Page 5 of His Naughty Girl

Porter wore an expression that mingled disappointment with resignation. Without a word, he took my other arm and began to march me down the hallway as his colleague returned to his post.

We reached Mrs. Tompkins’ office far too quickly. She looked up as we entered, her thin lips curved into a smile that sent chillsdown my spine. “Ah, Andrea,” she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “I see you decided to take an unscheduled field trip.”

Officer Porter released my arm, leaving me standing before Mrs. Tompkins’ desk. I rubbed my biceps, wincing at the tender spots where his fingers had dug in. “I… I just needed some air,” I mumbled, unable to meet her condescending gaze.

Mrs. Tompkins tsked softly, shaking her head. “Oh, my dear,” she said, her tone patronizing. “I’m afraid we can’t have that sort of behavior. We need to make sure you start your new life on the right foot.”

She turned to Porter, her expression hardening. “Take her back to the waiting area,” she instructed. “And this time, make sure she stays put.”

Porter’s hand closed around my upper arm once more, gentler this time but no less insistent. As he began to lead me away, Mrs. Tompkins’ voice stopped us.

“Oh, and Andrea?” I turned back, dread pooling in my stomach at the glint in her eye. “When you get to Cato, I’m afraid you’ll have to be taught a lesson. We can’t have this kind of disobedience going unchecked.”

My breath caught in my throat. A lesson? What did that mean?

Mrs. Tompkins must have seen the panic in my eyes, because her lips curved into what might have been meant as a reassuring smile. “Don’t feel too bad, dear. You would have undoubtedly earned a lesson soon enough anyway. Best to start as you mean to go on.”

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. A thousand questions raced through my mind, but I couldn’t voice any of them. My legs felt like lead as Porter gently but firmly guided me back to the waiting area.

This time, he didn’t leave me alone. Instead, he produced a pair of handcuffs from his belt. With practiced efficiency, he secured one end to my wrist and the other to the arm of the chair. The metal was cold against my skin, a stark reminder of my newfound captivity.

As Porter stepped back, I found my voice at last. It came out as barely more than a whisper. “What… what kind of lesson?”

Porter’s expression softened slightly, a flicker of something that might have been pity crossing his face. “It’ll be the bare-bottom kind, miss,” he said gruffly. “Best not to dwell on it. Just remember, it’s for your own good.”

With that, he turned and resumed his post by the door, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts and the cold bite of metal around my wrist. The reality of my situation began to sink in. There would be no escape, no last-minute reprieve. In just a few short hours, I would be on a bus to Cato, to a new life I had never wanted.

The idea of being bent over, my bottom bared for punishment… my forehead creased so hard it hurt as I felt a helpless thrill of wayward arousal between my thighs. I shifted in my seat, my face burning with shame at my body’s betrayal.

This isn’t me.It can’t be me.

CHAPTER 3

Andrea

I couldn’t deny that the bus ride to Cato was pretty, at least if you liked waving wheat, which I had to admit I did. I had not the slightest chance of enjoying it, though, despite all my attempts to sing songs fromOklahomaunder my breath. Officer Porter’s casual revelation of what would befall me at my destination echoed in my mind in time with the rhythm of the cars that whooshed by the lumbering bus.

The bare-bottom kind… the bare-bottom kind…

The endless fields of golden wheat undulated in the gentle breeze, creating mesmerizing waves that stretched to the horizon. Fluffy white clouds drifted lazily across the vast expanse of blue sky, occasionally casting fleeting shadows on the landscape below. The late afternoon sun bathed everything in a warm, honeyed glow that would normally have filled me with a sense of peace and contentment.

But I couldn’t appreciate any of it. Officer Porter’s words echoed relentlessly in my mind, drowning out the soft hum of the bus engine and the quiet conversations of my fellow passengers.

The bare-bottom kind… the bare-bottom kind…

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, my face burning with a mixture of shame and mortifying, unwelcome arousal. I tried to focus on the scenery passing by my window—a picturesque red barn, a herd of grazing cattle, a quaint farmhouse with a white picket fence. But each new sight only served as a stark reminder of the traditional, antiquated world it seemed I had no choice but to enter.

Desperate for distraction, I pulled out my phone. My eyes widened in surprise as I noticed a new app icon on my home screen—a demure silhouette of a woman in a modest dress, labeled simply ‘NM.’New Modesty. With trembling fingers, I tapped the icon.

The app opened to reveal a detailed map of a small town, helpfully labeledCato. My gaze was immediately drawn to a prominent star icon on Main Street, marking the New Modesty Authority office. As I zoomed in, I noticed a small house icon on a street in what looked like a residential area near the town center.

My heart racing, I tapped on the house icon. A window popped up, displaying the words: “Your new home, the Weathers residence.” I tapped again, my throat constricting as a photo appeared of a couple in their mid-forties—Devin and Greta Weathers.

I read the accompanying text with growing trepidation. Devin, I learned, managed one of the large automated farms outsideof town, as well as owning a farm-supply business. Greta was a homemaker who ran a small crafting business with the help of the New Modesty girls they took in. The profile explained that new girls entered the household as housemaids but could earn their way to becoming assistants.

At the bottom of the Weathers’ profile, I noticed a link.

House rules.

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