Chapter 8
Pierre
Audrey Campbell’s profile proved just as diverting as I had hoped it might.
The notification came through on my SA app just as I was finishing dinner at Le Grand Véfour.
I’d been dining alone, reviewing reports on the narrowly averted power grid catastrophe while enjoying a nearly perfect filet de boeuf.
The soft chime of the app drew my attention away from my dessert—a delicate crème br?lée that would now have to wait.
I opened the app discreetly, angling my phone away from the nearby tables even in the privacy afforded by my corner location. The notification was simple, but compelling: Profile Complete: Audrey Campbell (First Intimacy Program).
I tapped the notification, and her profile loaded immediately.
The first image nearly made me set my espresso cup down with more force than intended.
She was seated on the edge of a bed, dressed in white lingerie that emphasized her youthful innocence while revealing enough to stir my immediate interest. White stockings encased slender legs, held up by a lace garter belt that framed her slim hips perfectly.
The matching thong did little to conceal her freshly waxed con, and the small breasts pushed up by the delicate bra appeared perfectly proportioned to her petite frame.
But her expression truly captured me—a mixture of shy reluctance and undeniable arousal that spoke of deep submissive tendencies barely recognized by the girl herself. Her blue eyes looked directly into the camera with a vulnerability that stirred something primal in me.
I swiped through the images, each more revealing than the last. In one particularly striking photo, she was bent forward over the bed, her bottom—still bearing what appeared to be the faint pinkness of a recent spanking—thrust outward invitingly.
In another, she wore a sheer white babydoll that concealed nothing, her hand sliding beneath the waistband of tiny white panties.
The final set of photos showed her masturbating, her expression transformed by pleasure even as embarrassment flushed her cheeks and chest. These images were particularly valuable for a connoisseur like me—they revealed a young woman whose body’s desires were at war with her conscious mind, a delicious conflict: one whose charm an experienced dominant like me had great difficulty resisting.
I took a sip of my espresso, savoring both the bitter flavor and the anticipation building within me.
The First Intimacy Premium would cost me two million euros—a significant sum, but hardly prohibitive for a man of my means.
The opportunity to claim this girl’s virginity, to be the first man to penetrate each of her holes and train her to serve my desires, was worth far more than money.
As long as I felt I could help her, of course—as long as our relationship had a chance of providing the mutual benefit on which I always insisted.
I scrolled down to read her profile information.
Twenty years old, American, formerly an intern at an energy conservation program—this last detail caught my attention.
My business interests in sustainable energy made this a particularly intriguing coincidence.
Perhaps we would have more to discuss than I’d initially anticipated.
Bonjour, Mademoiselle, I typed. May I introduce myself?
Audrey
The alert chime from the Selecta Arrangements app made me blush all on its own. I looked around the little kitchen of my beautiful new apartment as if someone might see me using the app, and judge me for it.
Despite having only been here a few hours, I’d already developed an affection for this place, my new home—even though it seemed in certain ways that it wasn’t really mine at all.
The apartment was nothing like the cramped, musty studio I’d been renting in the dreary suburb.
This place was all clean lines and modern luxury, nestled in the heart of the Marais district where I’d never imagined I could afford to live.
The kitchen alone boasted almost as much space as my entire previous apartment.
Gleaming stainless steel appliances reflected the warm light from recessed fixtures overhead.
The refrigerator had already spoken to me twice—once to welcome me to my ‘SA-subsidized residence’ and again to suggest a shopping list based on what it detected was missing from its pristine interior.
The stovetop had lit up when I’d approached it earlier, displaying recipe suggestions based on nutritional profiles preferred by top-tier sponsors.
Everything in the apartment seemed designed to make my life easier. At the same time, though, it had quickly become clear that the conveniences extended not just to me, but also to the man who decided to sponsor me.
The bathroom mirror doubled as a screen that displayed helpful reminders about personal grooming standards expected of SA associates.
The closet had scanned my meager wardrobe when I’d hung up my clothes and promptly informed me that ‘appropriate attire’ would be delivered tomorrow, courtesy of the Selecta Arrangements program.
Everything connected to the SA app, too.
The lights, the temperature, the entertainment system—all controlled through the same application that now put me in touch with ‘potential sponsors.’ The same app that had just chimed with a notification that someone had viewed my profile—and that had recorded my medical examination, my humiliating photoshoot, my body’s betrayal.
Even the elegant alarm clock on the bedside table seemed to be integrated with the system.
When I’d explored the bedroom earlier, I’d accidentally triggered its settings menu, revealing options for ‘Sponsor Override’ and ‘Remote Wake Protocols.’ Curious, I had tapped on them to no avail, and then realized they were grayed out.
Could my sponsor, whoever he might be, control those things?
The door to the apartment itself had no physical key—it recognized my face through a small camera embedded in the frame. “Facial recognition enabled for primary resident,” it had announced when I’d first arrived. “Secondary access permissions managed through Selecta Arrangements application.”
Secondary access. The phrase had lingered in my mind as I’d explored my new home. Did it mean that whoever became my sponsor would have automatic access to my apartment?
I took a deep breath and tapped on the notification.
A potential sponsor has sent you a message.
The app opened to reveal a profile picture of a distinguished-looking man with piercing hazel eyes and perfectly styled brown hair that fell just past his shoulders—longer than most businessmen wore theirs, but somehow perfectly suited to his elegant features.
Pierre Lemieux, the screen informed me. Age forty-two. Occupation: Investor.
My heart began to race. This was it—a real person, a wealthy man who had seen those humiliating photos and now wanted to… what? Own me? Buy me? The reality of what I’d committed to came crashing down on me with renewed force.
I opened his message with trembling fingers.
Bonjour, Mademoiselle. May I introduce myself?
Such a formal, polite greeting seemed almost comically at odds with the situation. This man had just viewed photographs of me in lingerie, touching myself, my most intimate parts exposed for his assessment. And now he wanted to exchange pleasantries?
I stared at the screen, unsure how to respond. The app helpfully provided suggestion buttons: I’d be delighted, Yes, please do, and I’m honored by your interest. Each phrase made my stomach clench with its artificial submissiveness.
Before I could decide, another message appeared.
I apologize if I’ve startled you. Perhaps I should begin by saying that I found your profile quite compelling. Your background in energy conservation particularly caught my interest, as it happens to align with several of my business ventures.
I blinked in surprise. Of all the things he might have mentioned—my body, my virginity, those mortifying photographs—he chose to comment on my professional background?
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. What was the proper etiquette for responding to a man who might soon own your sexual services?
Hello, I typed hesitantly. Thank you for your message. I paused, then added, I’m surprised you noticed that part of my profile.
His response came quickly.
I make it a point to read everything carefully, Mademoiselle Campbell. Beauty is abundant in Paris—intelligence with purpose, less so. Would you be available for coffee tomorrow afternoon? Perhaps I’m old-fashioned, but I believe conversation should precede other considerations.
Coffee. A normal, everyday activity. Not what I’d expected as a first step in this bizarre arrangement. But the thought of meeting this man in person, knowing he’d seen those photographs, made my heart race with anxiety.
Yes, I replied simply, before I could lose my nerve. Coffee would be nice.
Excellent. There is a café called Le Petit Jardin on Rue des Rosiers, in the Marais, where this useful app tells me you’re located.
I recognized the street name—it wasn’t far from my new apartment.
That would be fine, I responded.
Until tomorrow, then. Bonne nuit, Audrey.
The use of my first name sent an unexpected shiver through me. It felt strangely intimate after the formality of his earlier messages. I set the phone down on the kitchen counter and wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold even with the comfortable temperature of the apartment.
What had I gotten myself into? Tomorrow I would be sitting across from a stranger who had seen me naked, seen me touch myself, seen me orgasm—and who was considering paying millions of euros for the right to take my virginity.
The thought made me dizzy with a confusing mixture of shame, fear, and that persistent, unwanted arousal that seemed to haunt me since the moment I’d stepped into Selecta’s gleaming office building.
I moved to the bathroom, needing to splash cold water on my face.
The black box from Nurse Georges sat on the counter where I’d left it earlier.
I hadn’t been able to bring myself to open it yet, to look at the training plugs that apparently lay inside.
But now, with the reality of meeting Pierre Lemieux looming before me, I found myself reaching for it.
The box opened to reveal three smooth silicone plugs in graduating sizes—a small pink one, a medium blue one, and a large purple one—along with a bottle of lubricant.
A small pamphlet titled Anal Training for Selecta Arrangements Associates lay beside them.
The clinical presentation somehow made it all the more shameful.
I should throw this away, I thought. I should delete the app, pack my things, and find another solution.
But what solution? The questions that had haunted me all day returned with crushing force.
Thirty days until deportation. No money. No future.
I picked up the smallest plug, surprised by its weight in my hand.
It didn’t look too intimidating—about the size of my thumb, with a flared base to prevent it from going too far inside.
The first page of the pamphlet recommended starting with this size for at least three days before progressing to the next.
“Beginning tonight,” Nurse Georges had said. I glanced at my watch. It was already after nine.
With trembling hands, I opened the pamphlet, skimming the step-by-step instructions for insertion and care.
The plain language—apply lubricant liberally to both the plug and your anus, bear down gently to help the sphincter relax—made this seem like just another medical procedure, not the deeply intimate, taboo act it actually appeared from my perspective.
I set the plug back in the box and closed it, my heart racing. Not tonight. I couldn’t bring myself to do this tonight. Maybe tomorrow, after meeting Pierre. If he even wanted to pursue this arrangement after meeting me in person.
My phone chimed again from the kitchen. I hurried back, my heart racing. Another notification from the SA app.
Your profile performance metrics are now available.
Profile performance metrics? I tapped the notification with trepidation, and a screen of statistics appeared.
Profile Views: 124 (Last two hours)
Interest Rating: 98.7%
Potential Sponsor Inquiries: 17
First Intimacy Premium Bids: 3
My mouth went dry. One hundred and twenty-four men had viewed those photos of me in just two hours? Seventeen had already expressed interest in ‘sponsoring’ me? And three were willing to pay the premium price for my virginity?
I scrolled down further, seeing a chart labeled Most Engaging Images. The top-ranked photo was one from the end of my session—me lying back on the bed, panties pulled down, fingers between my legs, face flushed with unwanted pleasure. The caption read: 98.2% positive response rate.
I felt sick. Nearly a hundred men had looked at that image of me—my most private, vulnerable moment—and found it arousing enough to consider paying for the privilege of using my body.
The app chimed again.
Potential sponsor Pierre Lemieux has scheduled a meeting with you for tomorrow, 3:00 p.m., Le Petit Jardin. Would you like to confirm this appointment?
I tapped Confirm mechanically, my mind reeling. This was really happening. Tomorrow I would meet a man who might become my sponsor—a euphemism that barely disguised the reality of what I was agreeing to.
I moved to the bedroom, suddenly exhausted by the emotional rollercoaster of the day.
The bed looked invitingly comfortable, with crisp white sheets and a plush duvet that seemed to promise a good night’s sleep.
But as I approached, I wondered about something the app had mentioned in its ‘welcome to your new home’ message.
Surveillance on your apartment is 24/7, to ensure your safety and to provide you and your sponsor with the rich data that will help your relationship grow into a truly mutually beneficial arrangement.