“Lucy, what you did to your mommy and daddy’s house means that you have to be punished in a special way.”
“Wh-what kind of… special way?” Lucy asked, pretending to be scared. She still had a little hope that she could fool them into sending her back to Oak Street. The other Oak Street girls would probably have had their chins set quivering by this threat from the middle-aged woman in the elegant dress, and so Lucy made her lip tremble and even managed to squeeze a tear out of her right eye.
I should be sorry for having started the fire in the basement, right? I mean, sure, I was doing it to give myself an opportunity to escape from crazytown, and I made sure no one else would be in the house, but I suppose I probably did a bunch of damage to Mr. and Mrs. Baskin’s precious little victonial McMansion and maybe my 1950s re-enactor ‘Mommy’ and ‘Daddy’ were worried about me.
“We have to send you where bad girls go, Lucy,” said Miss Charlotte, her eyes—as far as Lucy could tell—attempting to convey a for-your-own-good sort of sympathy even less realistic than the very similar expression seen in Mr. Baskin’s (she just couldn’t call him ‘Daddy’) eyes when he had told her to fetch her paddle and to lower her pajama bottoms and panties.
Miss Charlotte looked as if she thought the words where bad girls go should scare Lucy Gordon (whom everyone on Oak Street had insisted on calling Lucy Baskin since her arrival there the previous month as the replacement for another girl who had apparently also lived with the Baskins before departing to parts unknown). Accordingly, Lucy put on a scared face.
“Where is that, Miss Charlotte?” she asked. “Can’t I just go back to…”
With a mighty effort, Lucy managed to keep from gagging as she continued, only breaking the flow of her speech a little.
“…Mommy and Daddy? I promise I’ll be good.”
Miss Charlotte smiled slightly, and for the first time since Mr. Baskin had told her, two days before, that he had to paddle her very soundly for breaking her curfew, Lucy felt actual fear. That smile set Lucy’s tummy crawling with a vague panic, as if she had lost track of who had played what spades in a game of hearts, when she held the queen. She kept it off her face, unlike the fake fear she still tried to maintain there in hope of finding sympathy from the woman who, it appeared, ran this whole bizarre institution—a place that apparently included a great deal more lunacy than just Oak Street, suburban neighborhood from hell.
In her first days on Oak Street, Lucy had been willing to play along, even after she found out that the 1950s New Modesty vibe on Oak Street included her eighteen-year-old backside getting spanked before bed if she forgot to take out the trash.
On the city streets where she had lived before the corporate fucks had brought her to their cozy suburban neighborhood, she had longed for something she could rely on. Having escaped from Educational Facility 489 two days after turning eighteen, Lucy had told herself in the frightening midst of the decaying city that all she wanted was a little stability and a chance to figure out what to do with herself: anything other than accept the unending grind of office or warehouse busy-work corporate America bestowed on its underclass as if it were a gift. The medical exam at the detention facility, after the police had picked her up on only her second day of freedom, and the news that it qualified her for some ‘program’ in another state, had almost seemed like a lifeline, despite it reeking of corporate control just as strongly as everything else Lucy had known up to that point in her life.
So when, soon after arriving on Oak Street, Mrs. Baskin told Lucy that she had to do chores and go to ‘school’ in the basement schoolroom where the other Oak Street girls also came for weekday lessons, she wasn’t thrilled. Despite the heavy New Modesty influence on the curriculum, though, those lessons represented the most interesting educational experience Lucy had ever had. She decided to play along there, too. She liked calling Mr. and Mrs. Baskin Daddy and Mommy even less, but she did that, too, for a few weeks at least.
And she even accepted that first spanking, too, for God’s sake, even though she never felt sure she knew why. She did ‘forget’ to take out the trash, and she had known very well that the task made part of her chores—the list of them, with columns for her to put a checkmark in with the pencil that hung on a string attached to a pushpin, was on the back of her bedroom door.
But Lucy wanted to see what would happen, so she left the trash barrel in the garage, even after her mommy reminded her. When Lucy’s daddy came into her room carrying the pink leather paddle, though, and wearing the for-your-own-good look, she laughed at first.
“Dude,” she said, “you can’t be serious.”
To his credit or to his shame, Mr. Baskin played it completely straight.
“I’m completely serious, young lady,” her daddy said. “Your behavior is my responsibility, and you are here on Oak Street to learn how to conduct yourself properly. Your mommy and I believe in old-fashioned discipline for naughty girls, to teach them to think better of it before they misbehave again, or ‘forget’ to do an important chore. Now get up from the desk and get into your PJs.”
“What? While you watch?” Lucy demanded, thinking only to catch him off guard with the question and having not the slightest notion Mr. Baskin would answer in the affirmative.
“Yes,” he said, though. “While I watch.”
Lucy’s tummy jumped, but not with fear as she looked at him, open-mouthed.
“As I said, young lady, you are my responsibility, and that includes your modesty about your body. Part of old-fashioned discipline is making sure you feel ashamed of what you did. When your daddy looks at you naked, while you get into your pajamas for your paddling, you’re going to feel embarrassed—if you don’t want to feel that way again, you’ll remember to take out the trash.”
Really, she didn’t know what had made her insides do the funny dance they had done when Mr. Baskin had told her he would watch her undress: worse, Lucy wasn’t able to keep herself from stepping outside her mind, as she usually thought of it, and looking at the way she had reacted. She did it all the time—stepping outside her thoughts—had done it for as long as she could remember, and that frightened her, because it made her feel different and weird.
Usually, though, when she found herself outside herself, trying to figure out what was happening on her inside, she could figure out why her head and her heart and her stomach and whatever else went on in her body behaved as they did. Not this time—not when Mr. Baskin, who wanted to be her ‘daddy,’ told her he intended to spank her with the pink paddle and meant to watch her take her clothes off and get into her pajamas for the spanking, even though it was only 5:30, and the sun stood high in the sky. All because Lucy hadn’t taken out the trash.
Much, much worse the one thing she saw in her thoughts when she stepped outside was that the idea of undressing for her daddy seemed reasonable, despite being at the same time utterly wrong and crazy and foreign to everything Lucy had thought she knew about herself.
Okay, yes, I don’t mind calling him Daddy. That’s how weird Oak Street is.
“Get going, sweetheart,” Lucy’s daddy said, then. “Everything off.”
You do it for the doctor, part of her said. You did it for the doctor who said you qualified for this program. Maybe this program is a medical program or something.
Lucy knew that the idea represented a very weak sort of rationalization, but it gave her body enough leeway to pull her blue t-shirt over her head.
But the doctor didn’t watch me undress, did he?
Then Lucy saw herself as if through Mr. Baskin’s eyes: long, wavy, dark brown hair and hazel eyes. B-cup breasts in the white bra it seemed all the Oak Street girls wore, judging from glimpses caught when changing into their bathing suits to swim in the Woods’ pool. Smooth back turned to the man who stood holding the little paddle with which it seemed he meant to spank her bare bottom.
“Turn around, Lucy,” Mr. Baskin said. “Your daddy gets to see you naked.”
That made her heart jump, and something else happen, down below, that Lucy refused to contemplate. Mr. Baskin was handsome, in an older-guy way, dark hair with the slightest bit of gray at the temple, and muscles bulging in the Oxford shirt he wore to go to his office. As to what he did there Lucy had no idea, but the notion that she lived now in a suburban home to which a big, strong man returned after a day at the office, still seemed unreal to her.
It would seem unreal, part of Lucy had said, even if he weren’t about to administer old-fashioned discipline.
Trembling, then, Lucy turned around and put her hands to the waistband of the jeans Mrs. Baskin let her wear after school. Her daddy tapped the paddle on his other hand, his eyebrows rising a little as if to warn her she must be quick about showing him her panties and… had he really just said everything off? Surely he didn’t mean her underwear? She could put the pajama top on and take her bra off under it, and she didn’t need to take off the awful beige nylon panties her mommy made her wear, to put on her pajama bottoms, did she?
She unfastened the button on her jeans and took them down, stepped out of them. She turned to her dresser and pulled out the top drawer, where the cute pink pajamas were: the ones Mrs. Baskin had given her the first night on Oak Street, when everything had seemed crazy but a good kind of crazy.
“I said everything, Lucy,” Mr. Baskin said. “Bra and panties off this instant. Your panties should be clean when I spank you.”
That made the blood rush to her face, and the embarrassment made her angry. She shot a reproachful look at Mr. Baskin, for the reference to the possibility that an eighteen-year-old might have dirty panties, but he narrowed his eyes and tapped the paddle on his left palm again, and Lucy’s tummy did its ambiguous little dance once more.
She cast her eyes down to her daddy’s shiny black shoes, then, and reached behind her to unhook her bra. Then she felt a cold fury at herself for not looking him in the eye as she undressed, to show him that he couldn’t make her feel ashamed of herself that way. He won, in that moment, as she dropped the bra to the floor, then hooked her thumbs into the waist of the panties and pulled them down, so that he could see the tight triangle of brown curls that covered her young pussy.
Lucy managed to stand there, though, with her hands at her sides, and raise her gaze to meet Mr. Baskin’s with a look she hoped said, Are you satisfied? She watched her daddy’s eyes travel up and down her naked body, and she saw an approval in them that made her tummy leap again, and then he said, “Go ahead and get into your PJs, sweetheart. It’s time to go over your daddy’s knee and learn your lesson.”
As she felt him pull her over his lap, and take down her pajama bottoms to the middle of her thighs, Lucy knew she couldn’t let it happen again, or she would have to give in to their craziness. The pink paddle on her bottom hurt terribly, much more than she thought it would, but the part that Lucy knew she couldn’t repeat was how it felt to have her daddy hold her down over his knee and keep spanking her for as long as he decided Lucy needed, to learn her lesson.
Thus, when it did happen again, and Lucy received the terrible paddling for breaking curfew that still made her perch on her hip in the chair across the desk from Miss Charlotte, she knew she had to escape, and she set the fire in the basement schoolroom.
Now, looking at the beautiful woman who it seemed for some insane reason had the power to decide her fate, Lucy at least felt she had restored order in her own inner world: she had rejected Oak Street despite everything the mommy and the daddy and the pink paddle could do. She just had to find a way to escape again, for real this time, and pretending to be penitent seemed like the most reliable strategy.
Miss Charlotte’s smile, though, when Lucy begged to go back to Mr. and Mrs. Baskin, did not bode well. She tried again, doing her best to keep the panic in her chest in check.
“I know… I know Daddy will have to… to paddle me,” she whispered, but the smile on Miss Charlotte’s face remained ironic, almost mocking, and that made Lucy’s fear rise.
“Oh, bad girls get a lot worse than a paddling, Lucy,” the older woman said. “Stand up and take off all your clothes.”
Dina Sanrocco, head assessor for the Institute’s Bad Girls facility, watched the data from Lucy Baskin’s sensor crawl across the bottom of the big screen in the facility’s control room. This meeting with Charlotte had already accomplished what the Oak Street team, and Dina herself, had expected it to accomplish—the numbers confirmed the consensus opinion of the assessment department that Lucy belonged at Dina’s year-old ‘reformatory.’
Selecta Corporation’s Nonviolent Offender Reform Facility Number Seventeen—now usually just called BGF—had been founded as an experimental wing of the highly successful Selecta justice division that technically also included Oak Street itself. Institute assessors, data-mining the feeds of young women incarcerated in the sixteen regular facilities had identified a new class of offender they had dubbed the bad little girl.
These young women all displayed two key traits: a high degree of self-awareness, from which they shrank back into behavior that frequently seemed thoughtless and almost sociopathic, and a strong basic sexual drive with submissive tendencies. The conflict between these two elements of the bad little girl’s personality, the data-miners had observed, meant that they had a very special version of the emotional constellation that typically led to the ‘brat complex’: on the one hand a bad little girl engaged in conduct that could prove extremely dangerous to herself and to others; on the other, her refusal to examine her sexuality and her need for sexual discipline, coupled with her high intelligence, meant that she continued to misbehave in a spiraling cycle of denial and criminality.
The assessors’ hypothesis, in the white paper that had led to the design of BGF, had turned on the notion that by delivering a shock to the erotic system of these bad girls, along the lines ironically enough of prisons and reform schools in a bygone era, Selecta might rehabilitate them. Such a transformation would clearly benefit not only society, in allowing bad girls to become productive citizens, but also Selecta, since these girls would make ideal concubines for discerning gentlemen—and ladies—of means who might be trusted to complete their reform in the private setting of their well-equipped personal reform facilities.
Three girls from BGF had already gone to ‘good homes’ (as BGF’s public relations materials put it) via private Institute auctions. They now served out their terms under the firm hands and pounding hips of two dominant financiers and an heiress with a penchant for strap-ons. Because the sexual use of a bad little girl by multiple daddies represented a crucial element in the regime designed by Dina’s team, part of these young women’s ‘home-stay’ was the condition laid upon their owners that their concubine be gangbanged at least once a week, and that her body be loaned to other masters and mistresses for sexual discipline as regularly as possible.
That constraint limited the market for the BGF’s product a bit—but it had also increased the girls’ value substantially. The BGF brand already stood alongside Oak Street as a jewel in the crown of Selecta’s most profitable division, one denominated on the top secret annual report as ‘Other Services’—a ploy part joke and part discretion that never failed to make the highly select group of investors smile.
Not every prospective purchaser of a naughty little girl was willing to agree to that degree of sharing, but those who were valued the merchandise very highly indeed, thanks to its cachet and its rarity—as well of course as the built-in excuse and mechanism for displaying to friends one’s wealth and status. If an item in the contract itself by which a billionaire had acquired his pretty, naughty, needy young lady necessitated her being shown naked to his guests during dinner and then taken by all of them upon the polished oak table after the meal, well, how could he help inciting all that envy in his friends and acquaintances?
On the monitor, Lucy’s face, seen from the high angle provided by the tiny camera in the molding of Charlotte’s office, showed all the calculation that went into the bad girl’s typically superior acting skills. An eighteen-year-old who had spent her whole conscious life pretending to herself that she didn’t have in her the exceptional things certain others—the ones in authority—saw, and should instead do her best to blend in with the crowd, developed powers of self-deception that translated effortlessly into little performances like this one.
“What,” Lucy said, looking back at Charlotte with the ironic disbelief of the teenager playing it cool, “so, you’re, like, my daddy now? Because I’m not sure you know this, but he liked to make me take off my clothes, too.”
Dina couldn’t help it. She laughed. As did Tim Hardy, the colleague sitting next to her, whose attention had apparently strayed from writing up the daily summary of activity at BGF to the little drama of their first Oak Street induction—the beginning of the crossover strategy the Oak Street assessment team had warned them would probably prove necessary once Charlotte had decided to pursue brats like Rene Dalton and Lucy Baskin. Rene’s training and sale had gone smoothly, but Lucy had justified the warning that also to be sure represented a huge opportunity to grow Selecta’s concubine market.
“I do know that, Lucy,” Charlotte said patiently.
“Look at that,” Tim said beside Dina. “Girl knows Charlotte isn’t buying it, but she’s still all in.”
Indeed, Lucy’s face showed not the slightest flicker of doubt about the new tack she had just adopted. Her eyes went a little wider, in an imitation of wide-eyed shock that brought another snort from the back of Dina’s throat.
“So you’re like him? You like to ‘teach girls modesty’ by getting a good look at their pussies?” Lucy actually put the air-quotes around teach girls modesty with two supremely dismissive fingers of each hand framing her heart-shaped, extraordinarily pretty face.
“I do like that, in fact, young lady,” Charlotte said steadily. Dina new the Institute’s academic dean well enough to tell that Charlotte Elkins-Nakama had to suppress a smile, but Lucy would never be able to tell. “But that’s not especially important right now. You’re going to the place where bad girls go, and the rules say that you don’t get your new uniform until you earn it.”
Dina’s eyes darted down to the crawl, where the tiny sensor between Lucy’s legs registered her arousal to a very fine degree. Just as Dina had suspected, the numbers showed a sharp spike in temperature that quieted almost immediately. Bad little girls had very complex data streams in the early stages of their training, but arousal spikes like that one revealed the submissive needs to which the BGF protocols would attempt to break through.
In Lucy’s face, the first signs of a struggle to keep up the act seemed to appear. As often, the deception encountered its greatest difficulty when the real self’s interests corresponded most closely to the false one’s. Lucy knew that the devil-may-care brat she pretended to be would ask about earning her uniform, but she also, in the basically good heart she covered over with her performance, very much wanted to know the same thing. When she spoke again to Charlotte, the brat act didn’t seem quite as convincing as it had a few moments before.
“How… I mean, give me a break—earn it? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Charlotte’s eyes moved from Lucy’s face to the screen of her laptop, and she typed a few words on the keyboard there. A much better actress than Lucy Baskin, thanks to knowing herself so well, Charlotte’s timing drew the girl’s next words from her almost involuntarily.
“What are you doing?” she asked, realizing too late that her tone betrayed her actual panic and trying to say doing in a sarcastic, bratty way, lengthening the O unnaturally as if she were in fact merely pretending, theatrically, to be scared of Charlotte.
“I’m telling the warden of your new facility that you just spoke profanely and abusively to me. You’ll be punished for the profanity when you get there.”
Lucy’s arousal spiked again. The general overall number that adorned the upper right corner of the monitor, measuring a girl’s sexual neediness on a scale from one to ten, went from two to four. Unlike the vast majority of young women whose sexual awakening was overseen by Institute assessors, bad little girls spent most of their time below arousal five. That would change as Lucy’s reformation proceeded, but in the early stages BGF assessors had to rely on small spikes like this one.
“Whatever,” Lucy said, though for a moment her face had flashed a very different message, to accompany the spike between her legs, which had now simmered back to three.
“Charlotte, keep eye contact, please,” Dina said over the comm link. She felt fairly sure the dean would have done it simply from her near-flawless instinct for the training of submissive girls like the one Charlotte herself had been when she had first arrived at the Institute as a volunteer twenty years or so before. Still, it never hurt—and Charlotte drilled this point into her assessors time and time again—to communicate the advice the assessor thought worth communicating, and right now Dina’s expertise told her that the opportunity of a small breakthrough for Lucy had appeared in the girl’s retreat into whatever.
Whether on Dina’s advice or counseled by her own instincts, Charlotte held the girl’s eyes, and after three seconds by the clock in the upper left of the monitor three things happened simultaneously: Lucy looked down at the lap of the blue school skirt in which she had attempted to run away from Oak Street after setting the fire in the Baskin basement; her pretty cheeks went noticeably red; and her arousal spiked all the way to five, with measurable surplus humidity over baseline for the first time since her daddy had made her undress for her initial paddling on Oak Street.
“She wants to know what that punishment is so bad it’s making her wet,” Tim commented, echoing Dina’s thoughts to the letter. “Nice work, Dina.”
“Thanks,” she replied, then told Charlotte what the dean could almost certainly see for herself in the redness of Lucy’s face. “She hit five with humidity, Charlotte. We’re on our way.”
Charlotte didn’t need to do anything as unsubtle as saying to Lucy, I know you’re scared and aroused by the thought of what’s going to happen to you when you arrive, naked at the place where bad girls go. Still less would there be anything gained by actually telling the girl the details of the very thorough and intimate lesson she would soon learn, in respect and obedience.
“That punishment,” Charlotte said to the now-downcast eighteen-year-old face of Lucy Baskin, “will be nothing compared to what you get right now, however, if you don’t do as I just instructed you, and take off your clothes.”
Lucy’s arousal had descended in a characteristic bad-girl fashion to three again; now it went back up to four for a full second.
“What was her highest spike during that paddling for breaking curfew?” Tim asked.
Dina glanced down at the screen of her laptop, to make certain her memory was correct. She had the whole report on that punishment right on the desktop, because she hadn’t felt completely sure the Oak Street team had gotten everything they could from the sensor data. After all, as good at their jobs as the assessors for crazytown (as Lucy had called it during that very severe spanking over her daddy’s knee) had proven themselves, they weren’t really accustomed to dealing with bad little girls. Naughty ones like Frankie Wood, Ginnie Samuels, and Rene Dalton, maybe—but Lucy Baskin’s profile lay under a different, darker rubric, and Selecta had placed her on Oak Street with the full knowledge that she might well have to be the first naughty little girl to cross the line and need the kind of thorough reform only a facility specially designed for bad girls could provide.
“Four,” Dina said.
Tim nodded, his mouth twisting a little to the side to express what Dina took as diffidence about the painful lesson Lucy had received for a hike prolonged an hour too far. The guidance to Wade Baskin on leaving his little girl with a backside she couldn’t sit on the next day had come of course from the Oak Street team, but Dina felt the need to defend their decision, despite its having led to a hundred thousand dollars of damage to the technology-heavy Baskin basement.
“They knew she was a candidate for BGF, and it was a chance to find out how badly she needed transfer. A four spike just means she belongs with us—this five just confirms that.”
Tim nodded. “I guess, but…”
Dina chuckled. “What a way to run a railroad.” It was a favorite saying of the assessment department, these days. They all knew they had the best jobs in the universe, and they wouldn’t have traded their work at Selecta for anything, but the path to world domination through submissive sexuality never ran particularly smooth.