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)
“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.