I couldn’t see what she’d done, not from this angle in the restraints, but I could feel it. The strange tightness. The sensation of my lips pressed together in a way that felt fundamentally wrong.
Mark moved closer, taking several more shots from different angles. “Beautiful work,” he said to the nurse. “This is going to generate serious interest. Laura, your pussy looks breathtaking this way.”
“Laura.” Ann’s voice cut through my sobs. “I need you to listen carefully. The seal will remain in place until a sponsor decides to have it removed, or you’ve gone on at least three dates with potential sponsors. The choice is yours.”
Nurse Samuels began releasing the restraints. First my ankles, then my wrists, then the straps around my waist and neck. I lay there for a moment, too shocked to move, too overwhelmed to process what had just been done to me.
“You can get dressed now,” the nurse said. “You’ll feel a bit strange down there, but you’ll get used to it quickly.”
“Your apartment key and instructions have been sent to your phone,” Ann told me. “The address is already in your app.”
I climbed down from the exam chair on trembling legs. I pulled my clothes with mechanical movements. The sensation between my legs felt alien, wrong—my outer lips pressed together in a way that made me constantly aware of what had been done to me. I stumbled out of the examination room, down the corridor, through the lobby where the receptionist didn’t even look up from her desk at my departure.
The late afternoon sun hit my face as I emerged from the building. I made my way to the shuttle stop, my mind blank with shock. On the ride back to Palo Alto, I stared out the window at the sprawling tech headquarter buildings without seeing them, unable to process any of it.
The Caltrain platform was crowded with evening commuters. I found a seat on the northbound train, sinking into it with relief even as my welted bottom protested. The train lurched into motion, and I pressed my forehead against the cool window glass.
That’s when it hit me.
The need.
It started as a low throb between my legs, a pulsing awareness of the sealed flesh there. My mind kept replaying the afternoon—the mortifying examination, the horrible caning, the degrading photography session where I’d touched myself, the final humiliation of being sealed. To my dismay, each memory sent sparks of shameful heat through my body.
I shifted in my seat, trying to ignore it. But the movement only made it worse, the friction of my jeans through my thin panties against the seal creating sensations I couldn’t quite process. My hands gripped my thighs, then moved to my knees. I forced them into fists, pressing them hard against the denim.
Nurse Samuels had said I’d be less distracted. She’d been completely wrong.
All I could think about was touching myself. About finding relief from this building pressure. My fingers ached to slip down the front of my jeans, to press against the sealed flesh, to try to find some way to?—
Stop it, I told myself firmly.You can’t. They… theysealedyou.
But that only made it worse. The knowledge that I couldn’t access myself, couldn’t touch my clit or slip my fingers inside, made the need more intense. More desperate.
By the time the train pulled into my stop in the city, I was trembling. I had to get my things from my old apartment, I reminded myself. Just focus on that. One task at a time.
The walk to my old building felt endless. Every step reminded me of the seal, of the welts, of everything that had been done to me. I let myself into the cramped studio I could barely afford, looking around at my meager possessions with new eyes.
This had been my life twenty-four hours ago. Before the application. Before Selecta.
I grabbed my suitcase and started throwing in clothes. My laptop. A few books. Some toiletries. It took less than an hour to pack up my entire existence.
The address in my phone led me to a building in the Presidio that made my breath catch. Beautiful and unmistakably modern, but with lovely neoclassical touches, too. A doorman nodded at me as I entered, glancing at his screen, where I got a glimpse of my own face. I colored as I realized that it was a cropped image from my session with Mark in the courtyard. I worried the inside of my cheek, wondering if Selecta doormen were allowed to access the whole image, and I couldn’t look the doorman in the eye.
“Have a good day, Laura,” he told me as I walked to the elevator. “Welcome to the building.”
I nearly choked on my “Thanks” as I thought I could register a bit of… well, ofknowingnessin the man’s tone. I told myself I had imagined it as I rode the elevator up to the fifth floor. The apartment door unlocked with a soft beep as I held my phone near the sensor. I pushed it open, dragging my suitcase behind me, and stopped in the doorway.
It was gorgeous.
Floor-to-ceiling windows flooded the space with golden late-afternoon light. Hardwood floors gleamed beneath my feet. The furniture was modern and elegant—a plush gray sofa, a sleek dining table, a bed with crisp white linens visible through the open bedroom door. The kitchen had marble countertops and stainless steel appliances that probably cost more than a year’s rent at my old place.
I hated it.
Or I should have hated it. I wanted to hate it. But as I stepped inside and let the door close behind me, I couldn’t deny the traitorous flutter of relief in my chest. This was mine. For three months, at least. I wouldn’t have to worry about rent, about eviction notices, about where I’d sleep next week.
All it cost was my dignity. My privacy. My body.My virginity.
I wheeled my suitcase to the bedroom and left it there, unable to summon the energy to unpack. The apartment felt too clean, too perfect, like a stage set waiting for the real performance to begin. I wondered how many other girls had lived here before me. How many had stood in this exact spot, looking around at their beautiful cage.
