Chapter 6 #2
The address in my phone led me to a building in the Presidio that made my breath catch.
Beautiful and unmistakably modern, but with lovely neoclassical touches, too.
A doorman nodded at me as I entered, glancing at his screen, where I got a glimpse of my own face.
I colored as I realized that it was a cropped image from my session with Mark in the courtyard.
I worried the inside of my cheek, wondering if Selecta doormen were allowed to access the whole image, and I couldn’t look the doorman in the eye.
“Have a good day, Laura,” he told me as I walked to the elevator. “Welcome to the building.”
I nearly choked on my “Thanks” as I thought I could register a bit of…
well, of knowingness in the man’s tone. I told myself I had imagined it as I rode the elevator up to the fifth floor.
The apartment door unlocked with a soft beep as I held my phone near the sensor.
I pushed it open, dragging my suitcase behind me, and stopped in the doorway.
It was gorgeous.
Floor-to-ceiling windows flooded the space with golden late-afternoon light.
Hardwood floors gleamed beneath my feet.
The furniture was modern and elegant—a plush gray sofa, a sleek dining table, a bed with crisp white linens visible through the open bedroom door.
The kitchen had marble countertops and stainless steel appliances that probably cost more than a year’s rent at my old place.
I hated it.
Or I should have hated it. I wanted to hate it.
But as I stepped inside and let the door close behind me, I couldn’t deny the traitorous flutter of relief in my chest. This was mine.
For three months, at least. I wouldn’t have to worry about rent, about eviction notices, about where I’d sleep next week.
All it cost was my dignity. My privacy. My body. My virginity.
I wheeled my suitcase to the bedroom and left it there, unable to summon the energy to unpack.
The apartment felt too clean, too perfect, like a stage set waiting for the real performance to begin.
I wondered how many other girls had lived here before me.
How many had stood in this exact spot, looking around at their beautiful cage.
The need between my legs hadn’t diminished. If anything, it had grown worse. I pressed my thighs together as I walked back to the main room, trying to ignore the constant awareness of the seal, how my outer lips felt pressed together in that unnatural way.
I needed to shower. To wash away the afternoon, even if I couldn’t wash away what had been done to me.
The bathroom was as pristine as the rest of the apartment. White subway tiles, a rainfall showerhead, fluffy towels that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and stopped.
I looked wrecked. My hair was a mess, my eyes red and puffy from crying. My face was blotchy and pale. But it was the look in my eyes that made me pause—something desperate and frightened that I’d never seen there before.
I stripped off my clothes, wincing as my jeans scraped over the welts on my bottom. The marks were visible in the mirror when I turned—six parallel lines of raised, reddened flesh. I reached back and touched one gently, and the sting made me gasp.
But underneath the pain was that shameful heat again. I snatched my hand away.
The shower was hot and powerful, and I stood under the spray for a long time, letting the water cascade over my sore body. I tried not to think about the camera. Ann had said I had full privacy until I accepted a sponsor, but how could I be sure? How could I trust anything they’d told me?
My hand drifted down almost of its own accord, sliding over my hip and between my thighs. I gasped as my fingers found the seal.
I couldn’t feel my clit. My outer lips were pressed together so firmly that I couldn’t even find the little bud beneath them, couldn’t access it at all.
I tried to slide my fingers lower, to the entrance of my vagina, where I usually liked to put a naughty finger, just to the place where I knew one day a man’s hardness would open me, but that too was sealed shut.
Only the small opening at the very bottom remained, barely large enough for me to pee through.
“No,” I whimpered, pressing harder, trying to find some way to create friction, to access the aching need that pulsed inside me. But there was nothing. The seal held firm, medical-grade adhesive keeping me closed off from myself.
I tried rubbing the outside, pressing my palm against my mound, but the sensation was muted, distant. Wrong. It only made the desperate ache worse, made me more aware of how much I needed to touch myself properly and couldn’t.
My breath came faster. I tried different angles, different pressures, my fingers working frantically against the sealed flesh.
But nothing helped. The need kept building with no way to release it.
My other hand moved to my breast, pinching my nipple, trying to find some relief that way, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.
I slumped against the shower wall, my hand still pressed uselessly between my legs, tears mixing with the water streaming down my face. They had done this to me on purpose. Had sealed me knowing exactly what it would do, how desperate and needy it would make me feel.
I stayed in the shower until the water ran cold, then finally forced myself to step out.
The towel was soft against my skin as I dried off, but even that gentle friction reminded me of my frustrated arousal.
I pulled on fresh panties and a t-shirt, leaving my jeans on the bathroom floor.
My bottom still throbbed from the welts as I padded barefoot out to the main room.
The apartment felt too quiet. Too empty. I could hear the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of traffic outside. The golden light had faded to purple dusk, and I hadn’t even thought to turn on a lamp.
My phone sat on the kitchen counter where I’d left it. The Selecta Arrangements app icon seemed to glow at me accusingly. Twelve hours to complete the profile, Ann had said. How many hours did I have left now? Six? Seven?
I should refuse. I should just let the deadline pass and force them to deny my application.
But then what? They’d said three months minimum. Three months of living in this apartment with my pussy sealed, unable to touch myself, unable to find any relief from this constant aching need. Three months of that stipend Ann had mentioned—probably barely enough to survive on.
Or I could complete the profile. Go on some dates with wealthy sponsors. Let them see me, evaluate me, decide if they wanted to pay for access to my body. And then… then they’d remove the seal.
My hand moved between my legs again before I could stop myself, pressing against the thin cotton of my panties. I thought about what it felt like, to press gently against the tiny membrane that a man I didn’t know would pay so much money to rupture with his rigid cock.
With a little sob, I opened the app.