Page 9 of Bought and Enjoyed

“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 thatI’llhave a charming Paris apartment with a view of the Seine. No—the loveliness of this little place is forhim. 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 wouldhave 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.

CHAPTER 4

Lucas

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 asalut.

“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 atsoiréesamong 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.”

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