Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 76329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
She looked up, confusion evident in her expressive face. “Freedom?” she repeated, as if the word were foreign in this context.
“Yes, freedom,” I confirmed. “The freedom to explore aspects of yourself that you might otherwise deny. The freedom to surrender control in a safe, structured environment. The freedom to experience pleasure without guilt.”
Her eyes widened slightly, her lips parting in surprise. “I don’t… I’m not sure what you mean.”
I leaned back in my chair, studying her with a penetrating gaze that I knew few could withstand for long. Her eyes darted away, then back, unable to maintain contact yet seemingly unable fully to break it either. The contradiction fascinated me.
“I think you understand perfectly well,” I said, my voice low enough that only she could hear. “I think your body has started to react in a way you find rather troubling, Audrey—one you’d like to conceal.”
Her blush deepened to a crimson that extended down her neck, disappearing beneath the modest neckline of her blue sundress. I found myself wondering how far that blush extended. Would her breasts be similarly flushed with embarrassment and arousal? Would her nipples have hardened in response to my observation?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she whispered, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
“Don’t you?” I countered, allowing a hint of impatience to color my tone. “Let me be more direct, then. When I expressed mild disapproval just now, you responded with unmistakable physical arousal. Your pupils dilated. Your breathing quickened. And you pressed your thighs together in a manner that suggests you’re quite wet at this moment.”
Audrey
I thought I had already blushed as hot as the blood vessels in my face could possibly get. I was wrong. A thrill of arousal surged through my body, so intense I felt dizzy with it. How could he know? How could he possibly see so clearly into me, into these shameful reactions I couldn’t control?
“Please,” I whispered, staring down at the table. “You’re embarrassing me.”
“I’m observing you,” Pierre corrected, his voice remaining calm and level. “There’s an important distinction.” He paused, then added more softly, “Look at me, Audrey.”
The command in his voice was unmistakable. Despite my mortification, I found myself raising my eyes to meet his. His gaze held mine, calm yet somehow intense, as if he were looking into me rather than at me.
“Your embarrassment stems from the disconnect between what you believe you should want and what your body clearly desires,” he said. “That conflict is unnecessary and, frankly, counterproductive.”
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. “I don’t… I’m not…”
“You’re not what?” Pierre prompted, a slight edge entering his voice. “Not aroused by the thought of submitting to a man’s authority? Not excited by the possibility of surrendering control? Your body suggests otherwise.”
“How can you possibly know what my body is doing?” I blurted out, immediately regretting the question.
A small smile curved Pierre’s lips. “I’ve spent many years studying women’s responses, Audrey. The signs are quite clear to an experienced observer.” He took another sip of his espresso. “Besides, the perineal sensor Selecta installed provides rather detailed data.”
I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth. “You can see that?”
“Not at this precise moment,” he admitted. “But I reviewed your response patterns before our meeting. They were quite illuminating.”
My stomach twisted with humiliation. The idea that this stranger had been given access to my most intimate physical responses, that he had studied them like data points in some medical experiment, made me want to sink through the floor.
“That’s invasive,” I protested weakly.
“It’s efficient,” Pierre countered. “And you consented to it when you enrolled in the program.”
He was right, of course. I had signed the forms, checked the boxes, agreed to the terms. I’d been desperate and overwhelmed, but I’d made the choice.
“I think,” Pierre continued, his voice growing even flintier, “that you need to decide whether you’re ready to provide a busy man like me with the kind of compliance I have the right to expect.”
I sat there, utterly exposed by his words. How could I argue? My body’s reactions were betraying me with every passing second. The evidence was there in my flushed skin, my shallow breathing, the dampness gathering between my thighs that I desperately, if irrationally, hoped wasn’t visible even through my dress.
“I…” My voice failed me, and I took a sip of my cooling coffee to buy time. “This is all happening very fast.”
Pierre’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Is it? I would argue that you’ve been resisting what’s happening for quite some time. Perhaps your entire adult life.”
His assessment hit me like a physical blow. How could he possibly know that? Know about the fantasies I’d pushed away, the strange longings I’d dismissed as unhealthy, anti-feminist, wrong?
“I think,” Pierre said, his voice dropping to a timbre that seemed to resonate directly with something primal inside me, “that you actually need to learn a good deal more about the New Modesty, and I think I’m willing to spend a night trying to teach you that lesson.”