Chapter 6
Audrey
“You can’t—” My protest was cut short by the sharp crack of his hand against my skirt-covered bottom. The sting shocked me into momentary silence. I couldn’t process what was happening. This man—this stranger—had just started spanking me like a disobedient child.
“You can’t do this!” I finally managed to gasp out, my voice high with indignation and shock.
His hand came down again, harder this time, the impact jolting through my body.
“I assure you I can,” Theodore replied, his voice calm and matter-of-fact despite the violence of his actions. “And I will continue until you understand your position.”
Another smack landed, then another, each one sending a wave of heat spreading across my bottom. I squirmed helplessly, unable to escape his iron grip.
“Stop it!” I cried, mortified to feel tears springing to my eyes. “Let me go!”
“She could use more than a few smacks, I think,” Mona commented from somewhere behind us, her voice laced with amusement. “These American girls always think they can negotiate everything.”
Theodore continued spanking me methodically, his large hand covering most of my bottom with each stinging slap.
“This isn’t a negotiation, Ms. Campbell.
This is a lesson in compliance. When you enter the Selecta Arrangements program, you’ll be expected to obey without question.
Your sponsors won’t tolerate arguments or delays. ”
The spanking continued, each smack landing with precise force. I was acutely aware of my skirt riding up with each blow, exposing more of my thighs. Worse, I felt a disturbing warmth building between my legs that had nothing to do with the sting in my bottom.
“I’ll get changed!” I finally blurted out, desperate for the humiliating punishment to end. “Please, stop!”
The spanking paused, Theodore’s hand resting heavily on my heated flesh. “You’ll get changed here, as instructed, without further argument?”
“Yes,” I whispered, my face burning with humiliation.
“Good.” His hand moved, and for a moment I thought he would let me up—instead, I felt him grasp the hem of my skirt and flip it up onto my back, fully exposing my panty-clad bottom.
I gasped in shock. “What are you doing?”
“Making sure the lesson is properly learned,” he replied calmly. His fingers hooked into the waistband of my underwear, and before I could protest further, he tugged them down to mid-thigh.
“No!” I cried, my hands flying back to cover myself. “Please, don’t!”
Theodore captured my wrists in one large hand, pinning them to the small of my back. “Move your hands again, and I’ll have Mona tie them,” he warned.
I froze, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I pictured myself draped across a man’s lap, my bare bottom on display for his much-too-interested assistant.
“Please,” I sobbed, mortification washing over me in waves. “I said I’d change.”
Theodore’s hand came down hard on my bare flesh, the sting ten times worse without the protection of my skirt and panties. I yelped, tears springing to my eyes.
“I’ll stop when I believe you’ve learned your lesson,” he said, his voice maddeningly calm as he delivered another sharp slap. “Not before.”
The spanking continued relentlessly, each smack setting my bottom ablaze.
My awareness of Mona watching, of her eyes on my most private parts as Theodore’s punishment exposed everything, seemed too much to bear.
Much, much worse—to my absolute horror, I felt myself growing wet between my legs, my body betraying me with arousal even as my mind recoiled in shame.
“She’s responding quite nicely,” Mona observed, her voice carrying a note of clinical interest that somehow made it all even more humiliating. “Look at how pink her little bottom is getting.”
Theodore’s hand paused, resting on my burning flesh. I felt his fingers shift slightly, moving down to where my thighs met, dangerously close to my exposed sex.
“Indeed,” he murmured. “And she’s quite wet. The perineal sensor must be picking up some interesting readings right now.”
I whimpered at his words, squeezing my eyes shut. The perineal sensor. I’d almost forgotten about the tiny thing Nurse Georges had installed, silently monitoring my body’s responses. Was someone watching those readings somewhere? Could they see how my traitorous body was reacting?
“Please,” I whispered again, my voice breaking. “I’ll change. I’ll do whatever you want.”
Theodore delivered one final, stinging slap before releasing my wrists. “Stand up,” he commanded.
I scrambled to my feet, yanking up my panties and pushing down my skirt, desperate to cover myself. My face felt as hot as my throbbing bottom, tears streaming down my cheeks as I struggled to regain some semblance of dignity.
“Now,” Theodore said, his tone casual, as if he hadn’t just spanked me like a child, “let’s try again. Mona has selected some appropriate lingerie for your shoot. You will put it on here, without argument.”
I nodded, unable to meet his eyes. “Yes, sir,” I whispered, the honorific slipping out unbidden, an artifact from a midwestern childhood.
A small smile curved Theodore’s lips. “Good girl. Now we’re making progress.”
Mona approached with the white lingerie set, holding it out to me. “Let’s get you changed, darling. Your bottom will look very fetching against the white lace.”
Trying hard not to think about what I was doing, I began to unbutton my blouse. I got it off and dropped it on a chair Mona showed me. I stood there shaking in just my bra and skirt, acutely aware of both Theodore and Mona watching me with what seemed more than professional interest.
“The skirt next, darling,” Mona prompted, with a scornful half-smile when I hesitated.
I unzipped the garment and let it fall, stepping out with trembling legs. Now in just my plain cotton bra and panties, I felt horribly exposed. The smooth, freshly waxed skin between my legs felt hypersensitive against the cotton of my underwear.
Bared for my sponsor’s pleasure. I swallowed hard.
“Those too, Audrey,” Mona said, gesturing to my underwear and shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe she had to tell me to take off each article.
My hands shook as I unhooked my bra and slipped it off, then pushed my panties down my legs. I stood naked before them, my arms instinctively crossing over my breasts, my thighs pressed tightly together.
“Arms at your sides,” Theodore instructed.
I dropped my arms slowly, blinking back fresh tears as I stood completely exposed. The air-conditioning raised goosebumps across my skin, my nipples hardening in response—a reaction I prayed they would attribute to the cold rather than the confusing arousal still pulsing through me.
“Very nice,” Mona assessed, circling me. “Small breasts, but nicely shaped. Elegant lines. Good hip-to-waist ratio. And the Brazilian was well done—your pussy looks delightfully innocent. The sponsors will be quite pleased.”
Her casual appraisal of my naked body sent another wave of heat through me—embarrassment mingled with that unwanted, inexplicable arousal. I hated how my body was responding, how some part of me seemed to crave this objectification even as my conscious mind recoiled from it.
“Let’s get you into the garter belt,” she continued, wrapping the lacy band around my waist and fastening it at the back. “This sits here, just above your hips.”
Next came the stockings—sheer white nylon that Mona guided up my legs with practiced hands. I stood motionless as she attached each stocking to the dangling garters, her fingers occasionally brushing against my inner thighs in a way that made me flinch.
“Remember,” she instructed, “when your sponsor gives you a garter belt, which I’m sure he will… the panties go on over the suspenders.”
I almost asked why—but then with a hot blush I figured it out.
The realization hit me like a physical blow.
The panties go on over the garter straps so they can be removed without taking off the stockings.
So a man can pull them down or aside to…
to use me… while keeping me dressed in the lingerie he finds arousing.
My face blazed with fresh heat as Mona handed me the white lace thong. I stepped into it with trembling legs, pulling it up over the thin straps of the garter belt as instructed. The unfamiliar sensation of the thong between my newly bare bottom cheeks made me shift uncomfortably.
“Good girl,” Mona murmured, her tone carrying that same condescending approval I was beginning to recognize from everyone at Selecta. “Now the bra.”
The bra matched the thong—delicate white lace that seemed designed more for display than support.
It cupped my small breasts, pushing them up and together to create the illusion of more cleavage than I naturally possessed.
The lace was scratchy against my sensitive nipples, which remained traitorously hard in spite of my discomfort.
“There,” Mona said, stepping back to assess me. “Theodore, what do you think?”
The photographer had been watching the entire process with clinical detachment, but now his gaze sharpened as he looked me up and down.
“Turn around,” he instructed.
I rotated slowly, painfully aware of how the thong left my spanked bottom almost completely exposed. The cool air against my heated skin was a strange relief, even as I cringed at the thought of them seeing the evidence of my punishment.
“The redness works well with the white,” Theodore observed dispassionately. “Gives her an air of submission that sponsors will appreciate.”
I flushed again at his words. The idea that the marks of my humiliation would be preserved in photographs for strange men to see made me want to sink through the floor.
“We need shoes,” Mona said, moving to a cabinet along the wall. She returned with a pair of white stiletto heels that looked impossibly high. “These should fit.”
I took the shoes with shaking hands. I’d never worn anything with heels this high before—at least five inches, with pointed toes and delicate ankle straps. I sat on the edge of a nearby chair to put them on, wincing as my tender bottom made contact with the hard surface.
When I stood, I wobbled precariously, my ankles threatening to give way beneath me. Mona steadied me with a hand on my elbow.
“Walk a bit,” she instructed. “You need to get used to them before we start shooting.”
I took a few tentative steps, feeling like a newborn foal.
The heels forced my back to arch, thrusting my chest forward and my bottom out in a way that felt obscenely provocative.
I felt like a caricature of femininity—a sexualized doll, dressed for a man’s pleasure.
Yet with each wobbling step, I became increasingly aware of the wet heat between my legs, the way my body seemed to respond to its own objectification.
“That’s it,” Mona encouraged, her hand on the small of my back guiding me toward the bed setup. “Tiny steps. Lead with your hips.”
I followed her instructions, feeling like a prostitute as I practiced walking in the towering heels. The way they changed my posture, forced my body into this exaggerated feminine stance—it felt both alien and strangely natural, as if some part of me had been waiting for this transformation.
I am a prostitute now, though, aren’t I? I had to bite back a little whimper at the thought. I had decided to sell my virginity, hadn’t I?
By the time I reached the bed area, Theodore had his camera ready, a large, professional-looking device mounted on a tripod. The studio lights had been adjusted, bathing the white bed in a soft, flattering glow.
“Sit on the edge of the bed,” he instructed, his voice back to that impersonal, professional tone.
I perched carefully on the edge of the mattress, the heels forcing my knees together and my back straight. My hands instinctively moved to cover my exposed thighs.
“Hands at your sides,” Theodore reminded me sharply. “And look at the camera.”
I dropped my hands and raised my eyes to the lens, feeling utterly vulnerable. The camera clicked, and I flinched at the sound.
“Relax your face,” Theodore said. “You look terrified.”
I am terrified, I wanted to say, but instead I tried to smooth my features into something less panicked. The camera clicked again, capturing my discomfort for posterity.
“Now lean back slightly, hands behind you on the bed,” he directed.
I followed his instructions, leaning back to support my weight on my arms. The position thrust my breasts forward, the lace cups barely containing them.
“Good,” Theodore murmured, the camera clicking rapidly. “Now part your knees. Just slightly.”
I hesitated, then inched my knees apart, feeling the cool air against my thinly covered sex. The thong hid almost nothing, and I knew the freshly waxed skin of my intimate parts must be visible through the delicate lace.
“More,” Theodore instructed firmly.
I spread my legs wider, my face burning hot with shame as I exposed myself further for his camera. Click, click, click went the shutter, preserving my humiliation.
“Now stand up and turn around,” he said. “Bend forward slightly, hands on the bed.”