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For the camera. In front of Mary Smith, the Selecta photographer. The shutter clicked, and I moaned again.
I felt my bottom squirm, my hips buck.
“Pull your panties down, sweetie, and show me how much you’re learning. You can let it happen. I don’t mind.”
Stop,said a judgmental voice in my head.It’s… it’s wrong. It’s naughty. Good girls don’t do that.
That only made me gasp louder, rub faster. I obeyed Mary: awkwardly, I pulled my cotton panties, soaking now with my wanton need, down to mid-thigh. A tiny whining sound came from my throat with the departure of my fingers from the terribly warm, wickedly engorged bud of shameful pleasure where I needed them so badly.
Desperate for more despite the hot blush in my cheeks, I put my hand back there. I cried out at my own touch, and the sound seemed to have such pleading in it that another jolt of lewd delight traveled through my nervous system, just to hear how submissive a girl I had become.
I felt the crinkly hair under my fingers. I pictured what my prospective sponsor, my hoped-for billionaire keeper, would see: how he would cluck softly with his tongue when he saw that I still had my pubic hair… how he would promise, in his thoughts, to make me wax my pussy for his pleasure in looking… in touching… in… in…
In fucking. In using.
Another moan burst from my chest. All the muscles in my body seemed to develop individual wills of their own, filling with forbidden pleasure as my hips began to shamelessly ride my hand and I thrust my backside out, offering it to my sponsor for his enjoyment and his discipline.
The judgmental voice returned, but I seemed to hear it in a deep, hyper-masculine voice.Stop!
The shutter clicked over and over. I couldn’t stop. I needed it so much… and I needed the consequences, too, didn’t I? I needed a man’s guidance, to help me control my shameful urges. If I were a good girl for my sponsor, would he let me touch myself again? He would spank me for doing it in front of the photographer, of course… but then if I pleased him, surely he would reward me.
If I please him…I thought of what it would mean, of the things my sponsor would make me do, and undergo. I thought of the mistakes I would inevitably make, and of how he would punish me for them. Over his knee, with my panties down, his big hand rising and falling…
The camera took another photo, and with a wrenching cry I went over the cliff of my orgasm. How could I have imagined that my body could feel so much pleasure? My bottom clenched and unclenched, and the way the movements exposed my private places even more to Mary’s view, the shame of my misconduct, sent wave after wave of ecstasy thrilling through my limbs.
At last, my eyes closed and my face burning, I collapsed onto my unmade bed with my knees still apart and my panties still down. Mary kept taking pictures. I heard the whir of her zoom lens, and I knew she must have focused in on the obscene display I was making of myself, the immodesty of a naughty girl who had exhausted herself in shameful self-pleasure.
“So good, Leah,” I heard her murmur. “You did really great.”
This praise seemed, paradoxically and ungratefully, to mortify me much more than words of condemnation would have. I felt my face, which had relaxed for a moment, like the rest of my body after my titanic climax, scrunch into a pout of humiliation. Tears came back to the corners of my eyes.
“Could you… could you just leave?” I asked, fighting back a sob and trying at the same time to worm myself under my covers in a vague hope of disappearing completely.
“Sure,” Mary said, her voice soothing. “I know it’s hard, sweetie, but you just got past one of the most challenging parts. Now you’re really in the game, as the associate members call it.”
Yeah,I told myself sarcastically,I’m in the game to find a guy who will humiliate me even more, and use me for his pleasure.
The thought sent an unwelcome tremor of reawakened lust through my lower body. I felt like I must be losing my mind.
“Please just go,” I told Mary, not turning around because I couldn’t bear to see her or her camera again—even though part of me wanted to thank her despite all the mortification of the moment.
“Okay,” she said. “I get it. I’m leaving. You’ll get a notification in the SA app in the next few minutes that your photos are ready, and you’ll get to choose which ones to put in the platinum section of your profile.”
“Okay,” I replied. I managed to regain some control of my body, then, and I turned over, pulled the covers across me, and sat up. Mary had started to leave the bedroom, but when she heard me moving she turned halfway to look at me. She had a sort of wistful smile on her face that I felt sure would haunt me: it seemed to say that despite all the embarrassment she wouldn’t mind changing places with me at this moment. “Thanks,” I managed to say.
Mary’s smile widened.
“You’re welcome, Leah. Good luck in the game.”
* * *
By the time I got out of the shower, the notification had come in on the app: I saw it on the lock screen of my phone, resting on the bathroom counter, when I stepped out and grabbed one of the unbelievably fluffy white towels that had come with the apartment. The shower had seemed to calm me and relax me—really, I knew despite not wanting it to be true, the orgasm had done a great deal of the relaxation work. Seeing the alert from the SA app, though, sent the mortification coursing hotly through my veins again.
I put the towel around me and tried to organize my dripping hair into some manageable configuration before I got the hair dryer, but my eyes never left my phone. I reached my hand out, but before I even picked it up I recoiled, as if from a hissing snake.
Later, I told myself.
Then, to my astonishment, another notification popped up.
