Page 11 of Shamefully Trained

I had not expected silence to feel like a personal insult.

I knew, rationally, that thousands of women probably made profiles and sat waiting. I knew the men on the app, the ‘members,’ were selecting from photographs and tone and whatever hidden biometric monstrosity Selecta no doubt used to sort women by willingness to kneel. None of that stopped the sting. The app had managed, within a day, to reduce me to waiting to be chosen by men I claimed to despise.

Back in my apartment that evening, I threw my bag onto the chair, kicked off my shoes, and opened the app before I even took off my coat.

Still nothing.

I put the phone down hard on the kitchen counter and made pasta I barely tasted. Halfway through eating it, the phone chimed.

My pulse jumped stupidly. I wiped my fingers and grabbed it.

Not a message from a sponsor, but from the app itself.

Our system has noticed low sponsor engagement with your current profile. Associates who include additional photos and more detailed preference information receive significantly higher response rates. Consider adding tasteful intimate images and expanding your profile to reflect how you please, respond to guidance, and accept correction.

There was even a neat little button beneath it.

Improve Profile Now

I laughed, once, without humor.

Then I kept staring at it.

Tasteful intimate images.

Respond to guidance.

Accept correction.

The language’s polish made it even more embarrassing. I knew what it meant, of course. More revealing photos. More explicit submission. Less pretending I was there for a dignified arrangement between equals. The app was telling me, in corporate euphemism, that if I wanted a man to pay attention to me, I needed to show more skin and sound more obedient.

I should have been offended enough to close it. Instead I felt heat gather low in my belly.

I set the phone down and walked, a little aimlessly, to the sink and back, as if movement might scramble the response out of me. It didn’t. I could feel the memory of Gowry’s hands… his belt… his cock… in my body as clearly as if my nerves had kept a copy: the command, the shame, the obscene thrill of being seen through and handled accordingly. And now this app, with its little prompts and metrics and suggestions, was prodding the same place with its cool fingers.

No one was making me do anything. That became, perversely, the permission.

I tapped Improve Profile Now.

A new screen opened, giving an analysis of my existing profile.

Face photo acceptable. Full-length photo modest. Intimate imagery absent. Written profile suggests reserve. Sponsors seeking structured arrangements respond best to authenticity and warmth.

Authenticity and warmth. Jesus.

The app offered examples.

I enjoy making a man’s life easier and more pleasurable.

I can be shy at first, but I blossom under confident direction.

I respond best to firm, consistent guidance and believe honesty matters, especially when correction is needed.

I read those with my mouth slightly open, equal parts appalled and fascinated. They were awful. They were also effective, I had no doubt. Men on this app did not want a white paper on my competencies. They wanted compliance, perhaps with a hint of spirit. Something they could frame as consent and then spend money shaping.

I clicked the photo section first because somehow that seemed less compromising than words, though I also knew that the thought was absurd.

The app prompted me to add either lingerie or implied nude images and informed me, helpfully, that hidden-face intimate photos were common among new associates. That made it easier, not morally but practically.