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I found that I’d started chewing on the inside of my left cheek. I raised my gaze to look straight into the dark, staring lens of Mary’s camera. To my dismay, I found that the pleading expression came very easily, as if the story-spell had simply reached into my heart and drawn out something already present… something eager to come out and show itself on my face.
Without intending to, I started to beg with words, too.
“I don’t,” I repeated. “I don’t do that. It’s… it’s just embarrassing.”
Naked except for the panties tangled around my knees, with my hands gripping the little apples of my bottom, I had my picture taken.
So that I can attract a man who will… who will do in reality what this photographer is making me imagine? Have I lost my mind?
To my surprise, Mary lowered the camera.
“I believe you,” she said very gently. “So the next part of the session is going to be a challenge for you, sweetie.”
I chewed harder on my cheek. The tears at the corners of my eyes started to emerge, and I blinked them back.
“What?” I breathed. I tried to focus on her calm, professional, pleasant face, because I didn’t want to pay attention to the voice at the back, at the bottom, of my consciousness. The voice that said I knew very well what Mary must mean, or at least I knew the general idea.
And that general idea, which should have made me tell her to get out of my apartment while I canceled my associate membership in Selecta Arrangements, had instead stirred a raging conflict in my heart and mind.
“It’s optional,” she said, “but I know from experience—because we get evaluated on how effective our photoshoots are at getting girls like you good sponsors…”
“You know what… from experience?” I asked.
Yes,the voice low down in my brain, and even lower in my body, said.I can bet that kind of picture attracts good sponsors.
“Well, let me put it this way,” Mary said. “The men who make up the core of the platinum-level membership like to see a naughty girl being a little naughty. Remember I said we’re telling a story? That’s the kind of story that gets the nice allowance.”
She raised her camera and took a picture of my face. I guessed she wanted that shot because it would capture the pout of dismay and confusion that had broken out there. It seemed like that expression represented a key part of the tale she thought would get me a rich sponsor.
Why?asked the rational part of my brain, but at the same time I could see that that logical voice had decided to play dumb. The rest of me knew why.
They know what you need. Somehow they figured out more about you than you know yourself.
I pushed it away. It seemed intolerable that fucking Selecta could just look at my data, or whatever they did, and put me in such a mortifying position.
You mean the deluxe apartment with the view of the Pacific?another voice asked, sarcastically, in my head.
“What do I need to do?” I asked Mary softly.
“Let’s go to the bedroom,” she replied. “Pull your panties up. They’re not pretty, but this story is about your first day in your beautiful new home in Beverly Hills, and how you woke up a little horny, and you needed to take care of yourself even though you know it’s naughty.”
I had tried to inject as much doubt as I could into my thoughts about what the photographer would ask me to do. All of it flew away. To my hot-cheeked dismay, I had indeed known precisely what Mary meant. She wanted me to touch myself in bed while she took pictures for the men to look at—the men who, the photographer had made clear, would want to spank me for doing exactly that.
Again I pushed it away, down to the bottom of my mind with all the other things that weren’t worth thinking about: bills, taxes, post-secondary degrees, train timetables—stuff that definitely existed somewhere, but didn’t have anything important to do with my life. Spanking existed, sure. Some people actually considered themselves into it, maybe.
Any guy who thought he might like to do it to me, to ‘guide’ me ‘lovingly’—or for any other reason he might have in his wealth-addled brain—could take a look at my intimate photos. Whatever. If he decided he wanted to date me, well, at least this part of the Selecta Arrangements experience had some clear advantages: he could send over his rules, and if they had anything aboutdisciplineorpunishmentor evenconsequences, well, I’d send him a revised version without that shit.
At that point, I knew even from my limited experience, I would have the guy wrapped around my finger. He would accept the revision, and we would date for a few weeks, or a month, and he would pay me a nice allowance. Hell, maybe I’d even get it over with, with him. This stupid photoshoot represented only the means to that end, whatever bullshit Mary the photographer had to say about a ‘story’—and whatever bullshit my own mind felt like pulling, imagining some sort of ‘spell’ she’d cast on me.
I had already pulled up my panties and turned, then started to walk the short distance to the bedroom door, obeying Mary’s instruction automatically. My furiously roiling thoughts had wrapped me up in a mental fugue state so complete that I barely even noticed how quickly I reached the side of my still-rumpled bed.
The photographer’s voice snapped me back to my mortifying reality.
“Get on the bed,” she told me abruptly. “On your hands and knees.”
I hesitated, but only for a moment. I had to keep going, just following along with what Mary told me to do, or I would think too hard about it. Among other things, I couldn’t let myself think about the state of my panties, and how I had felt the dampness there when I had drawn them up to their proper place.
Behind me, the camera started clicking again, taking picture after picture of a young woman clad in nothing but her panties climbing onto her bed with the obvious intent—or so it seemed to me, in my mind’s eye—of pleasuring herself.
