by Emily Tilton
How Bad Girls Learn
By
Emily Tilton
Copyright © 2020 by Stormy Night Publications and Emily Tilton
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.
www.StormyNightPublications.com
Tilton, Emily
How Bad Girls Learn
Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson
Images by Shutterstock/Quick Shot and Shutterstock/Unique Vision
This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Other The Institute: Bad Girls Series Books
Books of The Institute Series
More Stormy Night Books by Emily Tilton
Emily Tilton Links
Chapter One
Georgia couldn’t figure out how she could possibly have forgotten to shine the master sergeant’s dress shoes, but she knew the consequences wouldn’t be too severe. Come to think of it, she had the slightest, most niggling kind of suspicion that she might have forgotten because the consequences wouldn’t be too severe—and because they would include not just the usual trip over the master sergeant’s knee but also the usual pounding over his cot, with his incredibly taut hips spreading the heat from her punished bottom to her needy pussy.
During those times in the master sergeant’s quarters, when Georgia paid the price for her rather frequent forgetfulness, she felt like all nineteen-year-old five feet four inches of her could fit in the palm of his enormous hand. Certainly when the master sergeant put her into the position he desired, whether for spanking or for fucking, she felt that small. When she looked up at him after he had told her to take off all her clothes, her blue eyes fearful despite her thorough understanding of her position and of what would happen next, she felt like she couldn’t be larger than a little girl who needed to learn a lesson in her duty to her elders.
Master Sergeant David Heath, she knew, would never hurt her. Nor would he ever let any of the other men of First Platoon hurt her. Georgia had arrived at this South American forward operating base, called a FOB, six weeks before. Here the Rifle Company B of the elite First Tactical Battalion had been deployed to guard vital mineral resources from enemy action. In her role as First Platoon’s SRD—Sexual Relief Device—she had been passed from hulking private to hulking private, fucked daily and nightly in the little room they called her quarters, at the end of the platoon’s barracks, except on her weekly day off.
When the platoon went out on maneuvers, she took care of some of their housekeeping chores. Shining the lieutenant’s and the master sergeant’s dress shoes for the weekly inspection of the company by the colonel represented the most sacred of these chores. Once before she had forgotten to do it. Georgia had also, twice, left the door of the barracks open so that a swarm of biting insects had entered and made life miserable for a day.
In all three cases the master sergeant had conducted the discipline session she had earned. The third time, after being brought to Lieutenant Stevens’ office for a brief lecture on her duties, the handsome thirty-year-old officer had said, “Master Sergeant, you will impose consequences.”
Master Sergeant Heath had said, “Yes, sir,” and then, “Follow me, SRD Jones.” Then Georgia had walked behind the solid, precise step of his huge, looming frame to his private quarters in the platoon’s barracks. With the door closed, the master sergeant had pulled out the sturdy folding chair from his desk and sat in it. Georgia still, despite the master sergeant’s seated position, found herself looking up at him, so much taller did he stand than she.
“Take off all your clothes, SRD,” the master sergeant had said in the deep voice that seemed to shake Georgia’s body from the ground up and to send a terribly ambiguous thrill through all her limbs. “I’m going to teach you a lesson I hope you won’t forget.”
Georgia had come from the Bad Girls Facility where these days they trained Sexual Relief Devices for the Army as well as high-priced concubines for billionaires. She had gotten used to having to take her clothes off—especially for the frequent punishment sessions her BGF daddies had imposed. Still, when the master sergeant told her to do so, Georgia always protested.
“Can’t you do it over my fatigues?” she had asked petulantly, half expecting that the tall man with the ramrod spine would tell her she had just earned the strap, rather than his enormous hand, on her bare backside.
“No, SRD,” he had said steadily. “You know you get disciplined in the nude, just like the regulations say.”
The regulations. Since the Army had started deploying SRDs to units all over the world—there were four other girls here at Forward Base Lightning Justice alone, each assigned to her own platoon—Army Regulation 1135-18 had governed all their lives. In particular, AR 1135-18-7 read:
Any SRD found to have violated any regulation or standard shall receive corporal punishment upon her bare buttocks and upper thighs, according to the appended schedule, as modified at the discretion of the officer or NCO administering such discipline. She shall undress completely to receive this disciplinary action. The officer or NCO who administers punishment shall, at his discretion, use the SRD’s mouth and/or vagina and/or anus after punishing her.
Georgia had twisted her mouth to the side and looked at the master sergeant skeptically when he referred her to the regulations that way. He had inclined his head and raised his eyebrows. That little lift of those dark eyebrows always made Georgia’s tummy flip over.
“Do I need to get the MPs, SRD Jones?” he had asked. “They’ll take your fatigues off for you, if you can’t do it yourself. Then you’ll get twenty more spanks.”
Georgia had frowned, looked down, and started to take off her pants. She always pulled down her panties inside them, so that she wouldn’t have to stand there in front of the master sergeant just in her underwear, which seemed to her somehow worse than being completely naked.
She hadn’t known how she could still feel the slightest bit of modesty about nudity, that third time—especially after everything she had gone through in the past year, from being picked up on the street for solicitation, to her time at BGF, to her sexual service to the soldiers who fucked her daily. Nevertheless, something in the master sergeant’s calm but stern eyes made Georgia blush, and she had tried to cover herself when she had everything off and had to stand before him.
The master sergeant, she knew, could explode at his men like a volcano. Once Georgia had seen him scream for five solid minutes at Corporal Kelly for exposing his squad to enemy fire. The corporal had done pushups until he could hardly lift his arms, with the master sergeant standing over him, his hand hooked in the man’s belt to make him do more pushups, shouting the whole time. Georgia had wiped away tears, and she could hardly believe the corporal, a kind lover who kissed very sweetly, had
n’t cried himself.
She had wondered whether, if she refused his gruff order to come to his side as he sat on the folding chair, he might yell at her that way, throw her over his knee, get the punishment strap from his desk, and start whipping her. Maybe he would whip her with the strap until she couldn’t sit down for a week. The other men would see the bruises the master sergeant had left, when they came to fuck Georgia.
Only a split second later, though, while the terrible idea still lingered in her mind, making her heart beat fast, the master sergeant had simply reached out his long, muscular arm and pulled Georgia right over his left knee, spreading his thighs so that he could clamp his right leg over both of hers. Naked over his thick, camo-covered thigh, she had cried out and grasped the smooth metal legs of the folding chair.
For a moment, then, Georgia had felt his strength controlling her. The terribly confusing mixture of shame, fear, and need that her BGF daddies had started to teach her about would flood her senses. She had whimpered a little, at that point, as she usually did. The sound arose despite her best efforts, thanks to the wayward action of her bare pussy, waxed by order of the Army and lewdly visible, Georgia had felt sure, to the master sergeant between her slightly parted thighs. She had clenched down there, too, just like usual, as she waited for the awful consequences of her failure to do her duty, as if somehow the painful spanking she would now get were actually something else entirely.
Master Sergeant David Heath had not wasted any time lecturing his platoon’s SRD, once he had her in position for her punishment. Whether because he had wanted to get the spanking over with for Georgia’s sake or because he had meant her to understand that when she misbehaved she must expect swift retribution, he had begun to spank Georgia’s upturned bottom with his huge hand immediately. Hard and fast, he had spanked the little cheeks poised over his knee, in an unvarying pattern just as regimented as the inspection of the platoon he carried out every morning: right cheek, left cheek, right thigh, left thigh.
From the very beginning, Georgia had sobbed and wailed, as she always had. She had learned, since she had begun to receive old-fashioned discipline at BGF, the value of that release both to her receiving a lighter punishment than the tougher girls got and to her psychological wellbeing. Screaming and struggling over the master sergeant’s knee, she had thought of the men in the barracks relaxing, of how they could undoubtedly hear Georgia getting punished.
The terrible pain in her bottom—the master sergeant spanked very hard indeed—meant that the warmth in her pussy had vanished almost as soon as he started in on her bare-bottom lesson. The feeling of being held in place by his powerful limbs, though, and the idea of the rest of the platoon listening to her helpless cries, had seemed to tune her body to a frequency of sexual need that Georgia had learned not to push away but to welcome. She had thought of the master sergeant’s handsome face, his square chin and the neatness of his buzz-cut blond hair, and imagined him looking down with satisfaction at how terribly red he had gotten Georgia’s little bottom.
It had seemed to her that at just about that moment, in this third spanking she had received from the master sergeant as in the previous two, he always stopped spanking her. Georgia’s cheeks had run with tears and her back had heaved with sobs. Her bottom had felt as hot as an oven.
The master sergeant’s hand had returned to her backside, to rub gently; first the middle of the right cheek, then the middle of the left one. The transformation of discomfort to intense, raging need had seemed instantaneous to Georgia. She had whimpered, desperately trying to keep the sound from becoming a moan.
Georgia had no qualms about letting the master sergeant, the lieutenant, and the men of the platoon hear her cry out under the master sergeant’s punishing hand—she even felt like it probably helped morale, which she knew represented her most important role in her deployment. Having them know about how deeply and troublingly their SRD responded to punishment, however, seemed to her a very different matter.
The problem had gotten much worse a moment later, because the master sergeant had said, “Good girl,” in that low, almost gentle growl of his. Georgia had known at least that a certain degree of salvation was about to happen: the master sergeant had reached to his desk and gotten the Army-regulation lubricant that he kept there for the occasions when the SRD visited his quarters.
Georgia had her own supply of the stuff, of course, in her own tiny quarters. When the men of the platoon came to fuck her, after all, they had the right to choose her anus for their pleasure, and they often did.
The master sergeant, however, always used the lube on Georgia’s pussy after he spanked her, because—she felt certain though he never said anything at all besides ‘good girl’ at this point—he meant to fuck her there according to the regulations. Georgia felt sure the master sergeant did this because he presumed something that wasn’t in fact true: that she wouldn’t be wet enough to take his huge cock comfortably without a thorough application of Army lube.
Now on a daily basis Georgia felt as grateful for the invention of personal lubricant as she imagined the next girl did. But her gratitude had become all the greater at the end of her third spanking, when she felt the master sergeant roughly apply it to her pussy lips and her clit, and work it inside her on two fingers as she cried out as ambiguously as she could. After all, it meant that he hadn’t detected the gushing need already in her pussy from simply having his rubbing fingers on her bottom-cheeks after the spanking.
“Get up, SRD,” he had said then. “Go to the cot and bend over it. “ He had released her from his restraining leg, and helped her up. Shaking all over from the overwhelming mixture of sensation and emotion, Georgia had obeyed, putting her palms on the crisp white sheets of the master sergeant’s bed, devoid of any blanket because of the sweltering heat here at Base Lightning Justice.
She had heard his fatigues drop to the cement floor. She had looked back over her shoulder to see him approach, to get a fleeting look at the massive tool in his hand, at how hard he had gotten while punishing her.
Then, with unerring accuracy, the master sergeant had simply entered her, putting one hand and then the other on her hips and fucking her like a jackhammer from the beginning. Georgia’s back had arched and her head reared back, and she had cried out loud as her whole body shuddered.
Had the master sergeant known she had just come, uncontrollably? Had he known that she always just kept coming as he pounded her bottom with his hips, renewing her punishment that way?
It hadn’t taken him very long to come himself, spurting his seed inside her IUD-protected pussy so copiously that it ran out of her and into her panties for a good ten minutes afterward.
He had said, “Good girl,” one more time, and then he had said, as he pulled his hardness from inside her, “You’re dismissed, SRD Jones.”
Chapter Two
Master Sergeant David Heath regarded his un-shined shoes with a good deal of consternation. Frankly, the idea of even bringing dress shoes to a forward operating base still struck him as ridiculous.
“The SRDs need something to do, Master Sergeant,” Captain Wentworth had explained to the assembled NCOs of the battalion, back at Fort Bragg.
“Couldn’t they learn to knit?” a first sergeant from another company had asked. The idea of a weekly formal inspection while the battalion was deployed in Africa didn’t sit well with any of the NCOs.
The captain had smiled a very thin smile. “While it might be nice to have a toasty warm hat or a soft scarf, First Sergeant,” he said, “while serving in the tropics...”
A ripple of laughter had gone through the men.
“...these girls need as many tasks as possible that teach them their place in their platoons.”
David had frowned at that, and raised his hand. He had only met SRD Georgia Jones that morning, when all the SRDs assigned to Company B had arrived on base. He had responsibility for all five SRDs, as the master sergeant of the company, but SRD Jones would serve Fi
rst Platoon, David’s own platoon, and so he had of course paid extra attention to her. David felt perfectly comfortable exercising his authority with his men—you didn’t get to the rank of master sergeant unless you could provide effective military discipline. The idea of doing the same for pretty nineteen-year-old Georgia Jones, however, didn’t come naturally.
He believed in firm-handed, loving discipline for wives and girlfriends, of course. David had taken his last girlfriend, Sandra, over his knee on several occasions when she had used foul language or had gossiped, and she had admitted that her spankings had improved both her behavior and their relationship. The notion of mixing that kind of intimate bare-bottom guidance with the orderly running of a barracks, however, gave him pause.
Yes, David knew that the purpose of the SRD program lay in improving morale through giving soldiers a much needed sexual outlet. So the sexual aspect of the discipline these NCOs were being asked to provide to these girls obviously represented an essential part of the plan. Thinking about Georgia’s pretty, heart-shaped face and the way her blue eyes had gone wide at the sight of David looming over her, he had felt the beginnings of a qualm: a master sergeant had to administer impartial justice to all the men—and, now, the women—of his company. He would try, to be sure, but just as he would object strenuously to a plan of engagement that seemed to expose his platoon to flanking by the enemy, he had felt the need to question Captain Wentworth more closely.
“Shouldn’t they know that already, sir?” he had asked when the captain had nodded to him.
“They should, Master Sergeant,” the officer had replied. “But they don’t. I’m assured that command has implemented the policies that govern the SRD program with all due care, but these girls are bad girls, as sweet and pretty as they may seem. They’re coming to us from a special facility for rehabilitating bad girls the only way that will work for this particular kind of bad girl—that is, with strict sexual discipline.”
