Chapter 9
Laura
Mike’s offer arrived as I was walking back to the Presidio.
I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk when I felt the buzz in my pocket, forcing other pedestrians to flow around me like water around a stone.
My hands trembled as I pulled out my phone, my heart already racing before I even opened the app.
The notification glowed on my screen: New Sponsorship Offer from Mike G.
I tapped it, and the details loaded. For a moment, I couldn’t process what I was seeing. The number had too many zeros. I blinked, counted them again, my breath catching in my throat.
$10,000.
Ten thousand dollars. For one week.
My knees wobbled under me. I stumbled to the side, leaning against a building for support. Someone muttered something annoyed as they passed, but I barely heard them. All I could see was that number, glowing on my screen like it was mocking me.
Ten thousand dollars was three times what I’d made in an entire summer of working retail. It was much, much more than most people made in a month. It was… it was enough to change everything.
But it wasn’t just a week, I realized as the initial shock began to fade. It was my virginity. The seal between my legs pulsed with awareness, reminding me of exactly what Mike would be paying for. The right to remove that seal himself. To open me. To take something I could only give once.
And not just that. The right to punish me. To use me. To have me available to him however he wanted, whenever he wanted, for seven days. Or maybe only one day—but a day with consequences so mortifying I could hardly think about them.
My thumb hovered over the Accept button, frozen.
This was insane. I’d met him once, for less than an hour.
I didn’t know him. Not really. Yes, we’d talked about philanthropy software and my failed college career, yes, he’d made me feel seen in a way I couldn’t remember feeling before, but that didn’t mean I knew him.
It didn’t mean I could trust him with my body, with my virginity, with my safety.
But ten thousand dollars.
I thought about the Selecta security guarantees Ann Tolliver had mentioned.
The surveillance cameras in my apartment that would record everything.
The intervention protocols if a sponsor crossed a line.
They were watching. Always watching. That should have been horrifying, but right now, standing on this street corner with my entire future hanging in the balance, it felt almost reassuring.
I thought about Mike. The way he’d listened to me.
The warmth in his dark eyes when he’d called me a good girl.
The confidence in his voice when he’d told me my panties were coming down tonight.
Not cruel confidence, but certain. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Like he could handle me, guide me, give me the structure I’d been desperately lacking.
Like maybe he could help me figure out who I was supposed to be.
And then, underneath all of that rational consideration, there was the other thing. The thing I didn’t want to acknowledge, but couldn’t ignore. The way my body had responded to him. The way his words had made me clench and ache even beneath the horrid seal.
The thought I’d been trying not to have for the past twenty-four hours finally surfaced, breaking through all my careful rationalizations. Maybe I deserved this. Maybe I deserved to be punished the old-fashioned way for what I’d done.
In one important sense the cheating hadn’t been a mistake.
It had been a choice. A series of choices, actually.
I’d looked at that exam, known I wasn’t prepared, and instead of accepting the consequences of my own laziness, I’d pulled up the answers on my phone.
I’d copied them down. I’d turned in work that wasn’t mine and pretended it was.
And when I got caught, I’d tried to lie my way out of it.
My thumb moved before I could second-guess myself anymore. I pressed Accept.
The app loaded for a moment, then a cascade of notifications appeared on my screen.
Congratulations! You’ve accepted a sponsorship offer from Mike G.
Sponsor Access Granted: Mike G. now has full access to your apartment entry system, surveillance feeds, and profile data.
New Event: Dinner Date, Tonight, 7:00 p.m. at your apartment.
My heart hammered as I stared at the words.
Full access. He could see everything now.
The cameras in my bedroom, my bathroom, everywhere.
He could watch me right now—virtually, at least—if he wanted to, through the awful sensor they’d put between my legs.
Even if he couldn’t literally see me standing on this street corner, he could pull up a data feed that probably told him my face was flushed and my hands were trembling.
Another notification popped up, this one with a cheerful tone that felt bizarrely out of place.
ProTip! Selecta has delivered a starter wardrobe to your apartment, including several lingerie options. First impressions matter! Consider wearing something that shows your sponsor you’re excited to meet him.
I felt my face go even hotter. They wanted me to wear lingerie. To dress up for him like… like what? Like the submissive associate member I’d agreed to become? Like a naughty girl ready to serve a wealthy man’s pleasure?
My feet carried me back to the apartment on autopilot.
The doorman nodded at me as I entered, and I wondered if he knew.
If he could see it written on my face that I’d just sold myself for ten thousand dollars.
That in a few hours, a man would be coming to my apartment to punish me and take my virginity.
The elevator ride felt endless. When I finally let myself into the apartment, I found boxes stacked neatly on the bed. Selecta’s logo adorned each one, and my stomach clenched as I approached them.
I opened the first box with shaking hands. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, was lingerie. A white lace bra with matching panties, delicate and expensive-looking. The kind of thing I’d never bought for myself because what was the point when no one was going to see it?
But someone would see it now. Mike would see it. Would probably take it off me.
The second box held a dress. Red, simple but elegant, with a fitted waist and a skirt that would fall just above my knees.
I closed the box quickly and shoved both of them into the closet, slamming the door like that would somehow make them disappear. My hands were shaking so badly I had to press them flat against my thighs to steady them.
I couldn’t think about this. I couldn’t sit here for the next four hours dwelling on what was going to happen at seven o’clock. I needed to do something, anything, to distract myself.
I changed into my running clothes—old leggings and a sports bra that had seen better days—and headed out. The Presidio had trails, I knew. I’d seen them on the map. Maybe if I exhausted myself physically, my mind would quiet down.
The run helped, at first. The rhythm of my feet hitting the pavement, the burn in my lungs, the simple physicality of pushing my body—it all forced my thoughts into the background.
But I could only run for so long. After forty minutes, my legs were trembling and I had to stop, bent over with my hands on my knees, gasping for air.
Back at the apartment, I stripped off my sweaty clothes and stepped into the shower. The hot water felt incredible against my sore muscles, and I closed my eyes, letting it cascade over my face.
That’s when the thoughts came flooding back.
Mike would be here in two hours. He would bring dinner. We would eat, probably make small talk, and then… then what? Would he just tell me to take my clothes off? Would he bend me over right away? My bottom clenched at the memory of the cane, the welts that were only now starting to fade.
My hand drifted down between my legs without conscious thought, pressing against the seal through the steam and water.
The need had been building all day, that constant aching throb that never quite went away.
I tried rubbing in small circles, but it was useless.
The seal held firm, keeping me from accessing anything that might bring relief.
I thought about Mike’s hands on me. About him finally removing the seal, opening me up. Would it hurt when he took my virginity? Nurse Samuels had said it would be painful, that I’d be uncomfortable the first few times. But underneath the fear was something else—anticipation.
Want. The desperate need to finally be touched properly, to have this awful aching need satisfied. To my distress, even the thought of my new sponsor’s rigid penis causing discomfort—pain, even—seemed only to inflame my desperation.
I finished my shower in a daze and dried off, wrapping myself in a towel. When I caught sight of myself in the mirror, my face was flushed, my pupils dilated. I looked like I was already aroused, already ready for my new owner.
God, what was happening to me?
I went to the bedroom, telling myself I was just going to lie down for a bit. Rest before he arrived. But my eyes kept drifting to the closet where I’d hidden the boxes. Finally, I gave in and retrieved them, pulling out the white lace lingerie and laying it carefully on the bed.
It was beautiful. Delicate. The kind of thing girls wore in the movies for dates with handsome men.
I stood there in just my towel, staring at the lingerie laid out on the pristine white comforter. My hand moved to touch the delicate lace, tracing the pattern with trembling fingers. The fabric was so soft, so expensive. So completely unlike anything I’d ever owned before.
The towel slipped from my grip, pooling at my feet. I stood there naked, my skin still damp from the shower, and the ache between my legs intensified to something unbearable. I needed relief. I needed something, anything to take the edge off this desperate, building need.
Without thinking, I pressed myself against the corner of the bed.
The firm edge made contact with my sealed pussy, and I gasped at the sensation.
It wasn’t much—the seal prevented any real friction where I needed it most—but the pressure was something.
I ground against the corner, my breath coming faster, my hands gripping the comforter.
The pressure felt good. Not good enough, not nearly good enough, but better than nothing. I moved my hips in slow circles, trying to find an angle that would give me more sensation. My eyes squeezed shut as I humped the corner of the bed like a desperate animal, shame and need warring in my chest.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I froze, my heart stopping. With shaking hands, I reached for it and saw the notification from the SA app.
Alert: Your sponsor can view your surveillance feed and biometric data in real-time.
Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god. He could see what I was doing. He could watch me hump the bed like a naughty slut. He knew exactly how aroused I was, how needy, how pathetic.
My face went nuclear. I stumbled back from the bed, my whole body trembling with mortification. Mike was probably sitting in his office right now, watching the scene, seeing the evidence of my shameful desperation spike across whatever screen he was looking at.
I grabbed the lingerie with shaking hands and pulled on the panties, then the bra.
My fingers fumbled with the clasp, taking three tries to get it fastened.
I yanked the red dress over my head, smoothing it down over my hips.
I caught sight of myself in the mirror—flushed, wild-eyed, my hair still damp from the shower—and tried to calm down.
He knew. He knew what I’d been doing, what I needed, how desperate I was.
The thought should have made me want to die. Instead, underneath the mortification, I felt something else. A dark thrill at being caught. At being watched. At having someone know my shameful secrets.
I spent the next hour trying to compose myself. I dried my hair, applied a little makeup with trembling hands, paced the apartment until my feet hurt. At exactly seven an alert popped up in the app: Mike G is on his way up. Good luck!