I must have checked the Caltrain schedule at least fifty times. I left my apartment two hours before I needed to, taking the earliest train that wouldn’t leave me sitting at the station or, worse, at Selecta, for an hour. The shuttle from Palo Alto was sleek and modern, emblazoned with the Selecta logo—a stylized red S that looked both elegant and vaguely predatory. I sat in the back, clutching my purse, watching Silicon Valley’s corporate campuses slide past the window.
The Selecta West building sprawled like a testament to the megacorp’s global footprint, its glass and steel dominating the campus’s artificially green environs. I walked through the revolving doors at exactly 1:45 p.m., my sneakers squeaking softly on the polished marble floor.
The receptionist looked up from her desk with a practiced smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her nameplate readJoann.
“Hi?” I said, and immediately had to swallow hard to clear my mouth. “I’m… Laura Martindale,” I said, my voice still coming out smaller than I’d intended. “I have a two o’clock appointment.”
Something flickered in Joann’s expression—was it pity? Contempt? I couldn’t tell. She picked up her phone without a word.
“Hank? The two o’clock SA girl is here.” A pause. She looked up at me. “Yes, Laura.”
The way she said my name made my stomach clench. Did everyone here know why I was here? What I was doing?
“Have a seat,” Joann said, gesturing to a row of sleek chairs. “Someone will be with you shortly.”
I perched on the edge of a chair, my hands twisted together in my lap. Around me, people in business attire strode past with purpose. No one looked at me, but I felt exposed anyway, like I was wearing a sign that announced that I had gotten desperate enough to sell my virginity like a whore.
“Ms. Martindale?”
The voice was deep and authoritative. I looked up to find a massive man in spotless blue medical scrubs standing before me. He had to be at least six-two, with a military haircut and the kind of build that suggested he could snap me in half without effort.
“I’m Hank Grovers,” he said. His tone was clipped, professional, but there was something in his eyes when he looked at me—a flicker of judgment that made my tummy lurch. “Follow me.”
I scrambled to my feet, nearly tripping over my own shoes. He was already walking away, his stride long and purposeful. I hurried after him, my heart hammering against my ribs.
We passed through a security door, down a corridor that seemed to stretch forever. The walls were lined with frosted glass, beyond which I could see shadowy figures moving. Medical equipment. Exam rooms.
Oh, god. This was really happening.
Hank stopped at a door markedExamination Room 4and pushed it open. The room beyond was sterile and clinical, dominated by a padded exam table in the center. Bright overhead lights made everything harsh and unforgiving. I saw stirrups. Then I noticed something else: a detail so shocking it took me a moment to process it. Restraints, attached to the exam table.
“Wait here,” Hank said, “Nurse Samuels will come in a moment to conduct your exam.”
He left, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that made my knees weak. I stood frozen in the middle of the room, my arms wrapped around myself. The exam table loomed before me, the incongruous restraints dangling like a promise of what was to come.
What was I doing here? What had I been thinking?
But I knew the answer. I’d been thinking about eviction notices. About my parents’ disappointed faces. About having no future, no prospects, nothing.
The door opened again without so much as a knock, and a woman in her mid-forties entered. She wore a tailored medical uniform that somehow managed to look both professional and intimidating in a uniquely corporate way. Her steel-gray eyes swept over me with clinical assessment, and I felt myself shrinking under her gaze.
“I’m Nurse Samuels,” she said, her voice crisp and efficient. She carried a tablet, which she glanced at briefly. “Laura Martindale. Twenty years old. Applied for premium placement.” She looked up at me. “Strip. All of it.”
The command hit me like a slap. “I… what?”
“Your clothes. Take them off. All of them.” She didn’t raise her voice, but something in her tone made it clear this wasn’t a request.
My hands trembled as I reached for the hem of my hoodie. My face burned with humiliation as I pulled it over my head, then fumbled with the button of my jeans. Nurse Samuels watched with detached patience, like she was observing a laboratory specimen. I kicked off my sneakers, peeled off my socks, pushed down my jeans. When I stood in just my bra and panties, I hesitated.
“Everything,” she repeated.
I unhooked my bra with shaking fingers, crossing my arms reflexively over my breasts as soon as the fabric fell away, until I realized I would have to use my hands to take off my panties. My forehead creasing, I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my sensible gray bikini briefs, and they followed. I stood completely naked in the harsh fluorescent light, trembling and exposed.
“Is there… is there a gown?” I managed to whisper.
“No.”
“But I?—”
