Page 8 of Shamefully Trained

The man took his time, stirring his flat white. He was in his forties, handsome in the disciplined expensive way that came with gym hours and a tailor, though not conventionally charming. His face was too severe for that. “Five thousand monthly,” he said. “Separate from housing.”

“Yes. Selecta provides housing, at this level, right?”

I felt my eyes go wide as I saw him nod. I had somehow missed that in the app… if it had even been on open offer.

“And you’re willing to relocate if the arrangement suits.”

She tilted her head. “If the arrangement suits.”

He looked at her for a second, and I saw something in his expression then that made heat creep up my neck. Satisfaction, yes, but the kind a man felt when a thing was going exactly the way he liked and he knew it.

“Done,” he said.

Just like that.

She blinked, and then smiled more broadly, trying not to show how relieved she was. “All right.”

He slid his phone across the table to show her something. “This is the offer. You’ll accept it, and then you’ll update your profile with the compliance verification and the additional photographs. When I move forward, I prefer not to discover later that a girl was shy in text and difficult in person.”

She gave a little breathy laugh. “I’m not difficult.”

“No?” He said it mildly.

Her eyes dropped. “Not if I’m treated well.”

His mouth changed, only slightly. “We’ll see.”

I finished wiping the now over-clean table and escaped before either of them looked up and found me standing there with my face burning.

For the next hour I felt distracted in a way that made me angry. Five thousand. He had agreed to five thousand as if she had asked him to add avocado. Not only that—he had expected her to ask. I knew enough now to understand the numbers involved. My paycheck from the café, after taxes, would barely cover rent and groceries. Five thousand a month was not abstract. It was rescue. It was breathing room. It was enough that a woman could tell herself all sorts of things.

When the girl and the man finally left separately, five minutes apart, Denise leaned against the counter beside me and said, “Another SA pair.”

I nearly dropped the milk pitcher. “What?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Selecta Arrangements. We get them all the time in the afternoons. Neutral location, decent coffee, no one asks questions. You didn’t clock it?”

I hoped my face looked only curious. “I wasn’t sure.”

Denise snorted. “You get used to it. Sometimes the girls are on their first meet and look like they’re going to faint. Sometimes they’re veterans. Sometimes the men are creepy. Sometimes they tip like gods. Same as anything else, I guess.”

Same as anything else.

That night I downloaded the app again.

I told myself I was only going to look… and look seriously this time. Looking was not agreeing. Looking was research. Looking was prudent, in the same way a starving person might prudently stand outside a bakery and inhale.

I went through the full sign-up process this time. It took me through screens of legal disclaimers, identity verification, consent acknowledgments, and a questionnaire so intimate it made my scalp prickle. Did I prefer structure in relationships? Was I comfortable with behavioral expectations? Did I respond well to correction? Had I ever been disciplined by a partner? Was I open to corporal punishment? Was I available for overnight travel? Did I understand that sponsor preferences might include dress codes, domestic expectations, sexual exclusivity, sexual submission?

I skipped as much as I could and answered the mandatory items as blandly as possible.

When it asked me to build my associate profile, I sat staring at the empty fields for almost five minutes. The app prompted me helpfully.

Describe what makes you a desirable associate.

Describe how you might enjoy pleasing a sponsor.

What kind of guidance do you respond best to?