Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

L ucas

Five minutes after I had made my mind up not to retire, I got an email from Pierre, my agent.

“So?” he said, without even a salut .

“One more season,” I told him. “Then I’ll retire.”

“I’ll believe you when you’re ten kilos heavier and waking up at noon in the country,” Pierre replied, amusement in his voice.

“Is there anything else?” I said, a little annoyed. Yes, I’d almost retired for the past two seasons, but this time I really meant it. My legs had needed a full month after the World Cup to feel like I was ready to train again. My heart and lungs could go from one end of the pitch to the other for ninety minutes and still want more—but my knees… well, if my doctor had had his way, I would have retired three years ago.

“Yes, actually,” Pierre said, “though you don’t deserve it. Selecta came to me with an offer yesterday.”

I frowned. “Selecta? They don’t…”

“Not yet,” Pierre said. “They want you as their first athlete. They say you fit their corporate philosophy.”

That took me aback. I had spent enough time at soirées among the global elite to know exactly how closely I aligned with the well-known open secret of the megacorp’s central philosophy of using their market share to promote traditional gender roles. That, however, concerned my private life. The idea that information about my sexual proclivities had made its way to the ears of Selecta executives brought a flicker of anger to my chest.

“Pierre—” I started, but he cut me off.

“No,” he said, “no one talked—especially not me. Word is that Selecta has ways of detecting a man’s dominant sexuality from biometric data.”

“And who gave them my?—”

Pierre interrupted me again.

“Data like the way you walk, the way you speak, even the way you decide to pass or shoot on the pitch.”

So nothing private, really—except that they could draw a very private conclusion. They would never have reached out to Pierre unless they knew that in the bedroom I preferred to dominate. That I expected my sexual partners to submit, and to accept my firm hand’s discipline when they misbehaved.

“What’s the offer?” I asked, intrigued despite myself.

“They’ve started a program in Paris, a version of something they’ve been doing in American cities.”

I felt my eyebrows go up. I knew exactly what Pierre was talking about. Selecta Arrangements. I had gotten an email—in fact, I had signed up to get that email, when I had received an earlier email saying that Selecta Arrangements would open in Paris soon and did I want to be one of the first to know.

“It’s called Selecta Arrangements,” Pierre went on.

“I’ve heard of it,” I said, trying not to let the beginnings of excitement in my chest—and, to be frank, below my belt—creep into my voice. “It’s not the kind of thing one accepts a sponsorship for, though, no? I’m not going to wear an advertisement for a service that provides wealthy men with obedient fuck toys on my jersey.”

“Not publicly, no, of course,” Pierre said, laughing. “But their offer is simply that you use the service. They promise no formal publicity. Word of mouth only.”

“And what do I get?”

“They provide the membership, and they give the girl you sponsor a luxury allowance, plus a thousand euro per week subsidy for you to buy her gifts.”

“ Merde ,” I said, exhaling in a whistle. I didn’t even have to think about it. “Tell them yes.”

Pierre laughed. “Very well. I thought you might be interested. I even have a code for you to redeem the offer on the app today.”

A few moments later I hung up the phone, my mind racing with the possibilities. Selecta Arrangements. Yes, I’d heard about the program—usually in whispers—but I’d never imagined I’d have the opportunity to participate, even when I’d signed up for the notification when they brought it to Paris. And now, not only was I being offered membership, but they were practically paying me to join.

I opened my laptop and navigated to the Selecta website, curiosity getting the better of me. The homepage was sleek and professional, with subtle hints of luxury and exclusivity. I clicked on the ‘Arrangements’ tab and was prompted to enter a special access code.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before I typed in the code Pierre had given me. The screen refreshed, revealing a new set of options. My eyes were immediately drawn to a button labeled ‘Browse Associates.’

With a mix of excitement and trepidation, I clicked it. A grid of photos appeared, each showcasing a beautiful young woman. Some were demurely posed, while others were more provocative. But all had a certain vulnerability in their eyes that stirred something primal within me.

I scrolled through the profiles, reading snippets of information about each woman. Their interests, their academic pursuits, their… proclivities. It was intoxicating, having access to such intimate details about these potential submissives.

Then, when I was about to close the app, I noticed her. One profile in particular that I found I couldn’t look away from.

I clicked. Her name was Alice Morgan. Her photo showed a young woman with wavy chestnut hair and striking green eyes. There was an intelligence in her gaze that intrigued me, and I found I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her profile.

Truly, something simply captivated me about her—the innocence in her eyes, I told myself: it contrasted so piquantly with the provocative poses in her photos, which to be sure made my cock leap against my thigh, inside my trousers. I’d seen a great many photos of beautiful, naked young women—and seen a great many of them in the flesh, before, during, and after enjoying them in my dominant fashion.

The lewd poses into which Alice had put herself for these photos—for me , I couldn’t help feeling—aroused me more than I’d experienced in a good while. Above all, the picture of her playing with her thrillingly bare, charmingly pink cunt, looking down at her naughtiness as her cheeks blushed a color to rival those sweet, wrinkly inner lips… the image brought fire to my blood and stiffness to my cock.

On the other hand, though… I couldn’t decide, really, if I preferred that one to the even franker picture of innocent Alice Morgan looking back over her shoulder in clear dismay as her fingers did so obscene a thing… as she, like the bad girl she so clearly had inside, spread her rear end… parted the firm apples of her bottom… showed her prospective sponsor— me —the lovely, tiny bud of her puckered, obviously virginal anus.

I knew immediately that if I had the luck to claim her as my own, that adorable little hole would get a good deal of attention. Alice Morgan would find her bottom regularly stretched to the fullest around the thickness of my rigid shaft, if I were her sponsor.

I almost took that now-very-hard shaft out so that I could enjoy myself fully as I read about Alice. I prided myself on my self-control, though. I forced myself to turn to the text of her profile.

Alice was a graduate student in French history, it seemed. That piqued my interest. I’d always had a fondness for intelligent women. But it was her personal statement that truly drew me in.

I never imagined I’d find myself here, but my passion for history has led me down an unexpected path. I’m both terrified and thrilled by the possibilities that lie ahead. I hope to find a sponsor who will nurture my academic pursuits while guiding me toward a happy life.

I felt an even more urgent surge of arousal. The hint of reluctance in her words, combined with her obvious curiosity, was intoxicating. I could already imagine guiding her, molding her into the perfect submissive.

Message Alice. The button was at the bottom of her profile. I hesitated for a moment. Selecta Arrangements, I knew, was designed for busy men like me. If I did sponsor Alice Morgan, I would be able to give her as much or as little attention as I saw fit. The only doubt in my mind lay in the question of whether I would be able to maintain my self-control when I had not Alice’s sexy photos to look at but Alice herself, body and heart, to train, to discipline, and to enjoy as I chose.

I felt a smile crook the corner of my mouth as I wondered suddenly if Pierre had brought me the offer precisely because he wanted to ensure I would retire sooner rather than later.

Well, so be it , I thought. I couldn’t resist the chance to meet Alice—let alone to fuck her every hole, in particular that adorable bottom. I clicked.

Alice

Sitting across a bistro table from a man I knew thus far only as Martin, I nervously smoothed my dress. The candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows across the white tablecloth. I tried to focus on the menu, but my mind kept drifting to the conversation we’d had moments ago.

“Let’s be clear, chérie ,” Martin had said, his voice low and tinged with amusement. “I have no interest in your studies or your dreams. I simply want to fuck you. If that’s acceptable, I’ll provide you with a month’s allowance.”

His bluntness had made me flinch. I’d known, of course, that any potential sponsor would expect sexual favors. But to hear it stated so crudely…

I glanced up at Martin over the rim of my wineglass. He was undeniably handsome, with salt-and-pepper hair and piercing blue eyes. In another life, I might have been thrilled to catch the attention of such a distinguished older man. Now I felt a confusing mix of revulsion and reluctant arousal.

“Have you decided, mademoiselle ?” the waiter asked, appearing at my elbow.

I realized I’d been staring blankly at the menu. “Oh, um… I’ll have the coq au vin , please.”

Martin ordered for himself in rapid French, then turned his attention back to me. His gaze raked over me, lingering on the neckline of my dress. The thought that he had ogled those degrading photos before messaging me to ask me on this date brought a rush of heat to my cheeks.

“So,” he said, “do we have a deal, chérie ?” He had his phone in his hand, and I could see that he had the SA app open, with my profile picture staring out at him. I could see, too, that his interface differed from mine; right below my picture I could see a button: Make an offer .

I stared into my wineglass, watching the crimson liquid swirl as I tilted it gently. The candlelight caught the deep red hues, reminding me of the blush that had crept across my cheeks during that humiliating photoshoot. I could still hear Jean-Luc’s voice, coaxing me into ever more lewd poses. The memory made me squirm in my seat.

Martin’s eyes narrowed slightly, noticing my discomfort. His lips curved into a knowing smirk that sent a shiver down my spine. I knew he was imagining all the ways he would use my body if I agreed to his offer. The thought should have disgusted me, but instead I felt a treacherous warmth blooming between my legs.

Madame d’Arsenault’s stern warning echoed in my mind: find a sponsor within a month, or face deportation. The clock was ticking. I had already been on three other ‘dates’ this week, each one leaving me feeling more desperate and conflicted than the last. Martin’s blunt proposition was almost a relief after the false niceties of the others.

I tried to rationalize it to myself. This was just a transaction, wasn’t it? I wouldn’t really be a whore—I’d be more like… a very specialized personal assistant. One who happened to provide sexual services. The allowance would cover my living expenses while I pursued my studies. It was practically the same as having a part-time job.

“ Oui, Monsieur ,” I whispered.