His Naughty Girl (Shamefully Courted #8)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

A ndrea

I knew the ad that popped up in my social feed was too good to be true. Everyone said you couldn’t trust Selecta. Especially this new re-training program.

City life isn’t working for you, is it? You’re not alone, and help is only a click away! Selecta has a subsidy program that will work for you. Schedule an appointment today at a Selecta re-training office.

I had just lost yet another shit job for arriving to my shift ten minutes late for the second time. The first time, sure, I had spent too long watching my favorite scene from Brigadoon for the five hundredth time while I sipped my coffee. Me and movie musicals—I took the L on that one. This last time, though, it hadn’t been my fault! The fucking train had broken down.

The thought of looking again, of finding another horrible job that would barely pay the rent in the apartment I shared with three other women…

I clicked.

The re-training office in one of the grimier suburbs had the too-familiar red SELECTA logo above the door, along with a much more cheerful blue re-training! emblazoned across the bottom of the crimson block letters.

I pushed open the heavy glass door, my heart pounding as I stepped into the sterile, air-conditioned lobby. The faint scent of lemon cleaner tickled my nose. A bored-looking receptionist barely glanced up from her screen as I approached.

“Andrea Jacobsen, for Mrs. Tompkins,” I said, my voice wavering slightly.

She nodded toward a row of uncomfortable-looking chairs. “Have a seat. She’ll be with you shortly.”

I perched on the edge of a chair, my legs bouncing nervously. The clock on the wall ticked away the minutes, each second feeling like an eternity. Just as I was considering bolting for the door, a sharp voice cut through the silence.

“Miss Jacobsen?”

I looked up to see a stern-faced woman in her mid-fifties, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her crisp navy suit practically screamed corporate executive . This had to be Mrs. Tompkins.

“Y-yes, that’s me,” I stammered, scrambling to my feet.

She beckoned me with a perfectly manicured hand. “This way, please.”

I followed her down a long hallway, my heels noisy on the polished floor. Mrs. Tompkins ushered me into a small office, gesturing for me to take a seat across from her imposing mahogany desk.

“Now then,” she began, her cold gaze making me squirm, “let’s get started, shall we? I’ll need you to grant access to your social media accounts for our data crawler.”

My stomach dropped. “All of them?” I asked weakly.

Mrs. Tompkins’s thin lips curved into what might have been a smile. “Yes, dear. It’s a standard part of our evaluation process. Just scan this code and our software will do the rest.”

With trembling fingers, I pulled out my phone and pointed it at the complex matrix of dots she had pointed to, on the back of her monitor.

Grant access? asked the pop-up on my screen. As I tapped Yes , heat crept up my neck and into my cheeks. God, what would she find? Those drunken graduation party photos? The late-night rants about my exes?

“I… there might be some embarrassing stuff in there,” I mumbled, unable to meet her eyes.

Mrs. Tompkins waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, don’t worry about that, dear. We’ve seen it all before. This is purely for data-analysis purposes.”

I nodded, unconvinced. Mrs. Tompkins’s eyes flickered across her computer screen, occasionally making small ‘hmm’ noises that sent shivers down my spine. What was she seeing? What conclusions was she drawing?

After what felt like hours but was in fact only a minute or so, Mrs. Tompkins looked up from her screen, her expression unreadable. “Well, Miss Jacobsen,” she said, folding her hands on the desk. “I believe we have quite a lot to discuss.”

She leaned back in her chair, the leather creaking softly. Her eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, fixed on me. “I see you’ve had two boyfriends.”

My heart skipped a beat. How could she possibly have already figured that out, so precisely, from my social media feed?

“Tell me,” Mrs. Tompkins continued, her voice cool and clinical, “did you engage in sexual activities with either of them? And I mean any kind of sexual activity—oral, anal, anything at all.”

The blush that had been simmering beneath my skin now exploded across my face, a crimson tide I could feel creeping down my neck. The air in the room suddenly felt thick, oppressive. I squirmed in my seat, the fake leather squeaking beneath me.

“I… I…” I stammered, unable to form words. How could I possibly answer such a personal question? To a complete stranger, no less?

Mrs. Tompkins’s eyebrow arched, a silent demand for an answer. I swallowed hard, my throat dry as sandpaper.

“Yes,” I finally managed to whisper, my voice barely audible. “With Carlos, my second boyfriend. I… I gave him oral sex.”

The words hung in the air between us, heavy and suffocating. Mrs. Tompkins’s expression remained impassive, but I could have sworn I saw a flicker of something—disappointment? judgment?—in her eyes.

“He told me he’d break up with me if I didn’t,” I rushed to explain, the words tumbling out in a desperate flood. “I felt pressured, and I… I gave in. But I realized immediately that it was wrong. That I shouldn’t have done it just because he threatened to leave me.”

As I spoke, memories of that night flooded back. The dim light of Carlos’s bedroom. The musky scent of his cologne. The way my heart had raced, a mixture of fear and… something else. Something I didn’t want to acknowledge.

“I see,” Mrs. Tompkins said, her tone maddeningly neutral. She typed something into her computer, the rapid-fire clicks of the keyboard like gunshots in the quiet room.

I sat there, my hands twisting in my lap, awash in a sea of conflicting emotions. Shame at having revealed such a personal detail. Fear of what Mrs. Tompkins might think of me. And buried deep beneath it all, a flicker of that same forbidden excitement I’d felt that night with Carlos.

But I’d broken up with him immediately after, hadn’t I? I’d recognized how wrong it was to let someone pressure me like that. I’d stood up for myself, for my values.

Hadn’t I?

As Mrs. Tompkins continued to type, her eyes flicking between me and her screen, I couldn’t shake the feeling that she could see right through me. Her gaze seemed to bore straight through my skin into my heart, my mind. Worse, the parts I didn’t want even to think about, down below my belly. I felt a cold sweat break out across my skin. My pulse raced as I wondered just how much she could discern from whatever data was scrolling across her screen. Did she somehow know the real reason I’d ended things with Carlos?

Unbidden and unwelcome, more memories of that night flooded back, in much too vivid colors. Carlos’s low, commanding voice as he ordered me to strip. My fingers trembling as I unbuttoned my blouse, letting it fall to the floor. The air moving over my naked skin as I unhooked my bra, my large breasts spilling free.

Carlos’s rough hands cupping my breasts, thumbs brushing over my hardening nipples. The jolt of electricity that shot through me at his touch. The confusing mix of humiliation and arousal as he told me how good I looked, how he was going to use me. How much he liked having big tits to play with.

Then his fingers tangling in my hair, guiding me to my knees. The thick, musky scent of him as he pressed it against my lips. The stretch of my jaw as he pushed it inside, the weight of him on my tongue.

His grip tightening, controlling my movements as he began to thrust. The sound of his grunts and groans above me. The feeling of being used, of being nothing more than a vessel for his pleasure. And worst of all, the shameful thrill that coursed through me, the wetness gathering between my thighs.

When it was over, when he’d spilled himself down my throat with a final, guttural moan, I’d fled. Disgusted with myself, unable to reconcile the fierce arousal I’d felt with my beliefs about equality and mutual respect.

I blinked hard, forcing the memories away. Mrs. Tompkins was still watching me, her expression unreadable. Did she know? Could she somehow see the truth written in the data before her? The thought made me squirm in my seat, a fresh wave of heat flooding my cheeks.

“Is everything alright, Miss Jacobsen?” Mrs. Tompkins asked, her tone deceptively mild. “You seem… distressed.”

Again I had to swallow, trying to find my voice. “I’m fine,” I managed to croak out. “Just… um, thinking about some things I’d rather forget.”

Mrs. Tompkins nodded, a knowing glint in her eye that made my stomach clench. “I’m sure you are,” she said softly. “But sometimes, Andrea, it’s the things we try hardest to forget that tell us the most about ourselves.”

She turned back to her computer, fingers flying across the keyboard. The rapid-fire clicking filled the small office, each keystroke feeling like another nail in a coffin I hadn’t known I was building. My palms were slick with sweat, and I resisted the urge to wipe them on my skirt.

The older woman’s eyes darted back and forth across her screen, occasionally narrowing or widening in response to whatever data was flowing before her. I sat frozen, hardly daring to breathe. What did she see? What conclusions was she drawing?

After what felt like an eternity, Mrs. Tompkins’s hand moved to her mouse. She clicked once, decisively, then leaned back in her chair. It creaked softly as she shifted her weight, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense silence.

Her gaze locked onto mine once again. I felt a shiver run down my spine. There was something in her eyes—a mixture of satisfaction and… was that pity? My tummy felt like lead.

“Well, Miss Jacobsen,” Mrs. Tompkins said, her voice crisp and businesslike. “I have some news for you.”

I swallowed hard. “Yes?” I managed to croak out.

Mrs. Tompkins’s lips curved into a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’ve been accepted. Your bus leaves at 1:30, from right outside. Your clothes and necessities will be provided for when you get to your destination, and you can send through us for anything you want from your current residence.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. Accepted? Bus? My mind reeled, struggling to process what she was saying. My heart began to race, pounding so hard I was sure Mrs. Tompkins must be able to hear it.

“I… what?” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. “Where am I going? What will I be doing?”

Mrs. Tompkins leaned forward, resting her elbows on her desk. Her voice took on a tone of forced patience, as if explaining something to a particularly slow child. “You’ll be taken to a town called Cato, about two hours from here. It’s one of our New Modesty communities.”

New Modesty. The words echoed in my head, setting off alarm bells. I’d heard whispers about these places—rural towns where traditional values were strictly enforced, where women were expected to be demure and obedient. My feminist friends had railed against them, calling them prisons disguised as utopias.

“But… but I didn’t apply for anything like that,” I protested weakly. “I just wanted a job, maybe some career counseling…”

Mrs. Tompkins’s smile turned cold. “Oh, my dear,” she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “Based on our analysis, this is exactly what you need. In fact, I’d say it’s what you’ve been looking for all along.” She leaned back in her chair again. “You’ll start as a housemaid,” she said, her eyes roaming over me appraisingly. “But with your… assets, I expect you’ll have the opportunity to become a homemaker quite quickly.”

My cheeks burned as her gaze lingered on my chest. I resisted the urge to cross my arms, to shield myself from her scrutiny.

“You’ll have no shortage of suitors, I’m sure,” Mrs. Tompkins continued, her tone matter-of-fact. “That pretty face of yours, those big blue eyes… and of course, that figure.” She gestured vaguely toward my body. “Men in our New Modesty communities appreciate a woman with curves.”

My mind reeled, struggling to process her words. Suitors? Homemaker? It was like I’d stepped into some kind of time warp, back to the 1950s. This couldn’t be real.

“But I don’t want—” I started to protest, but Mrs. Tompkins held up a hand, silencing me.

“Now, now,” she said, her voice taking on a patronizing tone. “I know it might seem overwhelming at first. But trust me, dear. This is what’s best for you. What you need.”

As she spoke, I felt a war raging inside me. Part of me—a part I’d tried so hard to ignore, to suppress—thrilled at the idea. The thought of being taken care of, of having a strong man to lean on, to obey… it sent a shiver down my spine that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

But the logical part of my brain, the part that had devoured feminist literature and attended women’s rights rallies, screamed in protest. This went against everything I believed in, didn’t it? The idea of being nothing more than a homemaker, existing solely to please a man… it was archaic, oppressive.

And yet…

I thought of my life in the city. The endless cycle of dead-end jobs, of struggling to make rent, of feeling lost and alone. The relationships that never seemed to work out, leaving me feeling hollow and unfulfilled.

Maybe… maybe this was the answer? Maybe this was what I’d been missing all along?

No. No, I couldn’t think like that. I shook my head, trying to clear the traitorous thoughts.

“I… I can’t,” I squeaked. “This isn’t… it’s not who I am.”