Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

A lice

With a mix of curiosity and trepidation, I read the message.

Chère Alice,

I hope this message finds you well. Your profile caught my eye, and I find myself intrigued by your passion for French history. I would very much like to meet you and discuss the possibility of sponsoring your studies.

Perhaps we could have dinner tomorrow evening? I know a lovely place near the Hotel de Ville that I think you might enjoy. Let me know if you’re available.

Cordialement,

Lucas

I blinked in surprise, rereading the message. The polite, almost formal tone was so different from Martin’s crude propositions. And Lucas seemed genuinely interested in my academic pursuits. Could this be real?

My finger hovered over the reply button as I wrestled with indecision. After the nightmare with Martin, every instinct screamed at me to delete the app and forget this whole sordid arrangement; to spend a carefree month and then accept my deportation.

With a deep breath, I typed out a response:

Cher Lucas,

Thank you for your message. I accepted a sponsorship yesterday, so I’m afraid I’m no longer available.

Cordialement,

Alice

It wasn’t really true, of course, but I felt like I needed some sense of agency, some ability to say no —in that moment at least, as stupid as the decision might look the next morning.

I had trudged up the steps to my apartment and reached the door when another alert buzzed on my phone. Frowning, I looked at it, expecting another of the blows to my ego that Selecta Arrangements seemed uniquely designed to inflect. Probably Lucas telling me I was a cunt to turn him down.

Instead of a message notification, though, it was a kind of alert I hadn’t yet gotten from the app.

Congratulations! Lucas has granted you full access to his profile!

My frown deepened, even as my heart rate sped up so much that I started to wonder if I might faint like some heroine of a nineteenth-century novel. Associate members like me couldn’t see potential sponsors’ profiles at all. I had looked for long minutes for the button that would take me to the listing I had felt certain must be there, only to consult the FAQ and find:

Why can’t I see the potential sponsors so I can reach out to them?

Selecta Arrangements is a different kind of matchmaking service. Because of Selecta’s corporate philosophy, which emphasizes the importance of traditional gender roles, your sponsor will do the choosing. When he feels the time is right, he may grant you access to his profile. If he does that, he’ll have two different options: limited access, which will let you see a few key details like a photo and his occupation and interests (but not his surname); or full access, which will allow you to see his surname, his level of sponsorship, and his expectations for the associate he sponsors.

When I tapped the notification, and Lucas Moreau’s full profile did in fact pop up on my screen, the possibility of doing an old-fashioned swoon—reinforcing, of course, Selecta’s corporate philosophy I supposed—became very large. Even I, definitely not a sports-loving kind of girl, had heard of Lucas Moreau. In fact, I recognized his freakishly handsome face before I saw his full name down below.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from my phone, my keys forgotten in my hand as I stood transfixed in the hallway outside my apartment. The soft glow of the screen illuminated his chiseled features, those ice-blue eyes that had graced countless magazine covers and billboards staring back at me.

My finger trembled as I scrolled through the details of his profile, each revelation more astonishing than the last. Lucas Moreau, star midfielder for Paris Saint-Germain and the French national team. Lucas Moreau, whose goals had led France to World Cup glory. Lucas Moreau, whose face launched a thousand ad campaigns and whose name was synonymous with sporting excellence.

And he wanted to sponsor me?

I leaned against the wall, my legs suddenly weak. The worn wallpaper of the hallway felt rough against my back, grounding me in reality as I tried to process this surreal turn of events.

His sponsorship level was listed as ‘Platinum Elite’—the highest tier available. The monthly allowance figure made my eyes widen. It was more money than I’d ever seen, let alone had access to. With that kind of financial support, I could focus entirely on my studies without worry. I could travel to every archive in France, pore over ancient texts to my heart’s content, maybe even start writing the dissertation on medieval French social structures I’d been dreaming about.

The Expectations section, though… I felt my forehead crease as I read it, and my tummy fluttered distractingly.

I wouldn’t be here on Selecta Arrangements if I weren’t a dominant man. What does that mean to me? I like to take charge in bed, obviously. I expect you to obey me outside the bedroom, too, though—and I expect you to accept the consequences if you don’t. Because I’m a public figure, it’s especially important that you behave yourself, if I sponsor you—and I’m guessing you’ll face a good deal of pressure to talk to the press. Think about whether you can handle that in an appropriate way, before you accept a request for a date from me.

Another moment of impending swoon came over me, and I had to rip my gaze from my phone and let myself into the apartment so that I could collapse on the surprisingly comfortable couch in my little living room. When I had endured the distress and mortification of the heat from my still sore backside at first contact, and swallowed hard, I looked at my phone again.

I noticed that the app had put a notification underneath the profile.

Not sure what ‘consequences’ means?

I swallowed even harder and tapped it. It took me to the FAQ.

What does my potential sponsor mean by ‘consequences’ or ‘learning a lesson’?

Selecta Arrangements is designed to facilitate the kind of relationships that align with Selecta’s corporate philosophy of emphasizing traditional gender roles. That includes corporal punishment when your sponsor deems it appropriate to impose consequences in that traditional way. When you accept an offer of sponsorship, you commit yourself to accepting your sponsor’s discipline. Remember that Selecta Arrangements vets every sponsor thoroughly, and monitors the progress of your arrangement with him continuously, eliminating the possibility of abuse. Remember also that your associate membership in SA is a result of our vetting you, as well: if our expert psychologists hadn’t confirmed your submissive sexuality, you would not have been accepted as an associate.

I cursed my idiocy for not having read through the FAQ before the date with Martin, but I knew it didn’t really have anything to do with idiocy. I hadn’t wanted to know about consequences , because I knew how confused it would make me.

Confused. I insisted to myself that confusion was what I was feeling, that the signals that seemed to be radiating forward and inward from my spanked bottom represented ambiguity rather than anything more definite. It didn’t make logical sense, but I needed it for the moment.

I read Lucas’ message again. I read his profile again. I felt my face pucker into a pout of… confusion.

I stared at my phone, my thumb hovering over the reply button. The memory of Martin’s cruel dismissal was still fresh, the taste of humiliation bitter on my tongue. And yet… Lucas Moreau. The Lucas Moreau.

My eyes drifted to the window, where the lights of Paris twinkled in the distance. When I craned my neck I could even see the Eiffel Tower standing proud against the night sky, a beacon of romance and possibility even to me who valued the medieval chateaux so much more. Wasn’t this why I had come here? To chase my dreams, to immerse myself in the rich history of this beautiful city?

But at what cost? The FAQ’s words echoed in my mind: corporal punishment when your sponsor deems it appropriate . I shifted on the couch, my bottom still tender from Martin’s brutal spanking. Could I really subject myself to that again?

And yet… there was something different about Lucas. His message had been polite, almost formal. He seemed genuinely interested in my studies. Perhaps with him, it would be different. Perhaps he would be kind, patient. Perhaps…

Before I could talk myself out of it, I began to type:

Cher Lucas,

I apologize for my hasty response earlier. Upon further reflection, I find myself intrigued by your offer. I would be honored to meet you for dinner tomorrow evening. The bistro near the Tuileries sounds lovely.

Thank you for your interest in my studies. I look forward to discussing French history with you.

Cordialement,

Alice

My finger hovered over the send button as I reread my message. Was I really going to do this? Give myself another chance to be used and discarded? But Lucas seemed different. His profile, his polite message… maybe this time would be better.

Before I could second-guess myself further, I hit send. Almost immediately, a reply came through:

Wonderful, Alice. I’m delighted you’ve reconsidered. I’ll send a car for you at 1900 tomorrow. Until then, ma chère.

—Lucas

I stared at his message, my heart racing. This was really happening. I had a date with Lucas Moreau. International football star Lucas Moreau. Who wanted to sponsor me through Selecta Arrangements.

As I got ready for bed, my mind swirled with a mix of excitement and trepidation. I couldn’t help but wonder what Lucas would be like in person. Would he live up to the charming persona his profile and messages portrayed? Or would I find myself in another nightmare situation like with Martin?

I tossed and turned, sleep eluding me as I imagined all the possibilities.

As exhaustion finally began to creep over me, my mind drifted in a haze between waking and sleep, images and sensations swirled together—Martin’s cruel smirk, Lucas’ cool blue eyes, the sting of the spanking still radiating from my tender flesh.

I shifted restlessly, the soft cotton of my oversized sleep shirt brushing against my skin. Without conscious thought, my hand drifted down my body, fingers trailing along my inner thigh. A shiver ran through me as I recalled Martin’s touch there in the car, so degrading and yet…

My fingertips grazed the edge of my panties and I froze, suddenly aware of what I was doing. This was wrong, wasn’t it? To find any hint of arousal in the memory of such a humiliating encounter? And yet…

Almost of their own accord, my fingers slipped beneath the waistband of my underwear. I gasped softly as I touched the bare outer lips, probed into the complicated inner ones, soothed my most private places, finding my sheath already embarrassingly slick with arousal. Shame and desire warred within me as I began to stroke myself, quiet whimpers escaping my lips.

In my mind’s eye, Martin’s sneering face morphed into Lucas’ chiseled features. I imagined his strong hands on my body, firm but not cruel. Would he spank me too? The thought sent an unexpected jolt of heat through my core.

My hips rocked against my hand as I worked myself harder. I moved my fingertips, desperately circling the bud of my swollen clit as I imagined Lucas’ touch. In my fevered fantasy, he seemed stern but not cruel, dominant yet caring. I pictured him bending me over his knee, his large hand coming down on my bare bottom in sharp, stinging slaps. But unlike Martin’s brutal assault, this imaginary spanking felt… right somehow. Like I was being corrected, guided.

“You’ve been a naughty girl, Alice,” fantasy Lucas murmured in my ear. “But I’ll teach you to be good for me.”

A quiet moan escaped my lips as the tension built within me. My back arched off the bed as I chased my release, torn between shame and desperate need.

“That’s it,” Lucas’ voice encouraged in my mind. “Come for me, ma chère . Show me your obedience.”

With a stifled cry, I tumbled over the edge of orgasm. Waves of pleasure crashed over me as my body shuddered through an intense climax. As the aftershocks faded, leaving me trembling and spent, tears pricked at my eyes. What was wrong with me? How could I find pleasure in the thought of being punished, controlled?

I curled onto my side, hugging my pillow tightly as confusion and self-recrimination warred within me. Tomorrow I would meet the real Lucas Moreau. What would he be like? And more important—what was I becoming?