Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 67320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
“Not yet,” he warned. “I’m not done looking at what belongs to me.”
When the harness was completely removed, he stepped back and gestured toward the pillows at the head of the bed.
“Take two pillows and pile them in the middle of the bed,” he instructed, his voice taking on that clinical tone that somehow made everything more frightening. “Then lie over them with your bottom raised. This is how you’ll prepare to receive Daddy’s belt. Whenever Daddy tells Little Lulu to prepare for Daddy’s belt, you are to do exactly this without hesitation or question. Do you understand?”
I nodded mutely, my mouth suddenly dry.
“Words, Little Lulu,” he prompted.
“Yes, Daddy,” I whispered, the childish title burning my throat. “I understand.”
I crawled toward the head of the bed, acutely aware of his eyes on my naked body. My hands trembled as I grabbed two of the thick pillows and arranged them in the center of the mattress. I hesitated only briefly before draping myself over them, the position forcing my bottom up into a vulnerable arch.
Behind me, I heard Jax moving to pick the belt up off the dresser. I heard the creak of the leather as he wound it around his fist.
“Daddy’s going to whip his bad girl now,” his deep voice declared. “Think about why you’re here, Little Lulu, with your little pussy shaved and your little bottom in the air for Daddy’s belt.”
CHAPTER 7
Jax
I glanced at my wrist, where my watch had a quick readout of the data stream from Louisa’s perineal sensor, which a micro-drone had installed between her thighs the previous week. The Selecta technology could measure arousal in real time, and Little Lulu’s readings had, as I had suspected, gone off the charts. Her pussy was practically drowning in its own juices, her muscles already spasming with pre-orgasmic contractions. The data only confirmed what I could see with my own eyes: beneath her fear and humiliation, this bad girl was experiencing a sexual excitement more intense than any she had ever felt before.
Louisa had already responded beautifully to the forced ageplay—better even than I had anticipated. The childish name, the diaper, the collar, the humiliation of being bathed like a little girl, then shaved to make her pussy match her new status—all of it had started to break down her resistance more effectively than simple pain or fear ever could.
Selecta’s Bad Girls Program had been specific in its recommendations for subjects like Louisa Bell. The psychological profile they’d compiled was impressively thorough: intelligent, defiant, craving structure, but fighting against it. She needed one primary authority figure to establish dominance—I would play that role—but the program data showed conclusively that young women like Louisa needed to be used by multiple daddies to fully internalize their new lives as reformed bad girls, able to access their remarkable strength of will for constructive purposes.
That would work perfectly with my operational needs. I had spent months infiltrating the network that extended beyond Charlie and Walker, but I needed access to the higher echelons. The men at the top—men like Viktor Volkov and Oscar Reyes—were notoriously cautious, but they were also notorious for their appetites. A party favor like Little Lulu, properly trained and prepared for the operation I had in mind, would give me access to their networks that I could leverage into a clearing out of a lot of bad actors—including them. They would enjoy fucking her, but if I trained Louisa well, it would cost them their freedom, as well as returning some order to the city’s darker streets.
I brought the belt down hard across Louisa’s upturned bottom without warning. The leather made a satisfying crack against her flesh, and she jerked forward with a startled scream.
“Bad girls get the belt,” I said calmly, bringing it down again with equal force.
The Bad Girl Program gave explicit instructions about this phase of training: no counting strokes, no predetermined number of lashes. Just a stern daddy whipping his naughty little girl until her resistance crumbled completely. The belt had to continue until she moved beyond screaming into genuine, helpless sobbing.
I established a steady rhythm, alternating cheeks, occasionally landing a stroke across the sensitive crease where bottom met thigh. Each lash left a vivid red stripe across her pale skin. Her cries grew more frantic, her body writhing as she tried to escape the relentless punishment.
“Please, Daddy! I’ll be good!” she sobbed, her hands clutching desperately at the bedsheets.
I ignored her pleas, continuing the methodical whipping. The assessors who designed the program made it clear that begging should not interrupt the punishment—Louisa’s pleas merely represented a stage in the breaking process, not an indication that she had reached the necessary submissive frame of mind. The time had definitely come, however, to help Louisa take a major step forward in how she thought about herself and her choices so far.