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)
She's made to come for him too.
The way a bad girl comes. Long and hard and shamefully
But bad girls like Amy need much more than just a spanking and a blushing, red-bottomed orgasm. They need to be used, shared, and enjoyed in the most humiliating ways imaginable, with their helpless, desperate screams of climax putting their complete surrender on full display.
And Amy is going to get exactly what she needs.
Publisher's A Bad Girl's Needs is the ninth entry in the series The Bad Girls. The books of this series are stand-alone novels which share the same near-future setting as The Institute Series. A Bad Girl's Needs includes spankings, sexual scenes, intense and humiliating punishments, and strong D/s themes. If such material offends you, please don't buy this book.
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CHAPTER 1
“If you girls take nothing else away from your training,” Miss Frieda told us as we knelt in a circle, naked, each of us on her individual mat, forbidden to cover our freshly waxed pussies, “I want you to remember this: you are here because we are absolutely sure you belong here.”
I heard in her words the same subtext that had run through everything she and the other trainers had said and done for the past three days, from the moment the seven of us had gotten off the Selecta Corrections bus in front of the chateau. You don’t know yourself—your mind, your heart, your body—anywhere near as well as we know you.
With a hot blush that went well beyond my nakedness with all my fellow nude bad girls, I reflected—not for the first time—that Selecta had certainly demonstrated that thorough knowledge when their corporate police had descended on my hideout and arrested me red-handed. I had felt so safe in my minor criminal enterprise, reselling the last-generation microchips I got out of the recycling bins at the Selecta auto repair shop.
It had seemed like a victimless crime, if it were even a crime at all. Sure, I had taken apart the lock on the back door of the shop, using the black market toolkit I had bought from a classmate in my just-graduated senior class at Educational Facility 389. And maybe I had told a few of my acquaintances from the abandoned warehouse, where several of us had our jealously guarded individual hideouts.
And maybe those acquaintances had done more inside the shop than just take some of the circuit boards from the recycling bins. The corporate magistrate who had assigned me to what I had learned to call the Bad Girl program (technically something like the Non-Violent Female Qualifying Offenders Rehabilitation program) had definitely thought my door hack had caused serious damage, and she had done her best to make me feel guilty as she looked down her nose at me from atop her bench, or whatever they call it.
I had refused. To feel guilty, to cooperate, any of that shit. The part in the courtroom hadn’t even been that bad; I had just glared up at the judge, still trying to figure out how the fuck the Selecta goons had known where to find me.
Finding out, later, in the medical examination room, though—that had been the truly shitty part of the experience. On the other hand, I had to admit, not quite as shitty as my first paddling. The two had followed in close succession, so really it didn’t make a lot of sense to separate them. On the other hand, the fact that I had had the chance to avoid the paddling by ‘behaving myself’ during the medical exam seemed to draw a clear line between the two shitty experiences, even if I still resisted, in retrospect, admitting to myself that I could never have ‘behaved myself’ under those circumstances.
To my dismay, listening to what it seemed would be Miss Frieda’s final speech about our horrible training, I couldn’t stop my mind from going back to that unpromising beginning. I knew that was precisely what Miss Frieda hoped we all would do, as she droned on at us about how we belonged here, how it would bring about our rehabilitation.
Sure, becoming a bad girl fuck toy for the ultrawealthy men who would come to be my daddies would definitely rehabilitate me. I scoffed mentally, though I tried to keep the smile on my face because I really, really didn’t want a paddling today.
Miss Frieda and the training daddies wanted us to think about our past actions, to reassess them, and to let that new understanding set us free to make different choices. I tried to scoff inwardly again, but I hated that part of me had started to respond to that sickly sweet, touchy-feely way of thinking.
I hadn’t ‘chosen’ to ‘misbehave’ during the terrible examination. Had I?
The heat in my cheeks intensified as my mind traveled back. The imagined voice of the hulking man who had introduced himself as Daddy James sounded in my ears as if I were back on the exam table, fighting like a wildcat as he patiently held me down and secured the stout webbing straps around my knees, spread wide in the horrid stirrups—then my wrists, my waist, and finally my neck.
“Amy, honey, we’ve been tracking you for weeks. A microdrone put a sensor between your pussy and your anus that told us you belong in the Bad Girl program, and you’re beginning that program today, here and now, whether you like it or not.”
All my struggling had done nothing but exhaust me. I looked up at the enormous man—dark-haired, like me, bearded, at least six-foot-four and muscled like a bodybuilder—I was supposed to call ‘Daddy.’ He had picked something up, from a drawer or something: blunt-nosed safety shears. He brought them closer, reaching them down toward my waist.