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Home / Stormy Night Publications Newsletter / A Bad Girl’s Lesson by Emily Tilton – Extended Preview

A Bad Girl’s Lesson by Emily Tilton – Extended Preview


It couldn’t actually be true, could it? Even as my mind reeled, denying what my ears told me, begging me to think it was all an awful locker-room-style joke, I had no idea how I could doubt it. The asshole doctor and his horrible nurse had made it clear all this shit was real.

Our colleagues already have one… and those words didn’t even represent the worst part.

Earn her clothes. Thinking about it felt like touching the third rail in the subway. It sent a zap of unwelcome thought… emotion… worst of all sensation… traveling through my limbs. Outward, all the way to my fingertips, from my pussy.

They got me out of the car. My muscles didn’t seem to be working. Part of my mind kept telling me to resist, somehow, but it didn’t seem worth it. These firefighters—Jacob and Phil… Daddy Jacob and Daddy Phil—they were just so big. What could I possibly do except make things worse for myself, the way “Daddy” Phil had already warned me not to do. If swearing would earn me more punishment, what would trying some stupid, fruitless kind of rebellion do?

Daddy Jacob put his arm around my shoulders, as if he could read my mind and knew a chance existed that I might do something foolish like try to break away and run across the asphalt towards… what? I thought I could see a chain link fence about a hundred meters away. Still, I felt my body shift inside the strong arm, resentfully, almost daring to try to pull away, even though…

Even though it felt kind of good. Really, maybe because it felt kind of good to have that kind of arm around my shoulders, despite the fact that the man attached to it had called himself Daddy and clearly intended…

Awful things. That’s all my brain could handle about the matter right now. As I heard the van start to drive away, I thought: awful things. These so-called “Daddies” may put their arms around my shoulder, but what they mean to do to me… just, awful things.

I saw the words over the garage doors: SELECTA SAFETY SERVICES, UNIT 6521. Ha. “Safety.” I felt the opposite of safe, right at the moment.

They marched me into the regular door, where we entered a small office, with a desk and shelves and a computer.

“This is where you’ll work during the day,” Daddy Phil said, in a matter-of-fact tone. “Administrative stuff. They’ve got a training for you on the computer—you can start that tomorrow, when your daddies are doing our plant checks. Right now, though, it’s time to teach you about your more important duties.”

I felt my forehead crease, and I shuddered. Daddy Jacob kept marching me along, through the office and then through a door on its other side. I opened my mouth, about to ask the burning question at the top of my mind, then decided not to. I knew I didn’t want the answer.

We emerged into a comfortable living room, with a big screen TV, a long couch, and two big arm chairs. Daddy Jacob stopped our forward progress right next to the couch, then maneuvered me effortlessly into position behind it, facing the TV over the waist-high back.

He moved the arm around my shoulders, drawing his hand across my back, flattening it out so that I could feel his fingers and his palm push gently, right between my shoulder blades, ordering me without words to bend over the couch back. The question I didn’t want answered came spilling out of me, merely as a way to stall for time.

“What…” I started, looking over to Daddy Phil, who had come to stand in front of the couch, between it and the big TV. “What are my… duties?”

I succeeded in getting Daddy Jacob to stop pushing on my back, though his hand remained in the same place, his obvious intention delayed, maybe, but not in any way abandoned.

“Marianne, honey,” said Daddy Jacob, the slightest hint of annoyance creeping into his voice, so that I turned my head awkwardly to look at him, swallowing hard as I saw the sheer handsomeness of his bearded face, “we’re big and strong, but we’re not stupid—and we know you’re not, either. We know exactly what the doctor told you, and we know you can figure out exactly what your duties are, as our Sexual Relief Device.”

“But…” I said, my heart rate soaring again after the ordinary surroundings of the firehouse had calmed me down for a few moments.

“But Daddy,” Daddy Phil said, his eyebrows going up and his voice starting to sound severe. “It’s important that you learn to address us properly.”

I looked at him, then turned again to look at Daddy Jacob. I chewed on my lower lip for a moment, feeling my forehead crease hard.

“I… but… I don’t understand…” I started, my voice quavering as I did my best to evoke pity—the way I had made the Selecta executive I had tried to con feel pity for me. Then I noticed immediately how both of them assumed sterner expressions, rather than softer ones. “Daddy,” I tried, the word coming out, to my dismay, in a little sort of a voice I had never heard myself use before.

Their faces softened a bit. Immediately, though, I felt Daddy Jacob’s hand start to press against my back again.

“It doesn’t matter that you don’t understand everything yet, honey,” he said. “Your daddies will teach you.”

I swallowed hard as I felt just how easily he could bend me, literally, to his will, if he chose. At least he hadn’t chosen that—yet. I stayed upright, though I had to put my cuffed hands on the back of the couch to steady myself against the pressure from his huge hand.

“But…” I tried again, as I felt Daddy Jacob ease the pressure again, clearly in response to sensing from my body’s response that I didn’t intend to bend over willingly. “But I don’t even understand about… about the… the Daddy thing.”

“You don’t think you do, maybe,” Daddy Phil said. His tone had a patronizing note in it that made me look sharply at him, to see that same infuriating condescension in his eyes, and a mocking little smile on his lips.

I snapped. In the van, and then as these towering men had taken me and led me to the door of their firehouse, my rational brain had managed to keep me from doing anything stupid, but the look on “Daddy” Phil’s face overcame common sense in a flash.

I don’t understand! He’s wrong! the voice of protest and resistance yelled in my mind. I have no fucking idea what any of this is supposed to mean!

I tried to twist away, to my right, out from under “Daddy” Jacob’s gently pressing hand. I managed to turn and to scramble maybe a foot or two in that direction before his long arm simply gathered me in, pulling me back into a secure new grip around my waist.

“Marianne, honey,” his deep voice said, as he manhandled me back into place and bent me over the couch in an instant, like a blade of grass, “we know it’s going to be hard at first. Put your hands out in front of you.”

Daddy Phil had his own hands extended, as if to take mine. I saw that he had a pair of safety scissors in one of them—to cut the plastic cuffs, I understood. I desperately wanted them free, so that I could make a better attempt at escape, but that irrational thought took second place in my head to the even less logical idea that I had to refuse, at all costs, to comply with anything one of these assholes said.

I shook my head, and held my cuffed hands up against my chest, pressed firmly into the fabric of the pink scrubs. Even as Daddy Jacob bent me further down over the back of the couch, so that I had to look up at a steep angle to see into Daddy Phil’s face, I resisted. Daddy Jacob didn’t push me all the way down, but his huge hand kept me halfway to the couch’s cushions despite my continuing efforts to rise.

“Stop!” I grunted, still trying to twist away. “Let me… don’t!”

Tears sprang up in the corners of my eyes as the sheer physical force of the hand on my back seemed to tell me just how idiotic I was being, trying to get away or even to challenge these men’s government-granted supremacy over me.

“She’s a bad girl, alright,” said Daddy Phil to Daddy Jacob. “I think we need to teach her what bad girls get.”

He reached forward and took hold of my wrists and pulled them towards him without effort. Daddy Jacob pushed harder on my back, and suddenly I was stretched out over the back of the couch, going up on tiptoe in the plastic clogs the guards had given me. Daddy Phil transferred my hands to his left hand and then I felt him reach over my back and grab the hem of the scrubs top, so that he could pull it up and over my head and my arms, blinding me with the pink fabric and adding an extra layer of restraint.

“Couldn’t agree with you more,” I heard Daddy Jacob say behind me. His right hand had left my back when Daddy Phil had stripped my top over my head. Now I felt it take hold of my waistband.

“No…” I wailed, suddenly caught between defiance and pleading. “No… please…”

But the big hand didn’t hesitate. My new daddy pulled my pants down in a single motion, so that they dropped all the way to my feet.

I heard it in my head, as if someone else had started narrating my utter humiliation. Her new daddy pulled her pants down.

Her new daddy.

Oh, hell no. To my horror, I suddenly started to understand—what Daddy Phil had meant about not thinking I understood, anyway. I had something inside me, something I couldn’t fully grasp but which was dismayingly there, not truly unnoticed but rather steadfastly denied. It had just responded to Daddy Jacob’s abrupt, dominant, paternal action, in a terribly unwelcome way.

When my new daddy had pulled my pants down and bared my bottom to teach me a lesson, my pussy, smooth from the nurse’s razor, had clenched hard.

“They sent a cute pink paddle for us to use on this little bottom,” Daddy Jacob told me, his voice sounding muffled by the scrubs that covered my ears. “But sometimes Daddy will just use his hand.”

“Wait!” I cried. “Please… please… Daddy…”

I had said it in that same small voice again. And as if the helpless spasm between my thighs had unleashed a flood of related emotions and sensations, all of them equally shameful, I felt much too keenly how naked my daddies had rendered me, in an instant. I remembered what they had said about taking my clothes away, about making me earn them. I heard my voice trail off into a whimper.

Daddy Jacob put his hand on my ass, covering both cheeks in his strong grip and squeezing firmly. I cried out in shame and alarm. I tried to dance away, out of his grasp, but he just put his other arm across my waist and secured me in place, still holding my whole bottom in his fingers and his palm as if he owned it.

“The nice people who sent you to us, honey, told us that there’s a very important rule of your rehabilitation that we always have to follow. You won’t like it, but it’s going to be true for you until you learn to be an obedient little lady for your daddies.”

He spoke in such a measured tone, and he moved his hand so possessively as he delivered his lesson, that part of me started to pay actual attention. My body’s wayward movements grew calmer, and to my distress I felt my hips start to respond to his rhythm on my backside.

“What?” I sobbed. “What is it… Daddy?”

Daddy Jacob leaned over. I could feel his breath through the fabric over my ear as he murmured it.

“Bad girls only get fucked with a very sore bottom.”


Marianne’s body responded to the words with a deep shudder. Ned and Paul had told me about the effect the “rule”—Selecta made it clear to us daddies that although we should call it a rule when we talked about it with our bad girl it was really more of a guideline—had on their fuck toy Ashley. Seeing the way our own new SRD reacted, though, took the idea to a whole other level.

The trembling that traveled through her limbs seemed to culminate in an even sexier, completely involuntary reaction: Marianne’s hips bucked, and she pressed her ass helplessly into my grasping hand, bending her knees and tilting her backside upwards as much as she could, obviously desperate for more friction from my fingers, and in a different place.

Oh fuck, the part of my mind I sometimes thought of as my daddy-brain said. This bad girl needs it… bad.

But, at the same time, Marianne started to shake her head violently inside the pink fabric of the scrub top Phil had pulled over her head. Softly, but still very clearly despite the cloth barrier between her mouth and my ears, she said, “No… oh, no… no, please.”

Her no’s gave me a moment’s pause as I tried to remember as much of Selecta’s instructions for claiming our fuck toy as I could. Even with her head covered, I could tell from the tone of her pleading that Marianne didn’t really have any idea what she meant to refuse. The guidance from corporate, though, had some very specific recommendations for how Phil and I should go about ensuring that our SRD learn the lessons that would benefit her rehabilitation in both the short and the long-term.

Above all, that meant the correct mixture of pleasure and pain in disciplining her—beginning with understanding the idea of discipline as including both, and making sure that Marianne came to see her entire new life with her daddies as a disciplinary regime. There would be a good deal of traditional bare-bottom punishment, of course, but there would also be a lot of disciplinary fucking, as well as other kinds of compulsory sexual activity.

Starting now, because I remembered, after half a second of recollection, what the instructions had said about a bad girl’s no when she had just had her pants taken down, and had her daddy’s strong hand on her bottom.

One very helpful strategy, when your SRD expects a spanking—and you intend to give her one—for a minor act of misbehavior, involves inspecting her vulva and anal region first, and stimulating her until she comes close to orgasm, before proceeding to the punishment itself.

Looking at Marianne, watching her head shake, hearing her muffled whimpers, and above all feeling the way her delicious little bottom squirmed under my hand, I saw the wisdom in the clinical words. Our gorgeous bad girl wouldn’t have come to us unless she needed not only our hard cocks but also our firm guidance—and, even more, needed to learn about the interconnectedness of the two things, for a girl like her.

Marianne had to start to understand that her daddies got to decide, when the time came for discipline, whether they would whip her, or fuck her, or inspect her between her thighs and her bottom cheeks. To teach her that kind of submission, nothing would be more effective than making certain that her body associated the pleasure we could make her feel with the shame of being utterly available to us and the pain of feeling our strong hands across her naughty backside.

“She’s pretty hot for it,” I told Phil. “We should take a close look down there, shouldn’t we, to see how ready this little pussy is for fucking?”

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