Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 61508 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 308(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61508 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 308(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
“Please!” I sobbed, my voice breaking. “I’m sorry! I’ll be good!”
But my pleas fell on deaf ears. Daddy James kept the paddle moving, his rhythm never faltering as he spoke. “That’s right, Amy. Let it all out. A bad girl’s cries are music to her daddy’s ears.”
The burning in my backside intensified with each strike, spreading across my skin like wildfire. I couldn’t hold back my sobs, my entire body shaking with the force of them.
“You see, sweetheart,” Daddy James continued, his voice oddly gentle despite the ferocity of the paddling, “a daddy knows exactly what his naughty girl needs. Even when she doesn’t know it herself.”
The paddle cracked against my flesh again, and I let out a strangled cry. My fingers clawed uselessly at the air, seeking some kind of purchase, some way to escape the relentless onslaught.
“Your body is telling me everything I need to know,” he said, his free hand rubbing small circles on my lower back. “The way your skin flushes, the little twitches and jerks. Every reaction is a message.”
I whimpered, my mind reeling from the conflicting sensations. The pain was intense, yes, but there was something else building beneath it—a warmth that had nothing to do with the sting of the paddle.
“A good daddy,” he went on, punctuating his words with sharp swats, “knows how to read those messages. He knows exactly… when… to… stop.”
I let out a final, howling scream, and then collapsed over Daddy James’ lap as he finished at last.
“There,” his voice rumbled from above me, his tone satisfied. “Let’s get you to your cell.”
CHAPTER 3
Amy
“Girls,” Miss Frieda said, here and now in the training room, “think of this session as your final examination.”
I frowned, looking around at my fellow bad girls, all of us nude before the woman who called herself our head trainer. I thought back on the crash course we had undergone at the place we’d been told to call the Bad Girls Facility or just the Facility.
We’d learned that the Facility was attached to something called the Institute, where according to Miss Frieda, well-behaved young women got trained as submissive concubines for wealthy, dominant men and women. We, on the other hand, would undergo a different kind of training, because our crimes had demonstrated that we had a different set of needs.
“The past seventy-two hours have hopefully shown you,” Miss Frieda said as she walked around the circle of naked, kneeling girls, “that you should try to conduct yourself with obedience and decorum at the Facility and in the guesthouse, when a daddy decides to bring you there.”
The guesthouse. Like a hotel, but apparently infinitely more luxurious. Like, so luxurious that the wealthy men who stayed there got to come to the Facility and discipline, and use, their bad girls there—or they could bring their bad girls back to their rooms and do as they pleased with them there. In the privacy and opulence of a space fully equipped for sexual domination, these billionaires could punish and fuck us to their hearts’ content.
“Being a good girl for your daddies,” the woman in the white babydoll nightgown and tiny, lacy panties said, “will not spare your pretty bottom completely, of course. But it will certainly ensure that you are allowed to climax more often—as well as hastening your rehabilitation.”
Miss Frieda had already said these things several times. She had reinforced them with the punishment strap she currently held in her right hand, a long, stiff piece of leather attached to a polished wooden handle. I shuddered as I caught sight of it again, remembering the whipping she had given me yesterday, simply for stepping out of line as the seven of us had made our way back from the aesthetician’s room, where all our body hair had been waxed painfully away.
I hadn’t been able to stop looking at my arms and legs, and furtively running my fingers over them. I could hardly believe how smooth I felt, and the sheer ambiguity of the sensation had confused me so much that I had fallen out of step with our little column of nude bad girls.
The next thing I had known, Miss Frieda, astonishingly strong for her size, had put me up against the wall with her arm around my waist and given me six terrible lashes with the strap. Thinking about it here in the circle, I couldn’t help squirming at the reawakening soreness from my punishment, though Miss Frieda had whipped one of my fellow inmates just for squirming, on our first day at the Facility.
“Make up your mind to serve your daddies as obediently as you can,” Miss Frieda said. “And as a test of your readiness to do that, you’re going to obey me now, and you’re going to bend over and start to masturbate this instant.”