Chapter 5
Laura
The door with the nameplate, Ann Tolliver, Selecta Arrangements Intake, was ajar. I poked my head inside, my heart beating faster though the office on the other side seemed perfectly normal.
“Come in, Laura.” The voice was warm, professional. Condescendingly soothing in a way that immediately put me back on edge after everything I’d been through today.
I stepped inside. Ann Tolliver sat behind a sleek desk, her ash-blonde hair perfectly styled, her green eyes assessing me with the frankness everyone here seemed to use.
She wore a tailored blazer in a muted gray, and her fingers touched a pearl necklace at her throat as she gestured to the chair across from her.
“Please, sit down.”
I lowered myself into the chair, trying not to wince as my welted bottom made contact with the cushion. The pain sent a sharp reminder of the caning through my body, and I had to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
Ann’s eyes flickered with what might have been sympathy.
Or maybe just acknowledgement. “I understand you’ve had quite an afternoon.
But you’re approved for premium placement, which is excellent news.
Now we just need to get you set up in the system.
” She turned her tablet toward me. “This is the Selecta Arrangements app. It will be the primary way you interact with the program—and with your sponsor, once you have one.”
The screen showed a sleek interface with my name at the top. Laura Martindale. Associate Member. Status: Pending.
“First, we need to complete your profile,” Ann said, tapping the screen. “The photos from your shoot will be uploaded automatically, along with your medical examination data. But you’ll need to add some personal information. Interests, hobbies, what you’re looking for in an arrangement.”
My throat felt tight. “What am I supposed to say?”
“Be honest. Sponsors appreciate authenticity. Just put your phone near the tablet for a moment?”
I fetched it out of my pocket and reached it toward the device. A notification popped up: Install Selecta Arrangements? I tapped Yes.
Ann continued. “Great. Your credentials will be transferred automatically, and you’ll be synced up with the system at all times. You have twelve hours to finish the setup. If it’s not complete by then, your application will be automatically declined and you’ll forfeit your placement.”
Twelve hours. I held my phone with shaky hands, staring at the blank fields of my profile that had just appeared on the screen, waiting to be filled. Describe yourself in three words. What are you passionate about? What do you hope to gain from this arrangement?
“While you’re thinking about that,” Ann continued, “let me show you something else.” She tapped the tablet to navigate to a different section of the app. “This is your apartment control panel.”
My eyes widened as the screen loaded. A floor plan appeared, showing a small studio layout. And at the top, an address that made my heart skip a beat.
“The Presidio?” I whispered. “That’s… that’s one of the most expensive neighborhoods in San Francisco.”
“It’s small,” Ann said matter-of-factly, “but comfortable. And most important, it’s convenient for our sponsors. Many of them live or work in that area, and they prefer their associates to be easily accessible.”
Accessible. The word made my stomach clench.
Ann’s fingers moved across the screen, showing me different features. “You can control the lighting, temperature, and basic appliances right in the app,” she told me. She swiped to another section, and I felt my stomach drop as I saw the heading.
Security and Surveillance Features.
“Now, these are important,” Ann said, her tone still warm and professional, like she was explaining the features of a new car rather than the ways I would be monitored. “The apartment has a comprehensive surveillance system. Cameras in the main living area, the bedroom, and the bathroom.”
“The bathroom?” The word came out strangled.
“Your sponsor will want to ensure your safety at all times,” Ann said smoothly.
“And of course, he’ll want to monitor your behavior, your routines, your compliance with his expectations.
” She touched her pearl necklace again, a gesture I was starting to recognize as something she did when delivering particularly difficult information.
“The cameras can be accessed through the app—by your sponsor, once you accept an arrangement.”
“So… so he can watch me?” My voice had gone small. “All the time?”
“Only after you’ve accepted a sponsor’s offer and his allowance,” Ann clarified. “Until then, the apartment is yours with full privacy. But once you enter into an arrangement, yes—your sponsor will have complete access to the surveillance feeds. It’s part of the agreement.”
I stared at the screen, at the little camera icons marking different areas of the floor plan. The bedroom. The bathroom. Everywhere.
“He’ll also have access to enter the apartment at any time,” Ann continued, tapping another section of the app. “See here? This is the door access log. Your sponsor will be able to unlock the door remotely, or he can be given a physical key. Most prefer the digital access—it’s more convenient.”
“He can just… come in?” My hands had started trembling again. “Whenever he wants?”
“That’s correct. Again, only after you’ve accepted his arrangement. But yes—when you have a sponsor, he has the right to access you at any time, day or night. That’s part of what he’s paying for, Laura. Intimate access. Immediate and unconditional.”
The words made my head spin. I thought about being in that apartment, maybe sleeping, maybe in the shower, and having some wealthy stranger just walk in. Having the right to walk in.
“I know this seems overwhelming,” Ann said, and for the first time her voice held a note of genuine compassion.
“But remember—these men are paying substantial allowances. They expect certain privileges in return. And in my professional experience, many young women find that having clear expectations and boundaries actually helps them feel more secure.”
Clear expectations. Like being available for sex whenever he wanted. Like being watched constantly. Like having to get a wax down there every week, to keep me smooth and bare.
“What about…” I swallowed hard, my bottom still throbbing from the caning. “What about punishment?”
Ann’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes. “What about it?”
“The waiver mentioned… I mean, Nurse Samuels said…” I couldn’t quite form the question. My face burned.
“You want to know if your sponsor has the right to discipline you the way you were disciplined this afternoon?” she asked.
I nodded, unable to speak.
“Yes,” Ann said simply. “Your sponsor is allowed to spank you, paddle you, or even whip you—all on your bare bottom and thighs—when you’re disobedient, disrespectful, or irresponsible.
” She paused, her fingers touching her pearl necklace again.
“For severe offenses, sponsors are also permitted to spank your naked vulva.”
My mouth fell open. “My… what?”
“Your vulva. Your pussy, if you prefer the colloquial term.” Ann’s tone remained perfectly professional, as if we were discussing something as mundane as parking privileges.
“It’s outlined clearly in the agreement.
Sponsors have found it to be an extremely effective deterrent for serious behavioral issues. ”
I couldn’t breathe. The thought of being spanked there, on that most intimate, sensitive place— now bare thanks to Nurse Samuels… my mind recoiled from the image even as my body betrayed me with a pulse of shameful heat.
“But I… I mean, if he’s going to do that, can’t I just… can’t I end the arrangement? Before he punishes me?” The words tumbled out desperately. “Like, if I know he’s angry, can’t I just cancel it?”
Ann shook her head, and something in her expression told me she’d heard this question many times before.
“No. An arrangement remains in effect for twenty-four hours after cancellation is initiated. And sponsors are explicitly allowed—in fact, encouraged—to administer a final punishment during that period.”
“What?” My voice came out as a squeak. “That’s not f—”
“It’s designed to ensure that associates face the consequences of their actions,” Ann interrupted, her voice firm but not unkind.
“We’ve found that young women who can simply walk away when discipline looms never develop the self-control they need.
They continue making the same mistakes, the same poor choices.
” She leaned forward slightly. “Many girls come to appreciate how their sponsors help them develop genuine self-discipline. Structure. Accountability. Things they’ve been lacking. ”
The words stung because they hit too close to home. Wasn’t that exactly why I’d been expelled? Poor choices. Lack of discipline. Cheating because I couldn’t make myself study properly, couldn’t make myself do what I knew I should.
“I understand this is frightening,” Ann continued, her voice softening again.
“But you should know that sponsors are vetted with extraordinary thoroughness. We run background checks, psychological evaluations, financial audits. These men are carefully selected. And Selecta security is always watching through the surveillance systems to ensure your safety. If a sponsor ever crosses a line, we intervene immediately.”
I stared at the tablet screen, at the floor plan of the apartment that would be mine—and his. The camera icons seemed to pulse at me, reminding me that every moment would be observed, monitored, recorded.
Suddenly, a wave of rebellion rose from my belly to my chest and into my mind.
No.
No. This wouldn’t work… I couldn’t let this happen, no matter how hopeless my situation was.
“No,” I said, the word coming out stronger than I expected. I stood up, ignoring the pain that shot through my welted bottom. “I’ve seen enough. There’s no way I’m going through with this.”
Ann’s expression remained calm, almost expectant, like she’d been waiting for this moment. “I’m afraid the decision about whether you leave isn’t yours to make anymore, Laura. It’s Selecta’s.”
The words took a moment to penetrate. “What? No, I’m an adult, I can—”
“You signed the waiver,” Ann said, her voice still maddeningly professional. “You consented to the evaluation process. We determine when that process is complete.”
“Then I’m un-consenting!” I stood up and backed toward the door, my heart hammering. “I changed my mind. I’m leaving.”
I turned and bolted for the door, yanking it open. The corridor stretched before me, and I ran, my sneakers slapping against the polished floor. I didn’t know where I was going—just away, anywhere away from this place.
Heavy footsteps thundered behind me. Before I’d made it twenty feet, Hank’s massive, too-familiar hand closed around my upper arm, spinning me around.
“Let go of me!” I tried to wrench free, but it was like trying to escape from a steel trap. “What are you even doing here?”
“That’s enough,” he said, his voice flat.
“The algorithm predicted you would wildcat—that’s what we call it—and I got notified to come over here.
The software is pretty accurate.” He began walking, half-dragging me with him, and I stumbled along beside him, my protests echoing uselessly in the corridor.
We ended up back in Examination Room 4. The sight of that exam chair with its stirrups made my stomach drop.
“Take off your clothes,” Hank told me.
I stared at him open-mouthed. All I could think was, Not again.
“Take off your clothes, Laura,” the orderly repeated. “I don’t want to have to cane you again.”
I let out a little sob at that, my tummy lurching even as my hands flew to obey the humiliating command. Naked once more, weeping, I climbed into the horrible exam chair for the second time.
Before I could process what was happening, Hank had secured the restraints. Waist. Neck. Wrists. Then my legs went into the stirrups, the straps tightening around my thighs just above my knees, spreading me wide.
“No, please—” My voice broke. “I’ll cooperate, I’ll—”
The door opened and Nurse Samuels entered, her steel-gray eyes assessing me with the same disapproval I had seen there before. She picked up her tablet, scrolling through data.
“Her resistance patterns are highly unusual,” she said, to Hank rather than to me.
“The biometric readings show extreme flight response, well beyond what we typically see in first-time applicants.” She looked at me then, and something in her expression had hardened.
“It’s clear that extraordinary measures are needed. ”
“What does that mean?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“It means,” Nurse Samuels said, setting down the tablet and moving to a cabinet, “that we’re going to seal your labia.”
The words didn’t make sense at first. “Seal my… what?”
“We’re going to close up your outer lips, covering your clitoris and your vagina to make them inaccessible to you for a while.”