Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

A lice

“What…” I started, hardly able to compose my thoughts into a question. “What is this… this program?”

The nurse began expertly trimming the chestnut curls between my legs with small scissors. I squirmed at the unfamiliar sensation, my cheeks burning with humiliation.

“Well,” she said matter-of-factly, “if you’d looked closely at the website for the Selecta scholarship program, you would have seen that recipients are required to register for an associate membership in Selecta Arrangements.”

She set aside the scissors and began lathering my most intimate areas with warm shaving cream. I shivered at her clinical touch.

“Selecta Arrangements is a way for submissive young women to live a lifestyle they wouldn’t otherwise be able to afford,” she continued, picking up a razor. “Which is exactly what a doctorate in the humanities represents for you, isn’t it, Alice?”

The nurse began carefully shaving my pubic area, her movements swift and practiced. I bit my lip, fighting back tears of mortification.

“The truth is, if you want to study in Paris, you’ll have to earn your keep in Selecta Arrangements,” she said bluntly. “Now, some sponsors don’t expect to have dominant sex with the associate members they sponsor, but let’s be realistic—you should make up your mind that if you want a sponsor, you’ll have to submit to him sexually.”

I gasped as the razor glided over my most sensitive flesh. “But I’m not… I don’t want…”

“Alice,” the nurse interrupted, her tone stern. “You’re going to have to stop saying you don’t want the things you obviously do want. The medical exam has verified that despite your repression, you are sexually submissive.”

I felt my face go as hot as an oven and screw up into what I was sure was a ridiculous expression of denial. Down where the horrid nurse kept moving her awful razor, and in a place deep down in my mind, one that I had not the slightest desire to acknowledge, something stirred, and it made me want to scream, or sob, or—really—just vanish from the earth.

I lay there in stunned silence as the nurse continued her methodical work, unable to process everything she was telling me. My mind reeled, trying to make sense of it all. Submissive? Sponsors? Sexual submission? This couldn’t be happening.

“If you wish fulfillment and happiness, Alice, you’re going to have to explore your submissive sexuality,” the nurse said matter-of-factly as she shaved the sensitive skin between my legs. “The program will help you do that in a controlled, safe environment. The sponsor who subsidizes you will have gone through a thorough vetting, in order even to look at your profile, and he’ll be able to train you properly.”

Train? Oh… no. I had clenched, down there. I bit my lip to keep myself from whimpering. I wanted to argue, to insist that she was wrong about me. But the memory of my body’s betrayal during the examination was still fresh in my mind. The way I had responded, the intense pleasure I had felt… could the nurse be right? Was there some hidden part of me that craved this?

“There,” the nurse said, setting aside the razor. “All nice and smooth. Your sponsors will appreciate that.”

She wiped away the remaining shaving cream, her touch clinical but somehow still invasive. I felt exposed, vulnerable in a way I never had before.

“Now then,” she continued briskly, “you’ll be heading to Paris next week to begin your studies. We’ll set you up in a basic apartment and help you create your profile for potential sponsors.”

“Profile?” I echoed weakly.

“Yes, dear. You’ll need to have some professional photos taken—nude, of course—and fill out a questionnaire about your interests, your experience, and so forth. They’ll be able to tell you more when you get there.”

And so they did. Seven days later, I sat in an office across from a woman who had introduced herself as Madame d’Arsenault. The conversation was in French, but the meaning remained the same.

“Mademoiselle Morgan, I’m sure they gave you this same choice back at your university. You should not have gotten on the plane if you intended to back out of your program. I’m afraid that our arrangement with French immigration is very strict. Your good standing in Selecta Arrangements is an absolute requirement. Otherwise we will be forced to turn you over to the authorities for immediate deportation.”

I felt my stomach drop at Madame d’Arsenault’s words. The reality of my situation was finally sinking in—I was trapped. I had read the fine print, which had given me no information Nurse Theresa hadn’t already provided. I had boarded the flight to Paris, as this older woman—horrible in the way that only a Frenchwoman can be horrible—had suggested, with the intention of persuading someone in Paris to give me the scholarship without making me enroll in Selecta Arrangements. No chance: obviously, if I refused to participate in this ‘program,’ I’d be sent back home with nothing to show for it. My dreams of studying in Paris would be shattered.

“I… I understand,” I said softly, hating how meek my voice sounded.

Madame d’Arsenault’s stern expression softened slightly. “Good girl. Now, we have an appointment scheduled for you at our photography studio this afternoon. They’ll take the necessary photos for your profile.”

My cheeks burned at the thought. “You mean… nude photos?”

She nodded briskly. “Of course. Your potential sponsors will need to see what they’re investing in. The photographer is very professional, I assure you.”

I bit my lip, fighting back tears of humiliation. How had I ended up here? Just a week ago I’d been a normal graduate student with dreams of becoming a professor. Now I was about to pose naked for strange men to… to what? Keep me? Buy me?

“After the photoshoot, we’ll help you fill out your profile questionnaire,” Madame d’Arsenault continued. “You’ll need to be honest about your experiences and desires. Even if you think you don’t have any… interesting proclivities, the medical exam revealed your true nature. Honesty is crucial.”

I nodded mutely, my mind reeling.

“Excellent. A car will be waiting for you out front.”

I squirmed uncomfortably in the back of the sleek limousine as it wound through the streets of Paris. My stomach churned with anxiety as we pulled up in front of an unassuming building.

“This is it, mademoiselle ,” the driver said, opening my door. “Third floor.”

I stepped out on shaky legs, smoothing my skirt nervously. The elevator ride to the third floor felt interminable. When the doors finally opened, I found myself in a stylish, minimalist studio space. A tall, lanky man with artfully tousled hair greeted me.

“Ah, you must be Alice,” he said in accented English. “I’m Jean-Luc. We’ll be working together today.”

I nodded mutely, my cheeks already burning.

“ Bonjour, Monsieur ,” I said, trying to gain some composure from my assurance in the language into which I had put so much work. “ Je parle tres couramment Francais. ”

“ Tout a fait ,” the man said with a smile, and continued in French, “Fine. No need to be shy. I’ve worked with many Selecta girls. Now, why don’t you get undressed and we’ll begin?”

My hands trembled as I slowly removed my clothing. Jean-Luc busied himself with his camera equipment, giving me a semblance of privacy. When I was finally naked, I stood there awkwardly, arms crossed over my chest.

“Relax, chérie ,” Jean-Luc said. “You have a lovely figure. Now, let’s start with some simple poses.”

He directed me into various positions—standing, sitting, reclining on a chair. I tried to follow Jean-Luc’s instructions, my face burning with embarrassment as I posed naked before his camera. The flash kept going off, capturing my nudity from every angle.

“Good, good,” Jean-Luc murmured. “Now, let’s try something a bit more… provocative. Spread your legs for me, chérie . Show off that pretty cunt we worked so hard to prepare.”

I hesitated, shame flooding through me. Con… the French word—not quite as taboo in this language as its literal translation in English, but I realized suddenly that as expert as I had become in French culture, I couldn’t think of it as anything but the c-word: the most degrading possible way to talk about that part of a girl’s body.

“I… I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that,” I said softly.

Jean-Luc lowered his camera, fixing me with a stern look. “Alice, if you want a chance at attracting a luxury sponsor, you need to show that you’re ready to submit to his every sexual whim. That you’re a naughty girl who needs regular sexual discipline.”

His words sent an unwelcome thrill through me. I bit my lip, torn between mortification and a strange, growing excitement.

“Remember,” Jean-Luc continued, “the more… willing, shall we say, you appear in these photos, the better your chances of securing a high-status sponsor. Someone who can truly further your academic pursuits.”

I took a deep breath, steeling myself. This was for my future, I reminded myself. For my dreams. Slowly, I spread my legs, exposing my most intimate parts to Jean-Luc’s camera.

“ Parfait ,” he purred. “Now touch yourself. Show your potential sponsors how badly you need a cock in that little cunt.”

Oh, God. Oh, no. The casual coarseness made my mind reel.

I froze, my hand hovering uncertainly. Touch myself? In front of this stranger? But as mortifying as it was, I knew I had to go through with it if I wanted any chance at the life I’d dreamed of.

With trembling fingers, I reached between my legs. The flash went off rapidly as I tentatively stroked myself, my face burning with shame. To my horror, I felt myself growing wet under my own touch.

“Excellent,” Jean-Luc murmured. “Now, turn around and bend over. Spread those sweet little cheeks for me.”

I hesitated, my stomach churning. This was too much, too degrading. But Jean-Luc’s voice cut through my thoughts.

“Alice, if you want a luxury sponsor, you need to show that you’re ready to submit completely. That includes your tight little rear end.”

Tears pricked at my eyes as I slowly turned and bent over, bracing myself against a nearby table. With shaking hands, I reached back and spread my bottom cheeks, exposing my most private area to Jean-Luc’s camera.

“Perfect,” he purred. “These shots will show your potential sponsors that you’re a naughty girl who needs regular anal discipline.”

The flashes continued as Jean-Luc captured my humiliating pose from various angles. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to pretend I was anywhere else. But I couldn’t escape the reality of what was happening—or the confusing mix of shame and need it had brought out.

The car brought me back to the little apartment in the Quartier Latin where the scholarship program had put me. Little, but to my surprise on arrival, not tiny. As I looked up at it from the street, after the degrading photography session, and thought about opening the profile questionnaire in the Selecta Arrangements app, I saw the place through new eyes.

It’s nice—but not for me. Not so that I’ll have a charming Paris apartment with a view of the Seine. No—the loveliness of this little place is for him . My sponsor.

I climbed the stairs, my legs shaky and my mind reeling from the events of the day. As I fumbled with my keys, I couldn’t shake the image of myself bent over, exposed to Jean-Luc’s camera. The shame of it burned through me, but there was something else too—a tingling warmth that I didn’t want to acknowledge.

Inside, I leaned against the closed door and took a deep breath. The apartment was small but truly lovely, with tall windows that let in the afternoon light. Under different circumstances, I would have been thrilled to call this place home. Now it felt like a gilded cage.

I made my way to the bedroom, intent on taking a long, hot shower to wash away the memory of the photoshoot. But as I passed the full-length mirror, I caught sight of myself and froze. My cheeks were flushed, my eyes bright. I looked… different somehow. Changed.

With trembling fingers, I lifted my skirt and pulled the front panel of my panties out so I could see, though a big part of me had no desire to look. The sight of the newly bare skin made me gasp. It looked so naked, so exposed. I traced the smooth flesh with my fingertips, shivering at the sensation.

A ping from my phone startled me out of my reverie. The notification had come from the Selecta Arrangements app, reminding me to complete my profile questionnaire. My stomach churned as I picked up my phone and opened the app.