Chapter 24
L ouisa
The ride back with the other bad girls—not ‘back’ for me, of course, but it definitely felt that way thanks to the company—opened my eyes dramatically, where the Bad Girls Program was concerned.
I hadn’t really understood at all when Jax had told me that I had somehow been enrolled in the program, and that his degrading training of me as his little girl somehow represented part of its process.
The moods of the other bad girls on the bus seemed to run from thoughtful to elated after the dramatic operation.
Two of them, seated one row in front of me, were talking about how good it felt to use their training from their daddies and take down the kind of men who had abused them before they got sent to the Bad Girls facility.
“The look on that dealer’s face when I flipped him,” one, whose name I thought was Heather, was saying with a toss of her honey-blonde hair over her shoulder. “God, I’ve been waiting two years to do something like that to a man who thinks he can just use me.”
The other one—Nadja, I thought—nodded, a fierce light in her eyes. “My guy was the same type who got me into trouble in the first place. Pushing me to take more and more drugs until I couldn’t think straight enough to say no to anything.”
I listened, trying to understand this strange world I’d stumbled into. These girls weren’t victims—at least not anymore. They seemed proud, empowered even, by what they’d done tonight.
“My daddy says if the board reviews go well tomorrow, we’ll both get paroled,” Heather continued, in an excited whisper. “He promised me an apartment in the city and a job at one of the Selecta subsidiaries.”
“Mine too,” Nadja replied, squeezing Heather’s hand. “He said with this operation on my record, I’m practically guaranteed early release. Maybe we could be roommates?”
They both turned suddenly, seeming to notice me for the first time.
“Hey, new girl,” Heather said, studying me with open curiosity. “What’s your story? How’d you get to play the starring role up on stage?”
I felt my face flush hot. I didn’t want to say anything that might endanger Jax’s cover, whatever that really was. At this point, I wasn’t even sure who was undercover and who wasn’t.
“I think my daddy—one of the crime bosses who just got arrested—must have heard about what happens at the Bad Girls Facility,” I said carefully. “I think he wanted to try it for himself.”
Nadja’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? That’s wild. So you weren’t even in the program before tonight?”
I shook my head, making up the story as I went along. “No. I was just… his. But then I got a secret message before the operation started, telling me exactly what to yell to signal everyone.”
“From who?” Heather asked, leaning closer.
“I don’t know,” I lied. “It just appeared on a note in my bathroom.”
The two girls exchanged glances, something unspoken passing between them.
“So,” Nadja said, lowering her voice as she leaned over the back of her seat, “did your daddy put you in diapers? And fuck your ass? Did he share you with other daddies?”
I felt my face burn even hotter, shame and something else—pride?
—coursing through me as I nodded, my cheeks aflame.
“Yes,” I whispered, staring down at my hands.
“He… he did all those things. He put me in diapers when I was bad, and special panties with a button in the back when I was good. He taught me that bad girls only get fucked with a sore bottom.” The words tumbled out, each one making me squirm with shame and that strange pride.
“He shared me with his bodyguards—Rudy and Mateo. They became my other daddies.”
The girls nodded, their expressions a mix of understanding and something like respect.
“He taught me how to take his cock in my mouth and my bottom,” I continued in a near whisper.
Something in me wanted desperately to stop, but the idea of sharing the humiliating details, to compare notes with fellow bad girls, seemed more important.
“He showed me how to present myself for punishment, how to arch my back and raise my bottom for his belt.”
“And did he teach you other things?” Heather asked, her voice gentler now. “Did your daddy teach you to acknowledge your needs? To understand what you really want? To take responsibility for your actions?”
The question hit me like a physical blow.
My eyes filled with tears that spilled over before I could stop them.
“Yes,” I choked out, the full weight of realization crashing down on me.
“He taught me that I need structure, that I need… correction. That running away from consequences only makes things worse.”
A sob escaped my throat. “And now I’ll never see him again. Daddy Pete said… he said probably not.”
The thought of never feeling Jax’s huge hands on my body again—never hearing his deep voice calling me his Little Lulu, never experiencing that strange mix of fear and safety I felt in his presence—tore something open inside me.
The tears flowed freely now, my shoulders shaking with the force of my grief.
Heather reached across the seat, taking my hand in hers. “Hey, it’ll be okay. The parole board understands girls like us. They know what we need.”
“That’s right,” Nadja added, her voice surprisingly kind. “They’ll help you find another daddy. Someone who can give you what you need while you transition back to regular life.”
“But I don’t want another daddy,” I whispered. “I want Jax.”
“I felt that way too,” Heather said, squeezing my hand. “My first training daddy got transferred to another facility. But my new one is even better. He understands me in ways the first one never did.”
Before I could respond, the bus slowed, turning through a set of high gates topped with razor wire.
Beyond them loomed a modern-looking facility—all glass and steel, but unmistakably a prison despite its sleek design.
The sign above the entrance read “Selecta Corrections: Nonviolent Offenders Rehabilitation Facility.”
My stomach clenched with fresh anxiety as the bus pulled to a stop in a well-lit courtyard.
Uniformed guards got onto the bus, and led the girls off it and into the facility.
I followed at the back, clutching the blanket around my shoulders as we entered through a steel door into what looked like a processing area.
The other girls seemed to know the routine, forming a neat line along a yellow stripe painted on the floor.
Daddy Pete strode in behind us, clipboard in hand. He surveyed the line of girls, then pointed directly at me.
“Louisa Bell, you’ll stand at the back of the line,” he instructed, his weathered face impossible to read. “The rest of you, well done tonight. Your daddies will be informed of your performance.”
A visible ripple of relief passed through the girls. Several of them straightened their shoulders, pride evident in their postures despite their disheveled appearance.
Daddy Pete moved to the front of the line and gestured for the first girl to follow him.
One by one, he led them through a set of heavy doors and into the main facility.
When my turn finally came, I followed him down a long corridor lined with cells— some with solid doors, others with bars like traditional prison cells.
The facility was surprisingly quiet at first, until we turned down another hallway.
Then I heard it—the unmistakable sound of a paddle connecting with bare skin, followed by a high-pitched yelp that dissolved into a moan.
From another direction came rhythmic grunting and the wet slap of flesh against flesh.
My face burned as we passed a cell with its door wide open.
Inside, a young woman was on her hands and knees on a narrow bed while three men—all wearing uniforms with ‘Daddy’ embroidered on the breast pocket—took turns with her.
One thrust into her from behind, another used her mouth, while the third waited his turn, stroking himself as he watched.
The girl’s eyes were glazed, her expression a strange mixture of submission and ecstasy.
A few doors down, another open cell revealed a different scene—a girl bent over a small desk while three different daddies took turns paddling her upturned bottom. With each stroke, she counted aloud, her voice shaking: “Nineteen, thank you, Daddy… Twenty, thank you, Daddy…”
My heart raced as we continued past more cells, some occupied, some empty.
From one I heard, distinctly, a moan that made my face go hot as I remembered making a nearly identical sound: a sobbing noise of helpless pleasure long after the point of satiety…
and orgasm forced from a nearly spent body.
I couldn’t help but wonder what determined which girls received ‘attention’ from the daddies and which didn’t, and whether others, like the girl I’d just passed, got a different sort of treatment—and why.
Finally Daddy Pete led me to a cell at the very end of the corridor. It was empty—just a narrow bed with pink sheets, a small desk with a chair, and a toilet partially screened by a low wall. Exactly like the ones we’d passed, except for the absence of any daddies or implements of discipline.
“This is where you’ll spend the night,” Daddy Pete said, his voice neutral as he unlocked the door. “Tomorrow morning, like I told you, the parole board will evaluate your case.”
I stepped inside, still clutching the blanket around my shoulders.
I sat down on the bed, looking up at Daddy Pete.
His weathered face had a strange gentleness to it that I hadn’t expected from a man who ran a facility like this.
The blanket still wrapped around my shoulders felt like meager protection against the vulnerability of my situation.
“Will…” I began, my voice catching as I tried to form the question. “Will any daddies be coming to my cell tonight?” The words came out tinged with both fear and a shameful hint of excitement that I couldn’t quite hide.
Daddy Pete’s expression softened further. “No, sweetheart, you’ve earned your rest. You should be very proud of what you did tonight.”
Something about his kindness and the validation of my efforts made me feel strangely bold. I swallowed hard, hardly believing what I was about to ask.
“Am I… am I allowed to…” I couldn’t quite look him in the eye as I forced the words out. “Am I allowed to masturbate?”
To my surprise, Daddy Pete smiled with understanding rather than disapproval. His eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that reminded me of a benevolent grandfather rather than a strict warden.
“Tonight, you’re allowed to play with yourself and to come,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact, but kind. “I think you’ve earned that privilege.”
He stepped further into the cell, moving to the wall beside my bed.
His fingers pressed against what looked like an ordinary panel of the wall, but it slid open to reveal a small cupboard I hadn’t noticed before.
From inside, he withdrew a pink wand vibrator—sleek and modern, with multiple settings visible on its handle.
“Here,” he said, handing it to me. The vibrator felt heavy in my palm, its surface smooth and cool against my skin.
Before I could think of what to say, Daddy Pete leaned down and wrapped his arms around me in a brief, but genuine hug. The gesture was so unexpected, so paternal, that tears sprang to my eyes.
“Get some rest, Louisa,” he said as he stepped back. “If you do play with your little pussy, it should help settle you down. Tomorrow will be a big day for you.”
With that, he left the cell, the lock clicking into place behind him. I sat motionless on the bed, the vibrator in one hand, the other still clutching the blanket around my shoulders.
Alone now, I set the blanket aside and examined the vibrator more closely. It was clearly expensive, with a silicone head and what looked like at least ten different intensity settings. The thought of using it sent a flush of heat through my body, despite everything I’d already experienced tonight.
I knew I was being watched. The small camera in the upper corner of the cell wasn’t exactly hidden, its red light blinking steadily in the dimness.
But instead of making me feel self-conscious, the knowledge that unknown eyes might be observing me only intensified the warmth spreading between my legs.
What would Jax think if he could see me?