Chapter 12
Audrey
I repeated the mantra all the way back to my apartment, my steps quickening with each block as if I could outrun the heat building between my legs, the shameful excitement Pierre’s words had kindled.
There’s no way. There’s no way.
Eight thousand euros. The sum kept flashing in my mind, tantalizing me with visions of financial security, of breathing room, of a chance to establish myself in Paris without the desperate scramble to make ends meet.
And, if Pierre decided to deflower me… no, if I decided to let him take my virginity, I would have enough to live well for a year, at least.
But it wasn’t just the money, was it? If I were being honest with myself—truly honest in a way I’d avoided for years—there was something else drawing me toward Pierre’s offer.
Something that had nothing to do with practical concerns and everything to do with the way my body had responded to his commanding presence, his penetrating gaze, his absolute certainty.
As I approached my building, I found myself slowing, reluctant to face the decision awaiting me inside.
The doorman nodded politely as I entered, and I wondered how much he knew about Selecta Arrangements, whether he could somehow tell that I was one of those girls now.
The thought sent another wave of embarrassment through me, but underneath it, undeniably, was that persistent pulse of arousal.
The elevator ride to my floor seemed interminable. I leaned against the wall, closing my eyes as I tried to sort through the tangled mess of my thoughts and feelings. What kind of woman was I becoming? What would my friends back home think if they knew? What would I think of myself tomorrow?
When I finally entered my apartment, the first thing I noticed was a white box on the coffee table that hadn’t been there when I’d left. The Selecta logo gleamed on its lid in subtle red embossing, outlined in silver. I approached it cautiously, as if it might contain something dangerous.
It did.
I lifted the lid with trembling fingers to find the white babydoll nightgown from my photo session, precisely folded atop tissue paper, with the tiny thong beside it. A small card rested on top, bearing a message in elegant script: For tonight’s lesson.—P.L.
He must have sent this right after leaving the café. The realization hit me with surprising force. Pierre had been so confident that I would accept, so certain of my response, that he’d arranged for this delivery while I was still sitting with my coffee, wondering what had just taken place.
I should be outraged by his presumption. I should throw the box across the room, delete the SA app, and find another solution to my problems.
Instead, I found myself lifting the nightgown from its nest of tissue, feeling the whisper-soft fabric between my fingers. It was even sheerer than I remembered, the delicate lace trim at the neckline and hem more exquisite. It would hide nothing from Pierre’s gaze. The thought made me shiver.
My phone chimed, the distinctive tone of the SA app pulling me from my reverie. I set down the nightgown and reached for my phone with unsteady hands.
Selecta Arrangements Notice: Sponsor Pierre Lemieux has requested apartment access.
The words seemed to pulse on the screen. This was it—the moment of decision. If I granted access, I’d be crossing a threshold from which there might be no return.
My finger hovered over the screen, trembling slightly.
I thought again of those eight thousand euros, of the breathing room they would provide.
But more than that, I thought of Pierre’s eyes, of the way he’d seen through my protests to the confusion beneath, of how my body had responded to his authority even amidst my conscious resistance.
I watched my finger move, as if another woman had forced it toward the Yes button. The tip of my finger pressed the screen, as my heart jumped in my chest.
Access Granted.
My stomach lurched as the confirmation appeared on screen. I’d done it. I’d actually done it. The app chimed again almost immediately.
Why? How?
Sponsor Pierre Lemieux has transferred 8,000 EUR to your account.
A sudden dizziness washed over me, and I sank onto the couch, still clutching my phone. The money was real. The arrangement was real. Tonight was real.
I glanced at the clock: 4:17 p.m. Less than four hours until Pierre would arrive, expecting to find me in that revealing nightgown, ready for whatever ‘lesson’ he had planned.
I looked down at my phone again. I could revoke access, couldn’t I?
I navigated to the Access tab, and found that Pierre was now listed there.
I tapped, and to my relief I saw a Revoke button there, with a notice next to it saying, Revoking access will initiate a transfer of 8,000 EUR from your account.
I sat there, frozen, my finger hovering over the Revoke button.
Just one tap and I could end this madness before it truly began.
It would mean returning the money—money I desperately needed—but that seemed trivial at the moment.
My heart pounded against my ribs, each beat seeming to ask a question I couldn’t answer.
I stared at the screen until my vision blurred, willing my finger to press down, to make the decision my rational mind screamed was the only sensible choice.
Yet my body rebelled, refusing to obey this simple command.
Instead, my awareness shifted traitorously to the silky fabric of the nightgown still draped across my other hand.
What would it feel like against my skin? Surely even the physical sensation would be different from what I had felt in the photography studio, when I knew that I had put it on for a man who had paid me for the privilege. How would he look at me when he saw me in it?
The questions floated irresistibly through my mind, bringing with them images that made heat pool low in my belly. I imagined his hazel eyes darkening with desire, his elegant hands reaching for me…
I tossed the phone onto the couch as if it had burned me and dropped the nightgown back into its box. This was insanity. I needed to think clearly, to make decisions with my head, not with the confusing, shameful heat between my thighs.
I paced the apartment, trying to organize my thoughts. I could take a shower, clear my head. That’s what I needed—cool water to wash away this feverish indecision.
The bathroom’s bright lights felt accusatory as I stripped off my clothes. I avoided looking at my reflection, afraid of what I might see there—the flush spreading across my chest, the hardened nipples that betrayed my arousal despite my mental protests.
Under the shower’s spray, I tried to think logically.
This arrangement with Pierre was strictly business, wasn’t it?
A transaction. He would pay generously for a night of my time, during which he would…
what? Introduce me to the principles of the New Modesty?
The very phrase sent another unwelcome surge of heat through me.
By the time I emerged from the shower, my skin pink from scrubbing and hot water, I was no closer to a decision. I wrapped myself in the plush towel provided by Selecta and padded back to the living room, where my phone still lay on the couch, the decision still waiting.
Revoke access… or not…
Put on the babydoll… or not…
Seven fifty-five. Five minutes until Pierre would arrive.
I sat perched on the edge of the sofa, my heart hammering so hard I felt lightheaded. I hadn’t revoked his access. I hadn’t put on the babydoll nightgown either.
Instead, I wore a simple green dress from the wardrobe Selecta had provided.
It was modest by most standards—knee-length, with a neckline that revealed only a hint of collarbone—yet it fit me perfectly, emphasizing my slender waist and the gentle curve of my hips.
I’d spent an absurd amount of time on my makeup, surely—I realized now—trying to distract myself from thinking about what lay ahead.
I’d told myself I would just talk to him first. Lay out boundaries, find a compromise that wouldn’t leave me feeling like I’d completely surrendered my dignity.
If he agreed to reasonable limits, then maybe—just maybe—I’d consider putting on that scandalous nightgown and maybe even seeing if I could earn the First Intimacy Premium.
But as eight o’clock approached, I found myself drawn to the bedroom where I’d laid the white babydoll nightgown on my neatly made bed earlier, smoothing it with nervous fingers.
The sheer fabric caught the light, seeming to glow against the dark blue bedspread.
Beside it lay the tiny white thong, a scrap of lace that would cover almost nothing.
“This is crazy,” I whispered to myself, but even as the words left my lips, my hands were reaching for the hem of my dress, raising it and then reaching underneath.
Blushing furiously, I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my everyday panties and pushed them down my legs, stepping out of them with a strange sense of shedding more than just cotton underwear.
With trembling fingers, I picked up the white thong. The lace felt delicate, almost weightless in my hands. I stepped into it, pulling it up my legs until it settled against my freshly waxed skin. The still-unfamiliar sensation of the narrow strip between my buttocks made me shift uncomfortably.
I bit my lip as I realized I was already very wet. The evidence of my arousal was unmistakable, dampening the thin fabric of the thong. I felt a flash of shame at this betrayal by my own body, followed quickly by a surge of heat that only intensified my condition.
I heard the unmistakable sound of the apartment door opening. My heart leapt into my throat. Had I lost track of time?
I stepped into the hallway just in time to see Pierre standing in the entryway, his tall frame silhouetted against the light from the corridor outside.
He wore a different suit than he had at the café—this one a deep charcoal that emphasized his broad shoulders.
His long brown hair was tied back at the nape of his neck, giving him an aristocratic air that made my mouth go dry. He looked like a man from another era.
I swallowed hard, my heart pounding, as I watched anger flash in his eyes, and then a smile curve his lips. My mouth went very dry.
“I’m disappointed, Audrey, but not surprised,” Pierre said, his voice dangerously soft. “Take off your dress and lay yourself over the arm of the couch for a whipping.”
Terror gripped me, my legs suddenly weak beneath me. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. I’d planned to negotiate, to establish boundaries before anything happened.
“Please,” I stammered. “I wanted to talk first—about boundaries and what I’m comfortable with—”
“Take. Off. The. Dress,” Pierre repeated, each word like a chip of ice. “Now.”
I backed away, bumping into the wall behind me. “I’ll yell for security if you try anything,” I threatened weakly, my voice betraying my fear. “You said… and the app… it said… there are safety protocols—”
“I’m happy to pay for the dress if I have to rip it off you,” Pierre replied calmly, taking a step toward me. “But you broke the one rule I gave you, and you’re going to have a whipping in the nude, one way or another. Selecta approves of that, as you already know.”
My breath caught in my throat. He was right—I had agreed to the terms, had read the consent forms explaining that physical correction was a standard element of SA relationships.
The perineal sensor would have recorded my arousal during Theodore’s spanking, would have noted how wet I’d become afterward.
Selecta knew exactly what my body wanted, even when my mind protested.
“Please,” I whispered, but my hands were already moving to the zipper at the back of my dress. I already loved this dress… how could I let this… this brutal man ruin it? The sound of the fabric sliding down my body seemed impossibly loud in the silence between us.
Pierre stood watching, his expression now unreadable as I slipped the dress off my shoulders.
It fell to the floor in a pool of green fabric, leaving me standing in nothing but the white thong, my breasts bare and vulnerable under his steady gaze.
My nipples hardened instantly, betraying me once again.
“Well, my dear,” he said, the left side of his mouth curving into a teasing half-smile. “At least your panties are appropriate. That adorable con of yours looks ravishing in the pretty lace. I can’t wait to open you up on my cock.”