Page 24 of Innocence Tamed
Pierre nodded. “Selecta has been quietly acquiring sustainable energy patents for the past decade. Their New Modesty program includes significant energy conservation measures.”
“The New Modesty?” I repeated, trying to give the impression that I had at most a vague familiarity with the phrase, perhaps from news headlines I’d skimmed.
“Yes,” Pierre confirmed. “A rather fascinating social experiment that combines traditional gender roles with modern efficiency goals. It’s gained considerable traction in France and parts of Eastern Europe.” His eyes studied me carefully. “You haven’t researched that aspect of Selecta’s operations?”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “I… I’ve avoided reading too much about the New Modesty,” I admitted, my voice dropping to almost a whisper.
“And why is that?” Pierre asked, leaning forward slightly, his interest clearly piqued.
I stared down at my coffee, unable to meet his gaze. “Because of how it makes me feel,” I said finally, the words more a mumble than an articulate utterance.
“And how does it make you feel, Audrey?”
My chest tightened, my breath catching in my throat. How could I possibly explain the confusing mixture of revulsion and arousal that had flooded through me when I’d glimpsed articles about the program? About how women were returning to ‘traditional roles’ that seemed to involve a disturbing amount of corporal punishment? About how their husbands and ‘guardians’ were given legal authority to discipline them for infractions ranging from wasting energy to speaking out of turn?
“I’d rather not say,” I whispered, my face burning.
Pierre didn’t press the issue, but a slight smile curved his lips, as if my reluctance had confirmed something for him. He changed the subject smoothly, asking about my hometown in Illinois, my education, my interests outside of work. The conversation returned to safer ground, though I remained acutely aware of the unspoken purpose of our meeting.
As we talked, I found myself studying him more closely. His hands were elegant, with long fingers and neatly trimmed nails. They moved with precision as he gestured occasionally to emphasize a point. I couldn’t help imagining those hands on my body, touching me intimately, perhaps even delivering discipline like Theodore had done during my photo session. The thought sent an unwelcome surge of heat between my legs.
“You’re blushing,” Pierre observed, interrupting my inappropriate thoughts. “Have I said something to embarrass you?”
“No,” I said quickly, mortified that my thoughts had been so transparent. “I was just… thinking.”
“About?” he prompted, his gaze never leaving my face.
“Nothing important,” I lied, but I could tell from his expression that he didn’t believe me.
“I find that difficult to accept,” Pierre said softly. “Your face is quite expressive, Audrey. It reveals much even when your words conceal.”
I looked away, desperate to escape his penetrating gaze. My eyes landed on a young couple seated near the window—the man’s hand rested possessively on the woman’s thigh, his thumb tracing small circles on her skin. Something about their dynamic, the subtle dominance in his posture and the yielding quality in hers, made me think again of the awfulness of the New Modesty program.
Worse, though I tried to push the memory away I couldn’t help remembering how it had felt to write the bio for my profile in the SA app, as I looked at the photos Theodore had taken.
The app had guided me through the process, offering helpful suggestions in that same clinical tone that somehow made everything more mortifying.
Your bio should emphasize your innocence while suggesting your willingness to learn, the app had prompted.Sponsors respond positively to phrases indicating a desire for guidance and structure.
I remembered staring at the blank text field, my fingers hovering uncertainly over the keyboard on my phone. What could I possibly write that wouldn’t make me die of embarrassment?
The app had helpfully provided sample phrases:I’m looking for a mature man to guide me… I’ve always responded well to firm direction… I believe in traditional values…
As I’d sat there, struggling to find words that wouldn’t make me cringe, I’d glanced again at the humiliating photos Theodore or, more probably, Mona had selected for my profile—displayed in thumbnails at the top of the screen. In one particularly mortifying shot, my face was captured at the moment of climax, my expression a mixture of pleasure and shame that made my stomach clench even now, remembering it.
To my dismay, I remembered, I’d actually thought about the New Modesty as I had given up and simply followed the app’s embarrassing suggestions. My reluctance to research the program in detail notwithstanding, I’d seen enough headlines to understand its basic premise: the central idea of a return totraditional gender roles, where men led and women submitted, where disobedience was met with stern correction, and where a woman’s primary value lay in her obedience and service.
The articles I’d skimmed had mentioned how women in the program were expected to maintain certain standards of dress and behavior, how they surrendered autonomy in exchange for security, how they were subject to discipline at their husband’s or guardian’s discretion. The few images I’d glimpsed had shown women in modest yet somehow provocative clothing, their eyes downcast, their postures submissive.
I remembered how my heart had raced as I’d read those brief descriptions, how my body had responded with that same unwanted arousal that seemed to plague me at every stage of this process. In the app’s impersonal interface, trying not to stare at those humiliating photos of myself, I had typed the words thatnow made my face burn with renewed heat as I sat across from Pierre:
I’m looking forward to getting to know real men and finding the right one to take care of me and to make a woman of me.
The memory of writing those words sent another wave of heat surging through my body. My fingers had barely stayed steady as I’d typed them, some part of me insisting that I didn’t really mean it, that I was just writing what the app suggested, what would appeal to potential sponsors. I’d told myself it was just a means to an end, a necessary compromise to secure my future in Paris.
But sitting here now, across from Pierre with his evaluating gaze and commanding presence, I couldn’t maintain that comfortable fiction. The truth was, something deep inside me had responded to those words even as I’d typed them. Some hidden part of myself—a part I’d spent years denying, suppressing, ignoring—had thrilled to the idea of surrender, of being taken in hand by a man strong enough, confident enough to guide me.
I glanced up at Pierre, then down again. I found myself studying his elegant hands as they rested on the table. I imagined those hands guiding me, correcting me, teaching me. I pictured them spanning my waist, gripping my hips, delivering a firm spanking when I misbehaved. The images flooded my mind unbidden, making my breath catch and my thighs press together beneath the table.
