Page 18 of Innocence Tamed
The camera clicked relentlessly, Theodore moving around the bed to capture different angles of my shame and surrender. My body had taken control, chasing the pleasure that seemed to build with each humiliating word Mona spoke.
“He’s going to make you come on his cock,” she continued, her voice dropping even lower. “He’s going to fuck you until you scream his name, until you beg him to claim you completely.”
Something inside me snapped. The pleasure crested suddenly, surges of it washing through me as my back arched off the bed, a cry escaping my lips. My fingers moved frantically against my flesh as I rode out the orgasm, my whole body trembling with release.
As the pleasure subsided, leaving me gasping and disoriented, reality came crashing back. I had just masturbated to orgasm while being photographed. While a strange woman whispered filthy scenarios in my ear. While a man I’d just met captured every moment of my surrender.
I jerked my hand away from my body as if burned, scrambling to pull up my panties and tug down the nightgown. Tears sprang to my eyes, hot and humiliating.
“What the hell?” I whispered, my voice breaking.
“Heaven, rather, my dear. That was beautiful,” Theodore replied, lowering his camera. “Those final shots will guarantee you a luxury sponsor.”
I sat up, drawing my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. I felt utterly exposed despite my attempts to cover myself, my body still tingling with the aftershocks of pleasure even as my mind recoiled in shame.
“I think we have what we need,” Theodore said to Mona, his tone casual, as if what had just happened was entirely ordinary. “She can get dressed.”
Mona nodded, standing from the bed. “Good job, darling,” she said to me, her voice carrying that same condescending approval I was growing to hate. “Your profile will be quite popular, I’m sure.”
I couldn’t look at either of them as I slid off the bed, my legs wobbly from both the towering heels and the intense orgasm. I got the lingerie off and scrambled into my plain panties and bra as fast as I could, then put on my blouse and skirt, kicked into my shoes, and headed for the door.
As I exited, I realized my state of dress must look exactly like that of the girl who had gone before me in the studio. Worse, another young woman waited outside, in the same chair I had occupied. My cheeks blazing, I made my way out into the hall, unable to look her or the receptionist in the eye.
CHAPTER 8
Pierre
Audrey Campbell’s profile proved just as diverting as I had hoped it might. The notification came through on my SA app just as I was finishing dinner atLe Grand Véfour. I’d been dining alone, reviewing reports on the narrowly averted power grid catastrophe while enjoying a nearly perfectfilet de boeuf. The soft chime of the app drew my attention away from my dessert—a delicatecrème brûléethat would now have to wait.
I opened the app discreetly, angling my phone away from the nearby tables even in the privacy afforded by my corner location. The notification was simple, but compelling:Profile Complete: Audrey Campbell (First Intimacy Program).
I tapped the notification, and her profile loaded immediately. The first image nearly made me set my espresso cup down with more force than intended. She was seated on the edge of a bed, dressed in white lingerie that emphasized her youthful innocence while revealing enough to stir my immediate interest. White stockings encased slender legs, held up by a lace garterbelt that framed her slim hips perfectly. The matching thong did little to conceal her freshly waxedcon, and the small breasts pushed up by the delicate bra appeared perfectly proportioned to her petite frame.
But her expression truly captured me—a mixture of shy reluctance and undeniable arousal that spoke of deep submissive tendencies barely recognized by the girl herself. Her blue eyes looked directly into the camera with a vulnerability that stirred something primal in me.
I swiped through the images, each more revealing than the last. In one particularly striking photo, she was bent forward over the bed, her bottom—still bearing what appeared to be the faint pinkness of a recent spanking—thrust outward invitingly. In another, she wore a sheer white babydoll that concealed nothing, her hand sliding beneath the waistband of tiny white panties.
The final set of photos showed her masturbating, her expression transformed by pleasure even as embarrassment flushed her cheeks and chest. These images were particularly valuable for a connoisseur like me—they revealed a young woman whose body’s desires were at war with her conscious mind, a delicious conflict: one whose charm an experienced dominant like me had great difficulty resisting.
I took a sip of my espresso, savoring both the bitter flavor and the anticipation building within me. The First Intimacy Premium would cost me two million euros—a significant sum, but hardly prohibitive for a man of my means. The opportunity to claim this girl’s virginity, to be the first man to penetrate each of her holes and train her to serve my desires, was worth far more than money.
As long as I felt I could help her, of course—as long as our relationship had a chance of providing the mutual benefit on which I always insisted.
I scrolled down to read her profile information. Twenty years old, American, formerly an intern at an energy conservation program—this last detail caught my attention. My business interests in sustainable energy made this a particularly intriguing coincidence. Perhaps we would have more to discuss than I’d initially anticipated.
Bonjour, Mademoiselle, I typed.May I introduce myself?
Audrey
The alert chime from the Selecta Arrangements app made me blush all on its own. I looked around the little kitchen of my beautiful new apartment as if someone might see me using the app, and judge me for it.
Despite having only been here a few hours, I’d already developed an affection for this place, my new home—even though it seemed in certain ways that it wasn’t really mine at all. The apartment was nothing like the cramped, musty studio I’d been renting in the dreary suburb. This place was all clean lines and modern luxury, nestled in the heart of the Marais district where I’d never imagined I could afford to live.
The kitchen alone boasted almost as much space as my entire previous apartment. Gleaming stainless steel appliances reflected the warm light from recessed fixtures overhead. The refrigerator had already spoken to me twice—once to welcomeme to my ‘SA-subsidized residence’ and again to suggest a shopping list based on what it detected was missing from its pristine interior. The stovetop had lit up when I’d approached it earlier, displaying recipe suggestions based onnutritional profiles preferred by top-tier sponsors.
Everything in the apartment seemed designed to make my life easier. At the same time, though, it had quickly become clear that the conveniences extended not just to me, but also to the man who decided to sponsor me.
The bathroom mirror doubled as a screen that displayed helpful reminders aboutpersonal grooming standards expected of SA associates. The closet had scanned my meager wardrobe when I’d hung up my clothes and promptly informed me that ‘appropriate attire’ would be delivered tomorrow, courtesy of the Selecta Arrangements program.
