Page 23 of A Bad Girl's Needs

“Requested?” Jenna asked. “For…?”

She glanced over at me, as if I might have something to offer, but all I could do was swallow hard becauserequested in the guesthousemust mean something shameful, or painful… or both.

Miss Frieda fixed Jenna with an icy look.

“For one or more daddies’ pleasure, Jenna. That’s all you need to know.”

My heart raced as we followed Miss Frieda out of the rec room and across the manicured grounds toward the guesthouse. The sun was just beginning to set, casting long shadows across the lawn and bathing everything in a warm golden glow.

Despite the beauty of the evening, I couldn’t shake the nervous flutter in my stomach. The vague memory of having gotten used to being naked all the time seemed absurd to me; I was biting my lip so hard as I thought of how I must look, how degraded, that I tasted blood.

I glanced over at Jenna, seeing my own apprehension mirrored in her eyes. We walked in silence, our bare feet padding softly on the gravel path. The cool evening air raised goosebumps on my bare skin, making me acutely aware of my vulnerability.

As we approached the imposing structure of the guesthouse, its grand facade looming before us, I felt a confusing mix of emotions. Fear and uncertainty warred with an undeniable thrill of excitement. What awaited us beyond those ornate doubledoors? Which daddies had requested our presence? Would Daddy Daniel be among them?

Miss Frieda led us through the opulent lobby, past luxurious velvet sofas and glittering chandeliers. My eyes darted nervously around, taking in the luxurious surroundings. Everything screamed wealth and power, from the marble floors to the priceless artwork adorning the walls. To be nude in such a place made me feel as much like a bad girl as getting fucked in the ass against the cell block wall had done.

As we followed Miss Frieda down the lovely hallway, my heart pounded in my chest. The thick carpet muffled our footsteps, creating an eerie silence broken only by the soft rustle of Miss Frieda’s nightgown. The air felt heavy with anticipation, scented with a heady mixture of leather and expensive cologne.

We turned a corner, and I felt my breath catch in my throat. Before us stood an imposing set of double doors, carved from rich mahogany. Above them, in elegant gold script, I read the wordsHall of Pleasure. A shiver ran down my spine at the implications of that name.

Miss Frieda pushed open the doors, revealing a room that seemed to embody both decadence and depravity. The space was vast, with high ceilings adorned with intricate frescoes depicting scenes of mythological debauchery. Chandeliers dripped with crystals, casting a warm, intimate glow over the room.

Big leather-upholstered chairs were scattered throughout, their deep burgundy set off by the cream-colored walls. Padded benches, fitted with leather restraints and obviously adjustable to suit their users, stood out prominently. Various implements hung on the walls—paddles, floggers, and other devices whose purpose I could only imagine.

As we stepped inside, the thick carpet became even more luxurious and soft. The temperature dropped slightly, causing goosebumps to rise on my bare skin again.

Miss Frieda strode purposefully to an ornate armoire in the corner of the room, its dark wood gleaming in the soft light. She pulled open the doors, revealing an array of exquisite lingerie in every color imaginable. Her hands moved deftly through the delicate fabrics, finally selecting two teddies made in the same lacy pattern.

“Here,” she said, turning back to us with the garments draped over her arm. “Put these on.”

I reached out with trembling fingers to take the teddy she offered me. The material was impossibly soft, a deep burgundy lace that seemed to shimmer in the low light. Tiny crystals adorned the cups, catching the light and sparkling with every movement.

Beside me, Jenna received an identical piece in a rich emerald green that complemented her fair skin and blonde hair beautifully. We exchanged nervous glances before carefully stepping into the lingerie.

The lace felt cool against my skin as I pulled the teddy up over my hips. It hugged my curves perfectly, as if it had been tailored specifically for my body. The cups lifted and shaped my breasts, presenting them like ripe fruit ready to be plucked.

As I adjusted the straps over my shoulders, I became acutely aware of the thong back. The delicate strip of lace nestled between my ass cheeks, a constant reminder of my exposure. I couldn’t suppress a whimper as the fabric brushed against my still-tender flesh, recalling Daddy Daniel’s rough use of my virgin anus.

Not virgin anymore, I thought with a whole-body shiver so ambiguous that it made me feel dizzy for a moment.

Miss Frieda’s sharp voice cut through the heavy silence. “Alright, girls. Over there.” She pointed to a pair of throne-like chairs positioned side by side at the far end of the room. The chairs were massive, their dark wood frames intricately carved in shapes I could see even at a distance were meant to depict the same implements of discipline that hung on the room’s walls. Thick cushions, covered in old leather, promised both comfort and decadence for whoever would occupy them.

“Kneel,” Miss Frieda commanded, her tone full of stern authority. “One in front of each chair.”

My heart pounding, I moved toward the chairs, my feet sinking into the deep pile of the carpet. The teddy clung to my curves, the lace catching slightly on my skin with each step. As I lowered myself to my knees before the left-hand chair, I felt the thong back slide deeper between my ass cheeks, eliciting a soft gasp.

Jenna took her place in front of the other chair, her movements mirroring my own. We shared a quick, anxious glance before fixing our gazes forward, our postures instinctively submissive.

Miss Frieda’s heels made no sound as she circled us, her critical eye taking in every detail of our presentation. “Backs straight,” she barked. “Shoulders back, chests out. Present yourselves properly for your daddies.”

We hurried to comply, arching our spines and thrusting our breasts forward. Our trainer circled us one final time, her critical gaze raking over our kneeling forms.

“Remember,” she said, her voice low and dangerous, “you are to remain exactly as you are until your daddies arrive. Any movement, any sound, and you’ll regret it deeply.”

With that ominous warning, she turned and strode toward the ornate double doors. The whisper of her nightgown and the staccato rhythm of her heels were the only sounds in the cavernous room. As she reached the threshold, Miss Frieda paused, glancing back over her shoulder. “Your daddies for the evening will be here shortly to use you as they see fit. I suggest you prepare yourselves, girls.”

The heavy doors closed behind her with a gentle thud that seemed to reverberate through my very bones. In the sudden silence, I became acutely aware of every sensation—the soft pile beneath my knees, the delicate lace of the teddy clinging to my curves, the slight ache in my shoulders as I held the proper posture.

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