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 tilted her chin downward and narrowed her eyes a little. “You have a simple choice. You may undress as instructed, or you may leave. But I should warn you that if you choose to leave, your application will be marked as withdrawn, and you will not be permitted to reapply.”
My heart hammered against my ribs.
Thirty days. No money. No visa.
The words echoed in my head like a terrible mantra. I thought of my tiny apartment, of the email terminating my internship, of the dwindling funds in my bank account. I thought of having to call my parents and admit defeat, of returning to the small town I’d fought so hard to escape.
My fingers shook as they rose to the top button of my blouse.
“I’ll need your verbal confirmation of consent,” Nurse Georges said, picking up a tablet from the counter. “For the record.”
I took a deep breath. “I consent,” I murmured.
Nurse Georges nodded briskly and made a note on her tablet. “Good. Please proceed.”
My fingers felt numb as I continued unbuttoning my blouse. The clinical lighting seemed to grow harsher with each button that came undone. I slipped the garment from my shoulders, folding it with shaking hands before placing it on a small chair in the corner. My skirt followed, then my simple cotton bra. I hesitated at my underwear, my last shield against complete vulnerability.
“Everything,” Nurse Georges reminded me, not looking up from her tablet.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my plain white panties—so practical, so midwestern—and slid them down my legs, stepping out of them with burning cheeks. The air-conditioning raised goosebumps across my exposed skin. I stood there, naked and trembling, my arms instinctively crossing over my breasts.
Nurse Georges finally looked up, her clinical gaze sweeping over my body as if cataloging every detail. There was nothing sexual in her assessment, yet I’d never felt more exposed in my life.
“Arms at your sides, please,” she instructed.
I forced my arms down, my fingers curling into fists at my thighs. She looked me up and down. Then, to my surprise she held up her tablet in front of her, its back to me. I heard a soft, continuous beep, and then a chime.
“This assesses important aspects of your biometrics,” the older woman said. “You keep yourself in good shape, Audrey. Bravo. You’re in the top decile for attractiveness.”
I swallowed hard, my brow furrowing. To my dismay, the nurse’s objectifying words had stirred something down below my belly that I absolutely didn’t want to think about.
“Now, onto the examination table,” she said. “Lie back and place your feet in the stirrups.”
I approached the table, the paper covering crinkling loudly in the silent room as I sat on its edge. The surface felt cold against my bare bottom, making me flinch. I swung my legs up and lay back, staring fixedly at the ceiling as I placed my feet in the cold metal stirrups. The position forced my knees apart and bent them back, fully exposing the most intimate parts of me to the cool air and Nurse Georges’ scrutiny.
“Scoot down further, please,” she directed. “Bottom at the edge of the table.”
I inched down until I felt the edge of the table beneath me, my legs now spread even wider. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could disappear. This was beyond embarrassing—it was mortifying. Yet some desperate part of me kept whispering: thirty days, no visa, no money.
I heard the snap of latex gloves and the squeak of wheels as Nurse Georges pulled a rolling stool between my spread legs. I jumped when her gloved hand touched my inner thigh.
“I’m going to install something called a perineal sensor, now, Audrey,” she said in an even tone that contrasted with the worrisome words—install… perineal sensor. What could she possibly mean?
I felt my breath catch. “A perineal sensor?” I managed to whisper. “What’s that for?”
“It’s a microscopic device that monitors physiological responses,” Nurse Georges explained, her tone as casual as if she were discussing the weather. “Selecta Arrangements associates who wish to qualify for luxury sponsors must have one—that includes the first intimacy program, obviously, which is exclusive to luxury sponsors. It helps your sponsor understand your responses to sexual intimacy.”
Before I could protest or ask more questions, I felt something cold and wet between my legs. I gasped, my body instinctively trying to pull away.
“Remain still,” Nurse Georges commanded. “This is a specialized antiseptic solution.”
I bit my lip and forced myself to relax back onto the table, though my heart was thundering so loudly I was certain she could hear it. The cold wetness was followed by the light pressure of her gloved finger exactly where she’d said—that sensitive strip of skin between my most private openings.
“This won’t hurt,” she assured me, though her tone suggested she wouldn’t particularly care if it did. “The sensor is nanoscale. You’ll feel a slight pressure, then perhaps a warming sensation as it calibrates.”