Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 76329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
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.