Page 1 of A Bad Girl's Needs

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 asweknow 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 theNon-Violent Female Qualifying Offenders Rehabilitationprogram) 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 webelongedhere, how it would bring about ourrehabilitation.

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.

Ihadn’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.

“What the fuck are you doing with those?” I demanded.

“I’m going to cut your clothes off, Amy,” Daddy James replied matter-of-factly, “because there’s obviously no use in asking you to strip.”

“The fuck you are!” I yelled, starting to writhe again, as if I could somehow rip apart the impossibly strong black webbing that bound me helpless to the exam table.

“You fucking asshole!” I screamed, my voice cracking with rage and fear. “Don’t you dare touch me!”

Daddy James paused, the shears hovering just above my t-shirt. His cold blue eyes locked onto mine, his expression stern but unnervingly calm. “Amy, I’m going to give you one warning. If you swear at me again, you’ll be very sorry.”

A defiant fire burned in my chest. Who the fuck did he think he was? I glared up at him, my lips curling into a snarl. “Go fuck yourself,” I spat.

Daddy James’ eyes narrowed, and I saw a flicker of… was that satisfaction? He set the shears down on a nearby tray with a soft clink. “Well, it seems you’ve earned yourself your first paddling, young lady. That will happen right after the doctor finishes your examination.”

My stomach dropped, but I tried to keep the fear from showing on my face. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

He picked up the shears again and began methodically cutting away my clothes. As each piece fell away, I felt more exposed, more vulnerable. The cool air of the exam room raised goosebumps on my skin.

Daddy James’ eyes roamed over my body, and I felt a hot flush of shame creep up my neck and across my cheeks. I wanted to curl into myself, to hide, but the restraints held me open and on display.

“My, my,” Daddy James murmured, his eyes roving over my now-naked body. “What a curvy little thing you are, Amy. Those clothes were hiding quite the figure.”

I clenched my jaw, fighting the urge to snap back at him. My skin felt like it was on fire, burning with humiliation as his gaze lingered on my breasts, my hips, my thighs. I wanted to disappear, to melt into the exam table and vanish.

His hand ghosted over my hip, not quite touching. “Such soft skin,” he mused. “But my goodness, you’re quite the hairy little girl, aren’t you?”

My cheeks blazed hotter. I’d always been self-conscious about how quickly my body hair grew back after shaving. Now, exposed under the harsh exam room lights, I was acutely aware of the dark fuzz on my legs, the patch of hair between my thighs, even the light dusting across my arms.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Daddy James said, his tone mockingly soothing. “We’ll take care of all this unsightly hair for you. Every last bit of it will be waxed away, except for thatlovely mane on your head. The men who’ll be enjoying your body prefer their girls nice and smooth.”

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