Page 41 of A Bad Girl's Needs

At that moment, the heavy metal door clanged open, flooding the dim space with harsh fluorescent light from the hallway. I blinked rapidly, my eyes struggling to adjust after hours in near-darkness.

Daddy James’ imposing figure filled the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking most of the light. As he stepped into the cell, I could make out the details of his appearance—the crisp white shirt stretched taut across his muscular chest, the perfectly pressed slacks, the polished leather shoes that gleamed even in the low light. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed, not a strand out of place despite the early hour.

“Good morning, Amy,” he said, his deep voice sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. “I trust you had an… interesting night?”

I whimpered in response, unable to form coherent words. My body was a mass of conflicting sensations—the dull ache in my muscles from being restrained for so long, the lingering arousal that thrummed through my core, the sharp pangs of hunger and thirst that I had been too distracted to notice until now.

Daddy James approached the bed, his blue eyes sweeping over my bound form. I was acutely aware of how I must look—hair tangled and matted with sweat, face flushed and tearstained, body trembling with exhaustion and need. The thin blanket had long since fallen to the floor.

Daddy James loomed over me, still scanning my disheveled form. With practiced movements, he began unbuckling the straps of the adjuster. As each restraint fell away, I felt a mixture of relief and helplessness wash over me. The stiff pink fabric peeled away from my sweat-dampened skin, leaving me naked and exposed.

“Stand up,” Daddy James commanded, his voice arrogant, almost harsh.

I struggled to obey, my limbs weak and unsteady after hours of confinement. As I swung my legs over the side of the narrow bed, a wave of dizziness washed over me. My muscles screamed in protest as I attempted to push myself upright.

Daddy James’ strong hand gripped my upper arm, steadying me as I swayed on my feet. The warmth of his palm against my cool skin sent an involuntary shiver through my body. I could smell his cologne—a rich, masculine scent that made my head spin.

“Come along,” he said, guiding me toward the door.

The cool air of the hallway raised goosebumps on my naked flesh as we emerged from my cell. The harsh fluorescent lights seemed to bore into my skull, intensifying the pounding headache that had taken root behind my eyes. My legs trembled with each step, and I found myself leaning heavily on Daddy James for support.

We made our way through the maze-like corridors of the facility, our footsteps on the concrete swallowed up in the distant institutional noises—the HVAC fans and the clangs of unseen doors opening and closing.

Daddy James led me through the labyrinth, his firm grip on my arm both steadying and possessive. Looking down, I noticed with a blush that the cool air hardened my nipples to stiff peaks. I stumbled along beside him, my legs weak and unsteady after my night in the horrid adjuster.

We passed countless unmarked doors, their heavy metal surfaces gleaming dully under the harsh fluorescent lights. The hallways seemed to stretch endlessly, twisting and turning like some vast concrete maze. I lost all sense of direction as we walked, the identical corridors blurring together in my exhausted mind.

Occasionally, we would pass other daddies or staff members. Their eyes raked over my nude form with clinical detachment or predatory hunger. I kept my gaze lowered, cheeks burning with shame at my exposure.

After what felt like an eternity, we finally reached our destination. Daddy James rapped his knuckles against a polished wooden door. The rich mahogany seemed so differentfrom the utilitarian metal that dominated the rest of the facility that it made me frown in confusion.

“Come in,” called a familiar voice from within.

Daddy James opened the door, ushering me into what I realized immediately must be Miss Frieda’s office. The room was a study in understated elegance—thick carpets in muted tones, leather-bound books lining dark wood shelves, and a massive oak desk that dominated the space.

The air was redolent with the scent of leather and expensive perfume. Miss Frieda sat behind the imposing desk, her posture impeccable as always. Instead of her babydoll nightgown she wore a crisp white blouse, the top two buttons undone to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a severe bun, emphasizing her sharp cheekbones and cold green eyes.

“Good morning, Amy,” Miss Frieda said, her voice cool and professional. “Please, have a seat.”

I glanced around, noticing for the first time that there were no chairs in front of her desk. My confusion must have shown on my face, because Miss Frieda’s lips curved into a small, amused smile.

“On your knees, of course,” she clarified, gesturing to the deep carpet before her desk.

Blushing furiously, I sank to my knees, acutely aware of my nakedness in the face of Miss Frieda’s immaculate appearance. The soft pile of the carpet was a welcome relief after the cold, hard floors of the hallways.

Miss Frieda’s eyes raked over my form, taking in every detail of my disheveled state. I squirmed under her scrutiny, fighting the urge to cover myself with my hands.

“Thank you, Daddy James,” she said, nodding to the imposing man still standing behind me. “That will be all for now.”

I heard the soft click of the door closing behind Daddy James, leaving me alone with Miss Frieda. The silence in the office seemed to press in on me from all sides, broken only by the steady ticking of an ornate grandfather clock in the corner. The rich scent of leather and wood polish filled my nostrils, jarringly different from the sterile, antiseptic smell that permeated most of the facility.

Miss Frieda leaned back in her high-backed leather chair, her fingers steepled beneath her chin as she regarded me with those cool, assessing green eyes. I felt utterly exposed under her gaze, my nakedness another reminder of my utter lack of control in my gorgeous trainer’s degrading facility. The soft carpet beneath my knees, which had felt so comforting at first, now offered little comfort as I waited, heart pounding, for her to speak.

“Amy,” Miss Frieda finally began, her voice smooth and measured. “Your rehabilitation has taken a rather… interesting turn.”

CHAPTER 21

Amy

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