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 remembered how my heart had raced as I’d read those brief descriptions, how my body had responded with that same unwanted arousal that seemed to plague me at every stage of this process. In the app’s impersonal interface, trying not to stare at those humiliating photos of myself, I had typed the words that now made my face burn with renewed heat as I sat across from Pierre:
I’m looking forward to getting to know real men and finding the right one to take care of me and to make a woman of me.
The memory of writing those words sent another wave of heat surging through my body. My fingers had barely stayed steady as I’d typed them, some part of me insisting that I didn’t really mean it, that I was just writing what the app suggested, what would appeal to potential sponsors. I’d told myself it was just a means to an end, a necessary compromise to secure my future in Paris.
But sitting here now, across from Pierre with his evaluating gaze and commanding presence, I couldn’t maintain that comfortable fiction. The truth was, something deep inside me had responded to those words even as I’d typed them. Some hidden part of myself—a part I’d spent years denying, suppressing, ignoring—had thrilled to the idea of surrender, of being taken in hand by a man strong enough, confident enough to guide me.
I glanced up at Pierre, then down again. I found myself studying his elegant hands as they rested on the table. I imagined those hands guiding me, correcting me, teaching me. I pictured them spanning my waist, gripping my hips, delivering a firm spanking when I misbehaved. The images flooded my mind unbidden, making my breath catch and my thighs press together beneath the table.
“I’d really rather not talk about it,” I said finally, looking up despite the rush of blood it brought to my cheeks and trying to inject some firmer element into my voice.
Something flashed in Pierre’s eyes: irritation, perhaps even anger. A thrill of fear shot through my body, but along with it, to my horror, came a heat down below my belly and along with it, much worse, a clench between my thighs that made me squirm, visibly, in my seat.
Oh, no, I thought, as I saw the movement register on Pierre’s face. Oh, please, no.
CHAPTER 11
Pierre
I had thought, up to that moment, that this date had gone rather poorly.
Audrey Campbell was certainly beautiful—more so in person than in her photographs, even, with a luminous quality to her skin and an expressiveness in her blue eyes that the camera hadn’t fully captured. Her intelligence, too, was evident in our conversation about energy conservation. She clearly possessed both the technical knowledge and the passion that her profile had hinted at.
But there was something hesitant, almost resistant in her manner that troubled me. She answered my questions politely enough, but with a guardedness that suggested she was merely going through the motions of setting up an arrangement. Though she had initiated the Selecta process herself, she seemed uncomfortable with its implications, flinching slightly whenever our conversation veered toward anything related to the actual nature of our potential relationship.
I had begun to wonder if she was truly suited for the kind of arrangement I sought. I had no interest in a partner who merely put on a pretense of submission, regardless of how physically appealing or intellectually stimulating she might prove. In my experience, such arrangements only worked when a girl truly yearned to submit—even if she had a difficult time admitting it at first.
But then came the telling, revealing moment when she refused to discuss her feelings about the New Modesty program. Her body had betrayed what her words tried to conceal. The flush that crept up her neck to stain her cheeks. The quickening of her breath. And most significantly, that unconscious squirm in her seat, her thighs pressing together as if to contain the arousal that my mild display of dominance had triggered.
Now that was interesting. Very interesting indeed.
“I see,” I said quietly, letting the moment stretch between us. I took another sip of my espresso, watching her over the rim of the cup. Her discomfort was palpable, but so was something else—an awareness of her own response, and a struggle against it.
The Selecta Arrangements app had been quite specific in its assessment of Audrey Campbell: Subject displays classic submissive response patterns, her conscious resistance notwithstanding. Perineal sensor readings indicate strong arousal in response to authority figures and firm correction.
I had been skeptical of this assessment—I didn’t have much experience with the technology—and I’d found myself doubting its efficacy in the past. But now, seeing her reaction with my own eyes, I began to think the app would prove correct in this instance.
“You know, Audrey,” I continued after a calculated pause, “one of the primary benefits of a Selecta Arrangement is the freedom it provides.”