The need between my legs hadn’t diminished. If anything, it had grown worse. I pressed my thighs together as I walked back to the main room, trying to ignore the constant awareness of the seal, how my outer lips felt pressed together in that unnatural way.
I needed to shower. To wash away the afternoon, even if I couldn’t wash away what had been done to me.
The bathroom was as pristine as the rest of the apartment. White subway tiles, a rainfall showerhead, fluffy towels that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and stopped.
I looked wrecked. My hair was a mess, my eyes red and puffy from crying. My face was blotchy and pale. But it was the look in my eyes that made me pause—something desperate and frightened that I’d never seen there before.
I stripped off my clothes, wincing as my jeans scraped over the welts on my bottom. The marks were visible in the mirror when I turned—six parallel lines of raised, reddened flesh. I reached back and touched one gently, and the sting made me gasp.
But underneath the pain was that shameful heat again. I snatched my hand away.
The shower was hot and powerful, and I stood under the spray for a long time, letting the water cascade over my sore body. I tried not to think about the camera. Ann had said I had full privacy until I accepted a sponsor, but how could I be sure? How could I trust anything they’d told me?
My hand drifted down almost of its own accord, sliding over my hip and between my thighs. I gasped as my fingers found the seal.
I couldn’t feel my clit. My outer lips were pressed together so firmly that I couldn’t even find the little bud beneath them, couldn’t access it at all. I tried to slide my fingers lower, to the entrance of my vagina, where I usually liked to put a naughty finger, just to the place where I knew one day a man’s hardness would open me, but that too was sealed shut. Only the small opening at the very bottom remained, barely large enough for me to pee through.
“No,” I whimpered, pressing harder, trying to find some way to create friction, to access the aching need that pulsed inside me. But there was nothing. The seal held firm, medical-grade adhesive keeping me closed off from myself.
I tried rubbing the outside, pressing my palm against my mound, but the sensation was muted, distant. Wrong. It only made the desperate ache worse, made me more aware of how much I needed to touch myself properly and couldn’t.
My breath came faster. I tried different angles, different pressures, my fingers working frantically against the sealed flesh. But nothing helped. The need kept building with no way to release it. My other hand moved to my breast, pinching my nipple, trying to find some relief that way, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.
I slumped against the shower wall, my hand still pressed uselessly between my legs, tears mixing with the water streaming down my face. They had done this to me on purpose. Had sealed me knowing exactly what it would do, how desperate and needy it would make me feel.
I stayed in the shower until the water ran cold, then finally forced myself to step out. The towel was soft against my skin as I dried off, but even that gentle friction reminded me of my frustrated arousal. I pulled on fresh panties and a t-shirt, leaving my jeans on the bathroom floor. My bottom still throbbed from the welts as I padded barefoot out to the main room.
The apartment felt too quiet. Too empty. I could hear the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of traffic outside. The golden light had faded to purple dusk, and I hadn’t even thought to turn on a lamp.
My phone sat on the kitchen counter where I’d left it. The Selecta Arrangements app icon seemed to glow at me accusingly. Twelve hours to complete the profile, Ann had said. How many hours did I have left now? Six? Seven?
I should refuse. I should just let the deadline pass and force them to deny my application.
But then what? They’d said three months minimum. Three months of living in this apartment with my pussy sealed, unable to touch myself, unable to find any relief from this constant aching need. Three months of that stipend Ann had mentioned—probably barely enough to survive on.
Or I could complete the profile. Go on some dates with wealthy sponsors. Let them see me, evaluate me, decide if they wanted to pay for access to my body. And then… then they’d remove the seal.
My hand moved between my legs again before I could stop myself, pressing against the thin cotton of my panties. I thought about what it felt like, to press gently against the tiny membrane that a man I didn’t know would pay so much money to rupture with his rigid cock.
With a little sob, I opened the app.
CHAPTER 7
Mike
“The technical challenges really are surmountable, Mr. Gallagher,” the hapless, if brilliant, guy across my desk from me was saying.
“They totally are,” agreed his equally intelligent, equally clueless partner.
I leaned back in my leather chair, barely suppressing a sigh. “Gentlemen, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but the fundamental problem remains. The liability issues alone would sink this project before you got a prototype to market. Every homeowner in America would need to sign a waiver the size of a phone book before you could send a robot plumber into their home.”
“But if we?—”
My phone buzzed in my pocket, cutting off whatever objection the first entrepreneur was about to make. I almost ignored it—I made it a point never to check my phone during meetings—but the vibration pattern was distinctive. Three short pulses. That was the Selecta Arrangements alert I’d configured for high-match profiles.
“Excuse me one moment,” I said, pulling out my phone. The two young men across from me exchanged glances, probably thinking I was being rude. They weren’t entirely wrong.
The notification glowed on my screen:New Premium Associate Member—98% Match.
