would pay the premium to claim me… conquer me… master me…
“You’re all set,” Simone told me. “You’ll want to put lotion on tonight to soothe the area a bit. You should make an appointment for two weeks out—SA covers all your waxes, and sponsors can be particular.”
I scrambled to turn and looked around for my underwear and my skirt. Just that movement felt strange, between my legs, and I felt my mouth twist to the side at the distracting new sensation.
“That’s…” I said, with no idea of what kind of adjective I meant to finish the thought with. My cheeks flushed as I contemplated the idea of being held to such an embarrassing standard of hygiene.
“I’m serious,” Simone continued, as if she thought I might be in denial about the importance of the matter. “Some of them will report you if they think you’re letting yourself go down there. Or… you know… a lot of them will just take the matter into their own hands and whip you.”
The blush in my face turned into a whole-body surge of heat. I had seen the vague references to traditional discipline, but I supposed now that I had thought that meant simply following a sponsor’s lead, or something like that.
I stared at Simone, as she put the things on her cart in order. She glanced up at me, clearly noticing my confusion, how I had stopped in the middle of putting my panties on.
“Here’s the thing,” she said. “Selecta made you the offer when they did because you need help—but their specialty isn’t really that kind of need.”
“What?” I asked, as I raised my underwear hastily, then had to bite my lip as I became aware of how strange my pussy felt, bare and smooth against the cotton.
“I know it’s hard to think about, especially at the start,” Simone said with a wry smile that made me think she had first-hand knowledge of the subject. “And I don’t want to distress you, because you’re going to be upset enough without me adding to it. But… think hard about what you really, really need.”
I realized that my breathing and my heart rate had both sped up wildly. Simone could clearly see my physical distress. She gave me a sympathetic smile.
“You should get going,” she said gently. “I bet your photoshoot is starting soon.”
Room 1650 was across the hall and two doors down. On the door, the sign said Photography. I stepped into the studio, still trying to adjust to the unfamiliar feeling between my legs. The freshly waxed skin felt impossibly smooth and extremely vulnerable, as if a layer of protection had been stripped away from me—as it literally had been, though I had never thought of my pubic curls as any sort of shield.
The reception area looked sleek and minimalist, with black leather chairs and large framed photographs on the walls. I couldn’t help but notice that all the photos featured beautiful young women in various states of undress, though they were tasteful enough that they might have appeared in upscale fashion magazines. The lighting was soft and flattering, making each subject look ethereal and desirable.
A perfectly groomed receptionist looked up as I entered. She wore a fitted black dress and had brown hair up in a ponytail that somehow made her sharp features look even more intimidating.
“Name?” she asked, her fingers poised over a tablet.
“Audrey Campbell,” I replied, my voice small. “I have an appointment for… for photos.”
Her eyes flicked up and down my body in a quick assessment that made me feel like a horse at auction. “Ah yes. First Intimacy Program.” She tapped something on her tablet. “Theodore is ready for you. Go right in.”
As she gestured toward a door at the back of the reception area, the door opened and a young woman emerged. She looked to be about my age, maybe a year or two older, with dark hair and olive skin. Her clothes seemed to be in disarray—her blouse half-buttoned and her skirt slightly askew—and her face was flushed deep red. She kept her eyes downcast as she hurried past me toward the exit.
The sight of her disheveled state and obvious embarrassment made my stomach clench with anxiety. What exactly happened in these photo sessions?
I approached the door with leaden feet, each step feeling like I was walking deeper into a trap I’d set for myself. But what choice did I have? Thirty days until deportation. No money. No future.