Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 65189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65189 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
“Tout a fait,” the man said with a smile, and continued in French, “Fine. No need to be shy. I’ve worked with many Selecta girls. Now, why don’t you get undressed and we’ll begin?”
My hands trembled as I slowly removed my clothing. Jean-Luc busied himself with his camera equipment, giving me a semblance of privacy. When I was finally naked, I stood there awkwardly, arms crossed over my chest.
“Relax, chérie,” Jean-Luc said. “You have a lovely figure. Now, let’s start with some simple poses.”
He directed me into various positions—standing, sitting, reclining on a chair. I tried to follow Jean-Luc’s instructions, my face burning with embarrassment as I posed naked before his camera. The flash kept going off, capturing my nudity from every angle.
“Good, good,” Jean-Luc murmured. “Now, let’s try something a bit more… provocative. Spread your legs for me, chérie. Show off that pretty cunt we worked so hard to prepare.”
I hesitated, shame flooding through me. Con… the French word—not quite as taboo in this language as its literal translation in English, but I realized suddenly that as expert as I had become in French culture, I couldn’t think of it as anything but the c-word: the most degrading possible way to talk about that part of a girl’s body.
“I… I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that,” I said softly.
Jean-Luc lowered his camera, fixing me with a stern look. “Alice, if you want a chance at attracting a luxury sponsor, you need to show that you’re ready to submit to his every sexual whim. That you’re a naughty girl who needs regular sexual discipline.”
His words sent an unwelcome thrill through me. I bit my lip, torn between mortification and a strange, growing excitement.
“Remember,” Jean-Luc continued, “the more… willing, shall we say, you appear in these photos, the better your chances of securing a high-status sponsor. Someone who can truly further your academic pursuits.”
I took a deep breath, steeling myself. This was for my future, I reminded myself. For my dreams. Slowly, I spread my legs, exposing my most intimate parts to Jean-Luc’s camera.
“Parfait,” he purred. “Now touch yourself. Show your potential sponsors how badly you need a cock in that little cunt.”
Oh, God. Oh, no. The casual coarseness made my mind reel.
I froze, my hand hovering uncertainly. Touch myself? In front of this stranger? But as mortifying as it was, I knew I had to go through with it if I wanted any chance at the life I’d dreamed of.
With trembling fingers, I reached between my legs. The flash went off rapidly as I tentatively stroked myself, my face burning with shame. To my horror, I felt myself growing wet under my own touch.
“Excellent,” Jean-Luc murmured. “Now, turn around and bend over. Spread those sweet little cheeks for me.”
I hesitated, my stomach churning. This was too much, too degrading. But Jean-Luc’s voice cut through my thoughts.
“Alice, if you want a luxury sponsor, you need to show that you’re ready to submit completely. That includes your tight little rear end.”
Tears pricked at my eyes as I slowly turned and bent over, bracing myself against a nearby table. With shaking hands, I reached back and spread my bottom cheeks, exposing my most private area to Jean-Luc’s camera.
“Perfect,” he purred. “These shots will show your potential sponsors that you’re a naughty girl who needs regular anal discipline.”
The flashes continued as Jean-Luc captured my humiliating pose from various angles. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to pretend I was anywhere else. But I couldn’t escape the reality of what was happening—or the confusing mix of shame and need it had brought out.
The car brought me back to the little apartment in the Quartier Latin where the scholarship program had put me. Little, but to my surprise on arrival, not tiny. As I looked up at it from the street, after the degrading photography session, and thought about opening the profile questionnaire in the Selecta Arrangements app, I saw the place through new eyes.
It’s nice—but not for me. Not so that I’ll have a charming Paris apartment with a view of the Seine. No—the loveliness of this little place is for him. My sponsor.
I climbed the stairs, my legs shaky and my mind reeling from the events of the day. As I fumbled with my keys, I couldn’t shake the image of myself bent over, exposed to Jean-Luc’s camera. The shame of it burned through me, but there was something else too—a tingling warmth that I didn’t want to acknowledge.
Inside, I leaned against the closed door and took a deep breath. The apartment was small but truly lovely, with tall windows that let in the afternoon light. Under different circumstances, I would have been thrilled to call this place home. Now it felt like a gilded cage.
I made my way to the bedroom, intent on taking a long, hot shower to wash away the memory of the photoshoot. But as I passed the full-length mirror, I caught sight of myself and froze. My cheeks were flushed, my eyes bright. I looked… different somehow. Changed.