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A Bad Girl’s Lesson by Emily Tilton – Sample

Chapter One


“I’m not sure about this new protocol,” said the doctor to the nurse as they both stood looking down at me. I glared up at him, trying to say with angry eyes just how fucking monstrous I thought everything this protocol was.

Not that I even really had an especially good idea of what a protocol involved. I had the vague feeling that it meant something about manners, or maybe about hospitals, but those two things didn’t go together at all. New or old, whatever fucking protocol these assholes had decided to put me through represented, as far as I could tell, a horrendously unjust—and, I hoped anyway, totally illegal—series of humiliating, degrading, fascist acts they seemed intent on committing on me without my consent.

Not to mention the worst thing that had ever happened to me in my life.

Naked, bound, gagged, and placed in something like a gynecologist’s examination chair with my knees spread wide, I couldn’t tell the stupid doctor or his stupid nurse just how deeply I resented their protocol. I couldn’t even cry out in protest as the nurse started to shave my pussy.

“But, doctor,” she said as she held the buzzing clipper a few inches away from my privates, looking down with an assessing, condescending expression, “Selecta knows what they’re doing, don’t they?” She, a middle-aged professional in traditional blue scrubs, regarded the intimate places between my spread thighs as if she wanted to start the humiliation of the shaving in the most degrading way possible, so as to teach me some horrid “lesson”.

She brought the clipper down slowly, confirming—it seemed to me—that she wanted to make certain I “understood” something. Despite the stout webbing belt fastened around my waist, I couldn’t help trying desperately to squirm away from the buzzing device. I managed to move my ass about a millimeter, which only made my situation worse. The tsking noise of patronizing disapproval the nurse made with her tongue and the way the tension in my muscles from the effort both reinforced, to my dismay, the unexpected, unwelcome, frankly horrifying response of my clit and my nipples to their whole fucking protocol.

“Naughty little girls who are getting their privates shaved,” the doctor said, his voice just as condescending as the nurse’s, “need to keep themselves still.”

My lips parted and my heart, which had already wanted to pound through my rib cage, began to beat even more wildly. I forgot all about the pink ball gag they had stuck in my mouth and velcroed behind my neck, and I tried to say What? but it came out as a sort of moaning grunt, which then extended itself mortifyingly as I felt the clipper start to do its work between my thighs.

Having delivered his baffling warning about “naughty little girls,” the doctor proceeded to ignore me completely. He answered the nurse’s question—which I had to admit I wanted to get the answer to as well. I had known I was taking a serious risk in trying to run my play on a Selecta executive, because the megacorps had their own private security apparatuses these days, much more brutal, and much more effective, than the government’s police.

I hadn’t known that she would have the power to turn me over to what seemed increasingly like a separate, twisted, fascist system of justice. I didn’t know if it would make it better, or worse, to hear what the doctor thought of Selecta’s capacity for creating protocols like whatever-the-fuck one they had decided to apply to me.

“Oh, they know what they’re doing,” he told her. “I’m just not sure it’s a great use of my time to provide this wayward young woman—a convicted felon, no less—with the fulfillment of her unconscious sexual fantasies as a means of punishing her.”

My eyes had opened wide enough that I could feel the tension in the muscles of my forehead and my cheeks. Again I tried to say What?! and this time the urge to speak was strong enough that I made a humiliating, inarticulate noise around the pink silicone ball between my teeth. I swallowed desperately, clearing my mouth of the saliva that kept flowing as I tried to get used to the mortifying feeling of having my voice taken away by the horrid thing.

The awful pink thing that I now understood must in fact have the sexual meaning I had tried hard to pretend couldn’t actually be involved in this protocol.

They told me it was… hygienic! I wanted to scream at the doctor and the nurse. After sentencing, the officers—who knew what organization they belonged to, given that so many different ones controlled law and order in our brave new world of economic collapse—had come to the table where I sat with my court-appointed legal aid. I’d heard that they used to appoint an actual lawyer, but that had to have been years ago at least.

My legal aid had told me that she’d gotten me an amazing deal. A program for non-violent offenders with a work placement.

“We’re here to take Marianne to the on-boarding for her program,” said one of the two non-descript officers. “Just a hygiene check with a doctor and she’ll be on her way to her new life.”

The nurse had helped the doctor strap me down to the exam chair, while the officers, who had stripped my jail uniform off me, held me down so that all the webbing restraints could be easily fastened, pinning me almost motionless to the awful thing. They had parted my legs despite my futile attempts to struggle, and put my knees in the stirrups, where the nurse on one side and the doctor on the other had deftly secured them in place. The officers hadn’t neglected to look between my spread thighs, either.

“Nice little bush,” one had said, as he gazed down with a smile at the tuft of golden fur that covered my pussy. “Especially for nineteen. Shame you have to lose it, I’d say.”

“No one asked your opinion, officer,” the doctor had replied, sounding annoyed. “Thanks for your help. We’ll take it from here.”

I had felt, I remembered now with horror, grateful to him. I had thought he actually cared about me—even that he had felt sorry for me and annoyed with the corporate justice system for putting mostly innocent girls like me through this craziness.

Not anymore. When I asked my desperate, wordless question through the gag—what the actual fuck is going on here?!—the doctor turned to me with a cold look on his face.

“You tried to steal—what, Marianne?—a hundred thousand dollars, wasn’t it? Do you think you’ve earned the chance to live a pampered life as a sexual servant?”

I tried to say, A what?! and then I cursed myself for forgetting about the horrible fucking gag yet again.

A what?! He had said what I thought he had said. I had paid too close attention to have gotten that wrong, hadn’t I? The doctor had actually said sexual servant.

I stared at him—glared at him—and I watched his mouth curve up at one side, into an amused little sneer. My heart pounding as I swallowed down my spit once a second, it felt like, I turned to the nurse. Her attention remained focused between my legs, on the clipper that kept buzzing and moving, shearing away my private curls. What the doctor had said hadn’t surprised her at all.

Pampered life?

Sexual servant?!

“Well,” the doctor continued, “I suppose, Marianne, if what they tell us about the program is accurate, life won’t be that pampered. You’ll work for your daddies in less pleasant ways than your bedroom service, or your backside will feel the paddle.”

To my astonishment, the nurse made a contribution to the one-sided conversation then, just as the awful vibration moved downward over my perineum, sending a mortifying rush of unwelcome arousal through my nervous system.

“I hear firefighters spank hard, too,” she said, meditatively.

If I thought my eyes had opened wide before, I realized now that I had facial muscles to stretch that I hadn’t even guessed at. The way she had spoken suggested so many different things, all of them somehow both terribly shameful and dismayingly fascinating. Where was the outrage an apparently nice, normal, middle-aged woman—with a career in healthcare, no less—should feel about… about…

Firefighters… spank…

What the ever-loving fuck was going on?

“Oh, really?” the doctor asked. “I suppose that’s something.”

Involuntarily, my eyes returned to his face and his condescending, sarcastic smile.

“Still,” he said, looking back into my eyes with a steadiness that made the heat surge again into my cheeks, “it seems a good deal more than a little swindler like you deserves, doesn’t it, Marianne?”

Swindler. Yes, fine. Confidence artist. Swindler.

Well, really, I supposed, not at this point: my swindling days had clearly reached their just conclusion, at least from the standpoint of the monstrous corpo-legal system that governed everyone’s lives, except people like the woman I had tried to swindle. I would never be an actual confidence artist, if the pseudo-court had anything to say about it.

I had tried, though. I had tried very hard.

Pamela Jonas, senior vice president, or executive vice president, or something like that, of one of Selecta’s infinite divisions, had taken a liking to me at a career event at my educational facility. She had asked if I wanted to have coffee to discuss opportunities—something she had also done with several of my classmates. I had gone, because why not.

And because the calculating side of my brain, my smarts as I thought of them, had kicked in when I saw the way Pamela looked at me, one of the prettiest girls in my class according to just about everyone. At ten, my smarts had helped me get ice cream cones from strangers at Dairy Queen. At nineteen, I had a feeling it might get me a lot more than that.

Pamela clearly thought I had something Selecta could use—my smarts or my looks or who knew what. Our coffee-date had gone brilliantly, thanks to my intuitive understanding of what older adults want out of younger adults—a promise, more or less, to try to be like them. Right there at the table in the coffee shop, Pamela had set me up with an interview with one of her colleagues for an entry level position.

I also had strong enough romantic radar, as I thought of it, to know that Pamela was attracted to me. She had tried to hide it, and I had been able to sense that she considered herself much too ethical to make a pass at a nineteen year old. My smarts, however, told me that I had the chance to make a great deal more than the entry-level job would pay, if I encouraged her interest.

We ended up back at her elegant, enormous apartment in the heart of Chicago. I took a lot of pictures to make sure I could verify that I had actually been there. I didn’t have to pretend to be nervous, because I had never had sex with anyone, let alone an older woman: my previous experience had consisted of getting kissed and felt up by a football player behind the EF. It had felt fine, I guessed, but I hadn’t felt the need to repeat it anytime soon with a boy, or a girl—or a man or a woman. That anxiety, of course, did a fine job of hiding the deeper anxiety involved: I hadn’t ever blackmailed anyone, either.

Nor had I actually blackmailed Pamela Jonas. I had taken a selfie of myself with my shirt off in her apartment, and then I had made an excuse and left. I had bought a burner phone and texted her my demand for one hundred thousand dollars, or I would send the pictures to Selecta with a story of abusive behavior.

Thirty minutes later, I had been in jail. Two hours after that, sentenced to Corporate Rehabilitation Services, I had arrived here in this examination room.

Chapter Two


The nurse had finished baring me between my thighs. She turned the clipper off, and silence came back to the room. It seemed bizarre to me that the thudding of my heart somehow hadn’t become clearly audible. The doctor glanced down at his tablet and then back up at me.

“Alright, Marianne,” he said with the disdain clear in his tone, “let’s confirm Selecta’s assessment of your fitness for service as a sexual relief device.”

Instantly, a chime came from his tablet—at the very same moment I felt my body betray me. The buzzing vibration of the clipper had distracted me, but even a nineteen year old with smarts like me understood at least a little about how sex works: I had known the naturalness of my pussy’s response to that stimulation. Any girl forcibly strapped down naked to an exam chair and shaved between her thighs and ass cheeks would have found the clipper distracting: despite the horrible indignity of the position and despite my heartfelt desire to keep all such physical reactions at bay, any girl would have felt the warmth and the tingling in her clit and in her nipples.

I did not think, however, that any girl’s pussy would have clenched when a doctor told her that his duty lay in assessing her suitability to become… my mind pulled back from the memory of the doctor’s words, because to my horror I knew it would redouble the betrayal.

Then the force of whatever insanity had apparently gripped me pushed me forward into those words, and I heard them again as if in an echo chamber, over and over.

A sexual relief device.

“Sensor seems to be working,” I heard the doctor say, as if he had somehow traveled a billion miles away. He spoke to the nurse, rather than to me: obviously my feelings on the subject made absolutely no difference. “She just pinged at a seven.”

The nurse turned to me, a dreadful, superior smile on her face.

“You’re a naughty girl, aren’t you, Marianne?” she asked in a voice that seemed to drip with syrup. “You’re very lucky that you’re going to have daddies who know how to keep you in line.”

I lost it, more or less. I started shouting through my gag, my head turning rapidly from side to side as I tried to figure out which of these assholes might pay attention to me—let alone have any mercy, or maybe any inclination to abide by the Hippocratic oath or whatever the fuck bullshit they were supposed to believe in. They had to swear to something like Don’t hurt people, didn’t they, to become doctors and nurses? It seemed like a no-brainer, but I felt like the court had sent me to a room where maniacs did nothing but hurt people.

I shouted all the louder and made myself even hoarser, because of the way my body had responded to the nurse saying the thing about the daddies. Worse—at least it seemed to me—than what had happened when the doctor had said sexual relief device. My pussy had clenched again, and I had felt my hips jerk mortifyingly upward.

I had barely noticed that the doctor’s tablet had chimed again, right when the humiliating clench had occurred. I watched him glance down, apparently completely oblivious to my inarticulate outburst. He had the expression of a healthcare professional who saw and heard young women lose control that way three times a day. He obviously didn’t care at all, as long as they remained strapped down, their compliance assured by the chair’s stout restraints and their body’s availability for examination and experiment guaranteed by their nakedness.

I saw his eyebrows go up, obviously at something on his device rather than my desperate attempts to draw his attention to the fact that he and his nurse were torturing me, rather than taking care of me. Some part of my brain, very slow on the uptake, seemed to think if I could just remind the doctor that really his job consisted of healing people, he would immediately recognize the huge mistake the corporate judicial system had made.

They would unstrap me, give me back my clothes, and send me on my way. I would make a point, for a few days, of not looking in the mirror when getting into or out of the shower so that I wouldn’t notice the smooth state of my pussy. This bizarre, horrible ordeal would fade into memory and then, hopefully, out of it. Maybe I would even consider learning my lesson and not trying to con anyone ever again.

Well, another insane but maybe a little more logical voice in my head added, I’ll never try to con a Selecta executive again, anyway. Lesson kind of learned?

My mind threw all that up as a smokescreen. I wanted desperately to believe in it. The expression on the doctor’s face, though, as he at last looked up at me again, blew the smoke away in a millisecond. I had stopped making my futile, gagged noises, having finally come to the conclusion that my muffled shouts hadn’t persuaded him and his nurse of anything, and no cavalry would soon burst through the door.

“Marianne,” he said, “it won’t do you any good to pretend your sexual arousal pattern isn’t an ideal fit for this kind of program.”

The horrible gag had already forced my mouth much too wide open, but I felt my jaw go slack nevertheless. I couldn’t help it, I tried to say What?! yet again. This time I managed to keep it to the barest of failed “Whs?” before I fell silent, staring at him. I darted a glance at the nurse, in hope that she might show the slightest sign of finding what her boss had just said not to her taste. The smile she wore as she looked at him, as if she couldn’t get enough of his pearls of wisdom, brought a hard crease to my forehead.

The doctor continued, “The sensor Cathy just installed on your perineum is going to tell me everything I need to know. As I just said, I don’t think you deserve to have your deepest fantasies fulfilled, but at least I can see how shameful you’re going to find it.”

“Don’t fight it, dear,” said Nurse Cathy. “You’re going to have to give your daddies their way without talking back and without hesitation. They’ll have the app that lets them see how aroused you are, so there’s no use pretending you’re not a…”

I stared wide-eyed at her as she tried to come up with a word to replace the one she had clearly intended to use, but had then thought better of. My eyes darted over to the doctor. I suddenly felt desperate to know what the fuck the word Nurse Cathy had on the tip of her tongue was. The idea gnawed at the edge of my mind… the bizarre notion that deep down I was something… something I had never guessed… something that could explain this terrible, unknown sentence to a program that featured paddles, and firefighters, and…


The doctor finished the nurse’s sentence for her, but in a way that didn’t help me at all.

“A suitably-oriented candidate for this rehabilitation program,” he said, almost absent-mindedly and still looking down at his tablet. Then he spoke to Nurse Cathy again. “She spiked hard just there. Could you hand me the clitoral trainer and apply some lubricant? We need to get a good baseline.”

This time I remembered that I couldn’t speak, so I didn’t even try to say, The what?!

I felt an absurd stab of pride in having recalled the fact that I had a pink ball-gag between my lips and over my tongue, and had avoided yet another humiliating protest. Even if I’d had the power of speech, it would have sounded stupid for me just to keep saying the same thing, demanding the same information that it seemed the doctor had no intention of supplying.

I had fixed my attention on Nurse Cathy, who had reached into a drawer on the cart she had wheeled in with her and taken out a tube of something that I assumed wasn’t toothpaste, then a little white thing, a sort of bent oval about the size of a golf ball. She handed the device—the clitoral trainer, I remembered with a fluttering dread in my tummy—to the doctor, and then put the tube down on the cart and started to pull on a pair of rubber gloves.

I felt a surge of heat to my face like the eruption of a volcano. Something about the clinical way the woman put on her gloves, and the way their stretchy green material implied the dirtiness of what she would have to do to prepare me for the… the other thing… it made my face go a bright crimson I didn’t have to have a mirror to see. I knew myself that well, at least, my fair complexion making the obviousness of my blushes an inevitable fact of life.

Much, much worse, though, my body’s reaction to the gloves made the doctor’s tablet chime, as I felt another surge of heat, down below. In turn, what he saw on the screen sent his eyebrows up half an inch or so.

That’s interesting,” he said to Nurse Cathy. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a reaction quite that strong.”

Helplessly, I watched as he held the little white thing up for me to see. He clicked some invisible little button on its surface, and it started to buzz softly between his fingers.

“This is my clitoral trainer, Marianne,” he said in a patient, slow voice, as if he were speaking to someone who didn’t have smarts like mine—as if he addressed a little girl… a naughty little girl, even. One who had earned a special kind of lesson.

I tried to look daggers back into his eyes, but the way his voice affected me, and the knowledge that he could see my body’s involuntary arousal at this humiliation, brought tears to the corners of my own eyes, too. I tried to blink them away with visible anger, but I could see from the doctor’s face that I hadn’t fooled him in the slightest.

“When Cathy here has lubed you up a little, she’s going to stimulate you with it while I control it and observe your physiological response on my tablet.”

My whole body shuddered at that point, because the nurse had started applying the lube to the terribly warm, tingling place at the top of my pussy, where she had shaved me only a few moments before. My back arched and my chin lifted, and I writhed against the webbing restraints that bound me to the exam chair, despite my best effort to keep my limbs still. I heard myself emit a mortifying little keening noise from deep in my throat.

The doctor looked down at his tablet. “From only the lube,” he said to himself in a musing tone of voice. He looked back up at me sharply. “As I said a moment ago, I don’t think your criminal behavior merits this ‘penalty,’ if we can even call it that, Marianne. But I suppose it makes some difference that some deserving, hard-working men are going to have a young woman as responsive as you are to take out their frustrations on and forget about their stressful duties in using you sexually.”

I forgot again—about the gag. I tried to say, Oh, God, and it came out as another of those humiliating whimpers. All the while the doctor had delivered his horrible speech, his eyes had moved back and forth from his tablet screen to my face as he registered the terrible depth of the need those degrading words stirred up in me. Worse, Nurse Cathy had accompanied the doctor’s sermon with the rubbing of her gloved fingers, covered in cool, slick lube, exactly where I needed their friction more than I could ever have imagined I might.

I came. I couldn’t keep it back: the climax simply washed over me. I closed my eyes tightly and I cried out around the gag. I struggled against the restraints, my head threshing back and forth as the shocks of the orgasm rocketed through my nervous system.

I heard the tablet give a double chime.

“Well,” said the doctor from the darkness behind my shut eyelids, “seems like we won’t need the trainer after all. We got our baseline. Cathy, could you get a speculum out, please? We should have a look inside.”

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