Chapter 3
Audrey
I heard a series of soft beeps, and realized Nurse Georges must be monitoring something on her tablet. The prickling sensation intensified briefly, then subsided into a gentle warmth that radiated outward in a way that made me shift uncomfortably on the table.
“Now we’ll calibrate the sensor,” Nurse Georges continued, setting her tablet on a small stand where she could glance at it. “It needs to establish baseline responses.”
I had no idea what that meant until her gloved hands suddenly moved to my breasts. I gasped in shock, my eyes flying open.
“What are you—”
“Lie still, please,” she interrupted firmly. “This is necessary for proper calibration.”
Her hands cupped my small breasts, her touch impersonal yet somehow deeply invasive.
I felt my face flood with heat, the blush spreading down my neck and chest. To my absolute horror, I felt my nipples hardening against her palms, betraying a physical response that had nothing to do with my conscious feelings.
“Good,” she murmured, glancing at the tablet. “The sensor is picking up your sexual responses perfectly.”
I wanted to disappear through the floor. This wasn’t a medical exam—it was some kind of perverted evaluation. And yet I couldn’t bring myself to protest, to demand that she stop, to get up and leave. Thirty days echoed in my head like a death knell. No visa. No money. No future.
Nurse Georges began to circle my nipples with her thumbs, watching the tablet screen intently.
I couldn’t help the small whimper that escaped my lips as her thumbs continued their little circles.
My body was responding in ways I couldn’t control, and the knowledge that some device had measured those responses made it all the more humiliating.
“Please,” I whispered. “Can you… can you stop?”
“I told you. The sensor needs to establish baseline arousal patterns,” Nurse Georges explained dispassionately. “Your responses are quite strong. That’s good—it means you’re naturally susceptible to dominant sexual stimulation.”
She removed her hands from my breasts and checked her tablet again. “The perineal sensor is functioning perfectly. We’ll proceed with the examination to verify your eligibility for the First Intimacy Premium.”
I tried to keep my gaze fixed upward as I heard her moving about, opening drawers and preparing instruments. The paper beneath me crinkled loudly with each involuntary shiver that passed through my body.
“I’m going to examine your genitals now,” she announced, as dispassionately as if she were about to check my throat for strep. “You’ll feel my touch. Try to relax.”
Relax? I almost laughed hysterically at the suggestion. How could anyone relax in this position? But I took a deep breath and tried to loosen my tense muscles as her gloved fingers gently parted my labia.
“Good,” she murmured, more to herself, or maybe to a recorder app on her tablet, than to me. “External genitalia appear normal and healthy.”
I felt her fingers exploring, touching parts of me I’d barely acknowledged myself.
The casual nature of her touch somehow made it more bearable—and yet, to my mortification, I could feel a warm, liquid sensation gathering between my legs.
The horrible sensor must be detecting that too, I realized with fresh embarrassment.
“Now I’m going to use a speculum to examine your vaginal canal and cervix,” she said. “You’ll feel some pressure.”
I heard the clink of metal and then felt something cold and hard pressing against the opening to my virgin sheath. I gasped as the speculum entered me, the sensation strange and invasive, but not quite painful.
“Breathe,” Nurse Georges instructed, sounding almost bored. “If you focus on your breath, it will help you relax.”
I tried to think only about my breathing as I felt the speculum open inside me, stretching me in a way I’d never experienced before. A bright light suddenly appeared between my spread thighs, and I realized she was using some kind of examination light to peer inside me.
“Mmm,” she hummed thoughtfully. “As expected, your hymen is intact. Clear evidence of no prior penetration.”
I squeezed my eyes shut tighter, as if that could somehow shield me from this invasion of privacy.
“I need to document this for your file,” she said. “Hold very still.”
I heard a soft click, and my eyes flew open in alarm. “Did you just—”
“Take a picture? Yes,” she confirmed without a hint of apology. “We’re talking about a good deal of money here, after all. Verification is essential. It’s also important that you have a thorough understanding of what will happen when your first sponsor thrusts his penis into your vagina.”
To my horror, she held up her tablet in front of my face.
The screen displayed a high-resolution, clinical image of my most intimate parts spread open by the speculum. Nurse Georges pointed with a gloved finger to a little white ring in the middle.
“That’s the membrane we call the hymen,” she said. “When a man’s penis enters you, it will rupture your hymen. That will cause some discomfort, but it will pass quickly. More important, perhaps, your submissive sexuality will make the discomfort itself a source of excitement.”
I turned my head away, my cheeks burning with humiliation.
“Please, I don’t want to see that,” I whispered, though I didn’t feel sure that the nurse’s mortifying words hadn’t disturbed me more than the terribly graphic image. I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes.
“You should familiarize yourself with your own anatomy,” Nurse Georges replied, her tone matter-of-fact as she finally lowered the tablet. “It’s important for you to understand what your sponsor will be purchasing.”
Purchasing. The word made my stomach clench. Is that what this was? Was I selling myself? The clinical framing of Selecta’s ‘arrangement’ suddenly felt like a thin veneer over something much more primitive.
“We’re not quite finished,” Nurse Georges continued, removing the speculum with a slick sound that made me wince. “I’m going to examine your rectum as well.”
I tensed immediately. “My… rectum?” I stammered, my voice barely audible.
“Of course. Selecta Arrangement sponsors have the right to expect full sexual access to your body, especially at the luxury level where the First Intimacy Program comes into play,” she explained as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
“I need to assess your suitability for anal penetration.”
Before I could object, I felt her gloved finger, now slick with some kind of lubricant, pressing against my anus. I gasped, my body instinctively trying to pull away from the intrusion.
“Relax,” she instructed firmly. “Bearing down slightly will make this easier.”
I tried to follow her instructions, focusing on my breathing as her finger slowly pressed inside me.
The sensation was terribly odd—uncomfortable, invasive, and yet, to my profound mortification, also not entirely unpleasant.
I felt my face flush even hotter as my body betrayed me once again, a soft involuntary moan escaping my lips.
“The sensor indicates increased arousal,” Nurse Georges observed clinically. “That’s good. Many young women find anal stimulation quite pleasurable once they become accustomed to it—especially girls as submissive as you are.”
Her finger withdrew, and I heard the snap of her changing gloves. The momentary relief was short-lived as I felt the cold metal of another speculum pressing against my rear opening.
“This will be uncomfortable,” she warned, though her tone held no particular sympathy. “Try to relax.”
The pressure was more intense this time, a stretching sensation that bordered on pain as the speculum slowly opened inside me. I bit my lip hard to keep from crying out, my fingers clutching at the edges of the examination table.
“Very good,” Nurse Georges murmured after what felt like an eternity. “Your rectal tissues appear healthy and normal. No abnormalities.”
I heard another click and knew she had taken another photograph, though mercifully she didn’t show me this one.
“The speculum is coming out now,” she announced. “Bear down gently.”
I followed her instructions, feeling the metal device slide out of me. Its removal left me feeling strangely empty and exposed. I lay there, breathing heavily, trying to process the humiliation I’d just endured. But Nurse Georges wasn’t finished with me yet.
“Based on my examination,” she said, making notes on her tablet, “your anal passage is quite tight. This is to be expected, of course, but you should know that initial anal penetration will be quite uncomfortable for you.”
I stared at the ceiling, wishing I could disappear.
How had my life come to this point? Just yesterday I’d been a respected intern at an international energy program.
Now I was naked on an examination table while a clinical-voiced nurse discussed my anal passage as casually as if she were talking about my dental health.
“Regular training with an anal plug will help prepare you,” she continued, her tone neutral. “Your sponsor will expect you to welcome his penis there. Preparation can make the experience more comfortable for you—and more pleasurable for your sponsor.”
I swallowed hard, not trusting myself to speak. The thought of being penetrated there by a man—by a stranger—made my stomach clench with anxiety.
“I’ll send you home with a set of anal plugs and detailed instructions on how to prepare your bottom for your sponsor’s enjoyment,” Nurse Georges said, as if she were telling me she’d be prescribing vitamins.
“The training regimen is quite straightforward. You’ll start with the smallest size and gradually work your way up as your body adjusts. ”
She moved around the examination room, opening drawers and collecting items I couldn’t see from my position. The casual way she discussed these intimate matters made them seem almost normal, as if every young woman naturally prepared her body for a stranger’s sexual use.