Ninety-eight percent. I’d been on the platform for six months and never seen a match above eighty-five.
I opened the app, and the first thing I saw was her face. Even in the cropped profile photo, she was stunning—delicate features, hazel eyes that held something vulnerable and defiant at the same time, light brown hair falling past her shoulders.
Laura M.
I scrolled down to her bio, written in a voice that tried for sophistication, but revealed her inexperience in every word choice.
I know I’ve made mistakes. Like, serious ones. I’m not going to pretend I’m perfect or that I have everything figured out because I obviously don’t. I got expelled from college for cheating and I’m not proud of that. But I’m looking for someone who can help me be better? Someone who can give me structure and help me figure out who I’m supposed to be.
I’m interested in software development (I was a CS major before… well, before). I like reading, hiking when I actually motivate myself to do it, and honestly I spend way too much time on my phone. I’m looking for a second chance and someone patient enough to deal with how much I need that. For my first time, I’m hoping it’s someone who knows how to teach me.
Christ. A virgin, too. She was perfect. The honesty, the admission of her failures, the implicit plea for guidance—it was exactly what I’d been looking for. A young woman who needed a firm hand, but also tenderness. Someone intelligent enough to challenge me, but lost enough to need direction.
“Mr. Gallagher?” One of the entrepreneurs cleared his throat.
“Right. Yes.” I looked up at them, making a quick decision. “Look, I think you both have real talent. The plumber robot idea isn’t viable, but I like how you think. Take some time, come up with something better, and reach out to my assistant for another meeting. Sound good?”
They looked confused but hopeful as they gathered their materials. “Thank you, Mr. Gallagher. We really appreciate?—”
“My assistant will show you out,” I told them.
I stood and ushered them toward the door, barely registering their continued thanks. The moment it closed behind them, I was back at my desk, phone in hand, clicking through to Laura’s full gallery.
The first photo nearly made me drop the device.
She stood in what looked like an outdoor courtyard, stripped down to plain cotton panties and a simple bra. Nothing fancy, nothing designed to seduce, which somehow made it more arousing. Her body was petite but curved in all the right places, her skin pale and smooth. But it was her expression that got me—vulnerable, embarrassed, like she was forcing herself to be there.
I swiped to the next image. This one showed her bent over a tree branch, her face turned back toward the camera. Across her bottom, visible even through her panties, were what could only be welts from a cane: six parallel lines of reddened, raised flesh. Fresh marks. Very fresh.
My cock stirred in my pants.
The third photo made me inhale sharply. Same position, but now her panties were pulled down to her knees. Her pussy was completely bare—freshly shaved, by the look of it, the sweet pink petals of her inner lips enticingly visible—and I could see the welts more clearly now, angry red stripes that had to hurt like hell.
The next several photos showed her in various poses, all designed to display the evidence of the discipline they’d apparently had to use to keep Laura in line. Then came a video thumbnail. I hesitated only a second before tapping it.
The footage showed her bent over that same tree branch, her hand moving between her legs. I could hear her breathing, ragged and desperate, as her fingers worked against her clit. The camera angle was perfect—I could see everything. Her face twisted with need and shame. Her hips rocking. And then the moment she came, crying out, her whole body shuddering.
My cock was rock hard now, straining against the front of my pants. I set the phone down on my desk and adjusted myself, trying to think clearly through the haze of arousal. When was the last time I’d had this kind of immediate, visceral reaction to anyone?
Never. The answer was never.
I scrolled down further and found myself staring at an explanatory note at the bottom of the gallery, positioned above several additional photos.
Special intake note: This associate member displayed significant resistance during her initial evaluation and required additional corrective measures. Selecta administered a temporary labia seal—a safe, medical-grade adhesive procedure that glues the outer labia together, leaving a small opening for urination. While this may appear extreme, it has proven highly beneficial for both associates and sponsors. The seal helps resistant young women reflect on their behavior and often accelerates their acceptance of the structure they need. Additionally, sponsors should note that for approximately three to five days following seal removal, the associate’s vaginal canal will be noticeably tighter, enhancing the sponsor’s pleasure during initial intercourse.
Christ. My hand moved to my cock almost involuntarily, pressing against the rigid length straining beneath my suit pants. They’d sealed her pussy. Actually sealed it closed because she’d been too defiant during intake.
I clicked on the first photo beneath the note.
Laura lay on an exam table, her legs spread wide in stirrups, restrained at the waist, neck, wrists, and thighs. Between her spread legs, I could see what they’d done—her outer lips pressed together in a seamless line, the flesh adhering unnaturally. A nurse’s gloved hands held her labia in position, and Laura’s face was visible in the shot, twisted with humiliation and something else. Arousal, maybe. Or the beginning of it.
The next photo showed the completed seal from a closer angle. Her pussy looked almost… pristine in its closure. Untouched. Inaccessible. The thought of her walking around right now with her most intimate parts sealed shut, unable to touch herself no matter how desperately she needed to, made my cock throb painfully.
I thought about jerking off right there at my desk. It wouldn’t take long—I was already so hard it almost hurt. My hand hovered over my belt buckle for a long moment.
No. Not like this.
Instead, I opened the messaging feature in the app and started typing, forcing my breathing to steady, my fingers to move deliberately across the screen.
