Chapter 10
Audrey
I found the café in the Rue des Rosiers with no difficulty.
It nestled between a bakery and a vintage clothing shop, its facade painted a cheerful yellow with green trim.
Through the windows, I could see small round tables and an eclectic mix of chairs.
Despite its simple appearance, the clientele looked decidedly upscale—well-dressed Parisians sipping espresso and nibbling on patisseries.
I hesitated at the entrance, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
I had arrived ten minutes early, though I’d spent far too long agonizing over what to wear.
I’d finally settled on a simple blue sundress that I hoped struck the right balance between casual and presentable.
The morning delivery from Selecta had included several outfits that were far more provocative than anything I’d normally wear, but I couldn’t bring myself to don any of them for this first meeting.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The rich aroma of coffee enveloped me in its distinctively sharp French variety, along with the sweet scent of baked goods.
A few heads turned as I entered, and I felt my cheeks warm under the scrutiny.
Did they know? Could they somehow tell that I was here to meet a potential sponsor?
I claimed a small table near the back, positioning myself so I could see the door. A waitress approached, and I ordered a café crème, my French more halting than usual, then sat fidgeting with the napkin as I waited.
At precisely three o’clock, the café door opened, and Pierre Lemieux stepped inside.
In person, he looked even more imposing than his profile picture suggested.
Tall and elegantly proportioned, he carried himself with the easy confidence of a man accustomed to commanding respect.
His tailored suit—a subtle gray that somehow complemented his hazel eyes—looked as if some sophisticated textile machine or, more probably, a very expensive seamstress had matched it exactly to his frame.
His gaze swept the café, and when it landed on me, I felt a jolt of electricity run through my body. He smiled—a small, controlled curving of his lips—and strode toward my table.
“Mademoiselle Campbell,” he said, his voice deep and melodious, with just a hint of a French accent coloring his perfect English. “A pleasure to meet you in person.”
I stood awkwardly, unsure of the proper protocol. “Mr. Lemieux,” I managed, my voice sounding thin and breathless to my own ears.
He took my hand, raising it to his lips in a gesture that seemed both old-fashioned and oddly intimate. His lips barely brushed my skin, but the contact sent a shiver up my arm.
I became instantly conscious of the other patrons’ eyes, though I couldn’t meet any of them.
I felt certain that every person in the café—customers and servers alike—must know this well-heeled man intended to take me back to my apartment, make a woman of me, and claim me as his little whore in the most shameful way possible.
“Pierre, please,” he said, releasing my hand and taking the seat across from me. His voice betrayed nothing that might suggest the terrible, tiny fantasy that had just turned my cheeks dark pink. “May I call you Audrey?”
I nodded, sinking back into my chair. “Yes, of course.”
The waitress appeared almost instantly, as if summoned by some invisible signal. Pierre ordered an espresso in the masculine French tone that somehow conveyed an essential superiority without actually sounding rude at all. Then turned his attention back to me.
“You seem nervous,” he observed, his eyes studying my face with unsettling intensity. “I suppose that’s understandable, given the circumstances.”
I swallowed hard, trying to calm my racing heart. “It’s just… this is all very new to me.”
“Of course,” he nodded, his expression softening slightly. “Perhaps we should begin with something familiar. Tell me about your work in energy conservation. Your profile mentioned it was a passion of yours.”
The request surprised me. I’d expected him to immediately address the arrangement, perhaps even discuss the… well… physical aspects of what would be expected of me. Instead, he seemed genuinely interested in my professional background.
“I was working on barriers to comprehensive social engineering,” I explained, grateful for the neutral topic. “There’s a critical need for behavioral interventions, especially with the grid instabilities we’ve been seeing.”
Pierre nodded thoughtfully. “A worthy pursuit. The energy crisis has only worsened in recent years. My own investments in sustainable technology have faced similar challenges—balancing innovation with practical implementation.”
Our conversation flowed more easily than I’d anticipated.
Pierre asked intelligent questions about my research, sharing his own knowledge of the energy sector.
For brief moments, I almost forgot why we were really meeting—it felt like a normal conversation, perhaps even one between potential colleagues.
The waitress delivered our drinks, and Pierre took a sip of his espresso before setting the tiny cup down with precision.
“You’re quite knowledgeable,” he commented. “It’s a shame your internship ended prematurely.”
I looked down at my coffee. “The budget cuts in America. They canceled the program.”
“And now your visa is expiring,” he stated rather than asked.
I nodded, suddenly reminded of my desperate situation. “Thirty days.”
“Hence your interest in Selecta Arrangements,” Pierre said, his voice neutral, neither judgmental nor particularly sympathetic.
Heat flooded my cheeks. “I didn’t have many options,” I admitted.
“Few of us truly do when circumstances become difficult,” he replied. “The illusion of choice is a luxury many cannot afford.”
He took another sip of his espresso, watching me over the rim of the cup. Those hazel eyes seemed to see right through me, noting every nervous gesture, every blush.
“Tell me, Audrey,” he continued, “what do you know about Selecta’s involvement in energy policy?”
The question caught me off guard. “Not much,” I confessed. “I know they’re a major corporation with interests in many sectors, but I haven’t specifically researched their energy initiatives.”
Pierre nodded. “Selecta has been quietly acquiring sustainable energy patents for the past decade. Their New Modesty program includes significant energy conservation measures.”
“The New Modesty?” I repeated, trying to give the impression that I had at most a vague familiarity with the phrase, perhaps from news headlines I’d skimmed.
“Yes,” Pierre confirmed. “A rather fascinating social experiment that combines traditional gender roles with modern efficiency goals. It’s gained considerable traction in France and parts of Eastern Europe.
” His eyes studied me carefully. “You haven’t researched that aspect of Selecta’s operations? ”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “I… I’ve avoided reading too much about the New Modesty,” I admitted, my voice dropping to almost a whisper.
“And why is that?” Pierre asked, leaning forward slightly, his interest clearly piqued.
I stared down at my coffee, unable to meet his gaze. “Because of how it makes me feel,” I said finally, the words more a mumble than an articulate utterance.
“And how does it make you feel, Audrey?”
My chest tightened, my breath catching in my throat.
How could I possibly explain the confusing mixture of revulsion and arousal that had flooded through me when I’d glimpsed articles about the program?
About how women were returning to ‘traditional roles’ that seemed to involve a disturbing amount of corporal punishment?
About how their husbands and ‘guardians’ were given legal authority to discipline them for infractions ranging from wasting energy to speaking out of turn?
“I’d rather not say,” I whispered, my face burning.
Pierre didn’t press the issue, but a slight smile curved his lips, as if my reluctance had confirmed something for him.
He changed the subject smoothly, asking about my hometown in Illinois, my education, my interests outside of work.
The conversation returned to safer ground, though I remained acutely aware of the unspoken purpose of our meeting.
As we talked, I found myself studying him more closely.
His hands were elegant, with long fingers and neatly trimmed nails.
They moved with precision as he gestured occasionally to emphasize a point.
I couldn’t help imagining those hands on my body, touching me intimately, perhaps even delivering discipline like Theodore had done during my photo session.
The thought sent an unwelcome surge of heat between my legs.
“You’re blushing,” Pierre observed, interrupting my inappropriate thoughts. “Have I said something to embarrass you?”
“No,” I said quickly, mortified that my thoughts had been so transparent. “I was just… thinking.”
“About?” he prompted, his gaze never leaving my face.
“Nothing important,” I lied, but I could tell from his expression that he didn’t believe me.
“I find that difficult to accept,” Pierre said softly. “Your face is quite expressive, Audrey. It reveals much even when your words conceal.”
I looked away, desperate to escape his penetrating gaze.
My eyes landed on a young couple seated near the window—the man’s hand rested possessively on the woman’s thigh, his thumb tracing small circles on her skin.
Something about their dynamic, the subtle dominance in his posture and the yielding quality in hers, made me think again of the awfulness of the New Modesty program.
Worse, though I tried to push the memory away I couldn’t help remembering how it had felt to write the bio for my profile in the SA app, as I looked at the photos Theodore had taken.
The app had guided me through the process, offering helpful suggestions in that same clinical tone that somehow made everything more mortifying.
Your bio should emphasize your innocence while suggesting your willingness to learn, the app had prompted. Sponsors respond positively to phrases indicating a desire for guidance and structure.
I remembered staring at the blank text field, my fingers hovering uncertainly over the keyboard on my phone. What could I possibly write that wouldn’t make me die of embarrassment?
The app had helpfully provided sample phrases: I’m looking for a mature man to guide me… I’ve always responded well to firm direction… I believe in traditional values…
As I’d sat there, struggling to find words that wouldn’t make me cringe, I’d glanced again at the humiliating photos Theodore or, more probably, Mona had selected for my profile—displayed in thumbnails at the top of the screen.
In one particularly mortifying shot, my face was captured at the moment of climax, my expression a mixture of pleasure and shame that made my stomach clench even now, remembering it.
To my dismay, I remembered, I’d actually thought about the New Modesty as I had given up and simply followed the app’s embarrassing suggestions.
My reluctance to research the program in detail notwithstanding, I’d seen enough headlines to understand its basic premise: the central idea of a return to traditional gender roles, where men led and women submitted, where disobedience was met with stern correction, and where a woman’s primary value lay in her obedience and service.
The articles I’d skimmed had mentioned how women in the program were expected to maintain certain standards of dress and behavior, how they surrendered autonomy in exchange for security, how they were subject to discipline at their husband’s or guardian’s discretion.
The few images I’d glimpsed had shown women in modest yet somehow provocative clothing, their eyes downcast, their postures submissive.
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.