Chapter One
I looked down at Leo’s lap, his erection obvious through his pants as he sat in the tired office chair he had pulled up to ‘look at my work.’ I hated this part. I always hated this part. He had no idea what I was actually doing, but he would ask stupid questions until I gave him what he truly wanted, though would never admit to wanting.
And I needed him distracted, compliant, and too satisfied to interfere with my hacking of the Houseworks server architecture. So I slid off my chair and moved between his knees, keeping my face carefully neutral.
“You’re tense,” I said, reaching for his belt. “Let me help.”
Leo’s hand came to rest on top of my head, fingers threading through my hair in that possessive way he thought was affectionate. “You’re so good to me, Pam.”
I wasn’t good to him. I was using him. But he was too stupid and too arrogant to see it, which made him perfect.
I pulled his cock free and wrapped my fingers around the base. At least a blowjob was better than actual sex—less invasive, less vulnerable, less of myself given away. I could control the pace, control the angle, control when it ended. There was a kind of power in that, even if it came at the cost of having his dick in my mouth.
I took him in, letting my tongue work along the underside while my mind wandered to the code waiting on my screen. Three more hours. That’s all I needed. Three more hours to finish the final authentication bypass, and the ransomware would be ready to deploy. Leo thought we were launching it together next week, following his careful timeline, his risk assessments, his need to feel like the mastermind.
He had no idea I was going to activate it tonight; that I had decided I couldn’t risk him fucking it up, so I would move things ahead and make Leo feel like this was what he had planned all along.
His breathing quickened above me, and I increased the suction, hollowing my cheeks. Get him there faster. Get back to work.
“Fuck, Pam,” he groaned, his hips jerking slightly. “Just like that.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Men were so predictable. A few well-practiced movements and they thought you were a goddess. I kept working him, my hand moving in rhythm with my mouth, watching for the telltale signs—the tension in his thighs, the way his fingers tightened in my hair.
He came with a low grunt, and I grabbed the towel I’d strategically placed on his desk earlier, pulling back just in time and directing his semen into the terrycloth. At least he had the decency not to demand to be allowed to make a mess I’d have to deal with. He slumped back in his chair, eyes closed, that satisfied smirk on his face that made me want to punch him.
“Jesus,” he breathed. “You’re incredible.”
I wiped my mouth and stood, already turning back toward my workstation. “I know.”
“Come here.” His hand reached for me, but I was already moving away.
“Can’t. Need to finish the subnet routing before the security sweep at midnight.” I dropped back into my chair and pulled up the terminal window, my fingers flying across the keyboard. The authentication bypass was downright elegant in its simplicity—three nested functions that would give me root access to every Houseworks facility in the world. Selecta’s little experiment in dominating the domestic services sector would pay off big time—for me… and for Leo, I guessed, grudgingly. He’d footed the bill for my insane computer needs, after all.
Behind me, Leo was zipping up, post-orgasm contentment making him docile. Perfect. I had maybe twenty minutes before his brain started working again and he’d want to ‘collaborate’ on something, which really meant looking over my shoulder and suggesting idiotic changes.
“You work too hard,” he said, his voice lazy.
“Someone has to.” I kept my eyes on the screen, watching the progress bar creep forward as my script compiled. Seventy-three percent. “Besides, I thought you wanted this done right.”
“I do. I just—” His phone buzzed on the desk. He picked it up, and I heard him swipe to answer. “Hey, Marcus. Yeah, man, what’s up?”
My shoulders tensed, but I didn’t turn around. Marcus was one of Leo’s college buddies, another wannabe player who thought he was smarter than he was. Just keep it short, I thought. Just keep it short and hang up.
“Oh, you know,” Leo said, and I could hear the smile in his voice, that pride that came before the fall. “Just putting the finishing touches on something big. Really big.”
No. Don’t.
“Can’t say much, but let’s just say Houseworks is about to learn what happens when they—”
I spun in my chair. “Leo.”
He glanced at me, held up one finger. Wait. “Yeah, ransomware. Custom job. Pam’s a fucking genius with—”
I was out of my chair and crossing to him in three strides. “Hang up. Now.”
He frowned at me, covering the phone with his hand. “What the hell, Pam?”
“Hang. Up.” I kept my voice low, but there was steel in it. “Right fucking now.”
He stared at me for another second, then spoke into the phone. “Hey, Marcus, I gotta go. Yeah. Talk later.” He ended the call and tossed the phone onto the desk. “What’s your problem?”
My problem? My problem? I wanted to scream at him, to grab him by his expensive collar and shake him until his brain rattled. Instead, I forced myself to speak slowly, clearly, like I was explaining basic arithmetic to a child.
“Selecta owns the telecom infrastructure of the entire planet, Leo. They monitor everything. Voice calls, data packets, encrypted messages—all of it. And you just told your idiot friend, over an open line, that we’re about to launch a ransomware attack on one of their subsidiaries.”
The color drained from his face, but his jaw set in that stubborn way that meant he was about to double down on his stupidity. “Marcus wouldn’t—”
“It doesn’t matter what Marcus would or wouldn’t do. Selecta’s AI flags keywords automatically. Ransomware. Houseworks. Custom job. You might as well have filed a fucking incident report.”
“You’re being paranoid.” But his voice wavered. “They can’t monitor everything. There’s too much traffic—”
“They can and they do. That’s literally their business model. Jesus Christ, Leo, how did you think they built their empire? By respecting people’s privacy?”
He stood up, trying to reclaim some authority through height. “Look, even if they did catch it, which they didn’t, we’re fine. We’re careful. There’s no way to trace it back to—”
The door exploded inward.
[divider]
At least they separated Leo and me once they’d gotten us outside to where they had an entire squad of Selecta security goons—empowered by the Corporate Laws to act in a paramilitary capacity—waiting. They put Leo in one car and me in another, and thank God I never saw him again because I would probably have killed him, given the slightest opportunity.
At the time, though, it seemed like a troubling sign.
“Where are you taking me?” I demanded, when I noticed that the car with Leo in it had gone in a different direction from the one in which mine was headed.
One of the goons in the front seat turned to look at me through the metal grille that separated the driver’s seat from the passenger seat, where they had shoved me with my wrists cuffed behind my back. My shoulders already ached.
“Girls like you get special treatment,” he told me, with a leer that made my belly lurch. “Your friend is going to the regular courthouse. You’re on your way to Selecta court.”
I tried to keep my face blank, but my mind was racing through implications. Selecta court. I’d heard rumors about Selecta’s parallel legal system—everyone had. It wasn’t like regular criminal proceedings with public defenders and due process. Selecta handled their own justice for crimes against their interests, and they didn’t fuck around.
“What’s the difference?” I asked, hating how small my voice sounded.
The goon’s leer widened. “You’ll find out.”
The rest of the drive passed in silence. I watched the city lights blur past the tinted windows, trying to calculate angles, possibilities, escape routes. But with my hands cuffed and two armed officers in the front seat, my options were exactly zero.
We pulled up to a sleek corporate building that could have been any Selecta office complex. No signs indicating it was a courthouse. No press waiting outside. Just another anonymous tower in their empire.
They hauled me out of the car and marched me through a side entrance, down a corridor that smelled of industrial cleaner and some disturbing human element—fear, maybe, or despair. We stopped at a set of double doors, and one of the guards pressed his palm to a biometric scanner.
The doors slid open to reveal a courtroom that looked nothing like the ones I’d seen on screens. No jury box. No gallery for spectators. Just a raised platform with a single table and two chairs, one on either side—nothing like a proper judge’s bench. They shoved me into the chair closest to the door where I’d entered.
A woman in a dark suit entered from a side door. Mid-forties, perfectly coiffed blonde hair, the kind of face that suggested she’d never had a moment of doubt in her entire life. She sat down across from me without sparing me a single glance.
“Pamela Nelson,” she said, consulting a tablet. Not a question. “Conspiracy to commit corporate sabotage, attempted deployment of ransomware against Selecta infrastructure, violation of the Computer Crimes Act.” She looked up at me. “How do you plead?”
“I want a lawyer.”
“This is Selecta court, Ms. Nelson. Corporate criminal proceedings. You lost your right to outside legal counsel when you committed crimes against Selecta interests on Selecta-monitored communications infrastructure. How do you plead?”
My throat felt tight. “Not guilty.”
She smiled, thin and cold. “We have your search history, your code repository, your communications with black market contacts. We have biometric data from your arrest that suggests possible forms of rehabilitation for you.” Her eyes flicked down to the tablet. “We know for example that you probably performed fellatio a few minutes before your arrest.”
My face burned. “That’s an invasion of—”
“You’re in Selecta’s America, Ms. Nelson. Selecta is empowered by the Corporate Laws to dispose of you as we see fit. By definition, we don’t invade privacy, because you don’t have privacy when you break the law. We monitor our infrastructure for threats. You are a threat.” She set down the tablet. “I find you guilty on all counts. Sentencing is immediate. Non-Violent Offenders Program, assignment to be determined by Selecta assessors based on psychobiometric profile.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” I demanded, but she was already standing, already leaving through the side door.
The guards grabbed me before I could even process what had happened. No appeal. No defense. Just guilty, sentenced, done. They dragged me out of the courtroom and down another corridor, this one narrower, more institutional. The corporate veneer was gone now. These were the guts of the building, the parts they didn’t show in promotional materials.
We stopped at a door marked only with a number: 7. One of the guards pressed his palm to another scanner, and the door opened to reveal what looked like a medical examination room. Sterile white walls, bright overhead lights, a padded table in the center with stirrups at one end.
My stomach dropped.
“Strip,” the taller of the two guards said. Older and harder, too, with eyes that had seen this a thousand times before.
“No.”
“You can strip yourself or we can strip you. Your choice.”
I looked at the door, at the guards, at the examination table. Every cell in my body was screaming to fight, to run, but there was nowhere to go. My hands were still cuffed behind my back.
“Un-cuff me,” I said, hating how my voice shook.
The other guard moved behind me, and I heard the click of the cuffs releasing. My shoulders ached as I brought my arms forward, rubbing at the red marks on my wrists.
“Strip. Now.”
My fingers fumbled with the buttons of my shirt. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. I was Pam Nelson. I was the smartest person in any room. I didn’t end up on examination tables with fucking stirrups.
But my shirt came off anyway. Then my bra. My jeans. My underwear. Until I was standing naked under those harsh fluorescent lights, every instinct telling me to cover myself while knowing it was pointless.
“On the table. On your back.”
I climbed onto the padded surface, the vinyl cold against my bare skin. The taller guard moved to my right leg, lifting it and positioning it in the stirrup. Then the left. I felt the restraints close around my knees, heard the soft clink of buckles as he tightened the webbing.
I was spread open, exposed, completely vulnerable. Everything I’d spent my entire life avoiding.
“What are you doing?” My voice came out higher than I wanted. “What is this?”
[divider]Chapter Two
Pam
The guards didn’t answer. The taller one just moved to a cabinet on the wall and began pulling out equipment. Medical equipment. Sensors and shit. Things I couldn’t identify and didn’t want to.
The door opened again, and a man in a white coat entered. Doctor, I assumed, though he didn’t introduce himself. He didn’t even look at my face. His eyes went straight to my exposed privates, and he moved between my spread legs with the practiced efficiency of someone who’d done this too many times to count.
“Subject presents as physically healthy,” he said into a small recording device clipped to his coat. “Proceeding with sensor installation.”
“Sensor?” I tried to sit up, but the taller guard’s hand came down on my shoulder, pressing me back against the table.
“Standard procedure for Non-Violent Offenders,” the doctor said, still not looking at my face. He pulled on latex gloves with a snap that made me flinch. “Perineal biometric monitoring device. It’ll track your physiological responses during your rehabilitation.”
“My what? I didn’t agree to—”
“You lost the right to agree to just about anything when you were convicted.” He selected something from a tray I couldn’t see. “This will be uncomfortable, but not painful. Try to relax.”
Relax. He wanted me to relax while he installed some kind of fucking sensor between my legs. I felt his gloved fingers touch me, clinical and impersonal, and every muscle in my body locked up.
“I said relax,” he repeated, his tone irritated now. “You’re only making this harder on yourself.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to separate my mind from what was happening to my body. This wasn’t me. This was just meat on a table. Meat they were modifying for their purposes. I could survive this if I just—
The pressure came suddenly, a sharp intrusion that made me gasp. Not inside me, but right at that sensitive spot between my vagina and my anus. I felt something cold, then a brief burning sensation, then nothing.
“Installation complete,” the doctor said into his recorder, stepping back. He tapped something on a tablet he’d pulled from his coat pocket. To my surprise, he turned to me. “Pam, honey,” he said, as if he meant honey to sound reassuring somehow, “I’m going to calibrate the sensor now. I’m afraid you’re going to find this unpleasant, despite how your body responds—really, judging from your profile, because of how your body responds.”
Then he went back to the cabinet and retrieved something else. When he turned around, I saw what it was and my whole body went rigid.
A dildo. Clear silicone, about six inches long, clinical and impersonal like everything else in this nightmare.
“What the fuck are you—”
He didn’t answer. Just moved between my legs again and pressed the tip against the scantily furred opening to my vagina. I tried to clench, tried to keep him out, but my body betrayed me, and with a helpless sob I realized how wet I’d gotten when they’d restrained me. The intrusion came slowly, deliberately, and I hated how my flesh yielded to accommodate it.
“Stop,” I said, but my voice came out weak, pathetic. “Please stop.”
He pushed it deeper, watching his tablet the entire time. Not looking at me. Not looking at what he was doing to me. Just watching whatever data the sensor was feeding him.
“Interesting,” he murmured. He withdrew the dildo slightly, then pushed it back in. Out and in. A rhythm that made my face burn with humiliation. “Very interesting. Sensor is functional. Humidity and temperature are nicely elevated. We’ve got a baseline.”
I wanted to scream at him, to demand what was interesting, to assert some kind of control over this situation. But I was strapped to a table with my legs spread and a stranger fucking me with a piece of silicone while two guards watched, and there was no control left to assert.
He kept going for what felt like hours, but I knew was only a minute or two. The dildo moved in and out while he studied his screen, occasionally making small sounds of satisfaction. My body responded despite my mind’s desperate attempts to shut it all down—I felt more wetness, felt my muscles clenching around the intrusion, and I wanted to die. I bit my lip to keep the whimpers from escaping, until I tasted the metal of my blood.
Finally, he withdrew the dildo completely and set it aside. He picked up a small handheld device and pressed a button.
“Control, this is Dr. Mercer in Processing Seven. Convict Nelson shows optimal response patterns for Project Dollhouse. Recommend immediate transfer.” He paused, listening to whatever response came through. “Confirmed. Preparing for transport now.”
Project Dollhouse.
The words meant nothing to me, but they sounded ominous as hell.
The door opened and two more officers entered. These guys were different—bigger, more purpose-built. The kind of men who spent their lives moving bodies from one place to another.
“You can go ahead and release the restraints,” the doctor said. “She’s headed to her assignment.”
The taller guard from before moved to my legs, unbuckling the straps around my knees. The stirrups released and my legs dropped, muscles screaming from being held in that position. The guard grabbed my arm and hauled me upright.
This was it. My only chance. It didn’t matter in the moment that that chance represented no actual opportunity given where I was and that I was completely naked. I needed at the very least to show these assholes that I had no intention of complying with whatever the fuck Project Dollhouse represented.
The moment my feet hit the floor, I twisted away from his grip and lunged for the door. Made it maybe three steps before hands grabbed me from behind. The officer’s grip was iron around my arms, yanking me backward so hard I thought my shoulders would dislocate. I tried to wrench free, but there were too many of them and I was still naked and vulnerable and they were trained for this.
“No! Let me go!” I screamed, kicking out wildly. My foot connected with something solid, but it didn’t matter. They dragged me back to the center of the room like I weighed nothing.
The doctor had pulled a chair from against the wall, one of those standard office chairs with wheels. He sat down deliberately, adjusting his white coat, and looked up at the officers with an expression of mild annoyance.
“Bring her here,” he said.
I knew what was coming before they positioned me. Some animal part of my brain recognized the setup even as my conscious mind refused to accept it. They maneuvered me to his right side, and then strong hands were pushing me down, bending me forward over his lap.
“No! Don’t you fucking—”
My words cut off as I found myself draped over his thighs, my bare ass in the air, my face toward the floor. One of his hands pressed down on the small of my back, pinning me in place with surprising strength for someone who looked like an academic. I thrashed against his hold, trying to push myself up with my hands against his shin, but he just pressed down harder.
His other hand came down on my right cheek with a crack that echoed through the sterile room.
The pain was immediate and shocking. Not the worst pain I’d ever felt, but the humiliation of it—being spanked like a child, naked, over this stranger’s knee—made it a thousand times worse. I opened my mouth to scream at him, to curse, to say anything, but his hand came down again on my left cheek before I could form words.
And again. And again.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t count. Didn’t explain or lecture or give me any kind of framework to understand what was happening. Just methodically, rhythmically brought his palm down on my ass over and over while I struggled uselessly against his grip. Each impact sent a jolt of pain and shame through me. My skin burned. My eyes watered despite my desperate attempts to keep the tears back.
“Stop! Please!” I hated myself for begging but I couldn’t help it. The pain was building, layering, each new strike landing on already tender flesh.
He didn’t stop. His hand rose and fell with mechanical precision. My ass felt like it was on fire. I couldn’t stop the tears anymore—they ran down my face and dripped onto the floor beneath me. I couldn’t stop the small, choked sounds that escaped my throat with each impact.
How long it lasted, I couldn’t say. Time stretched and warped. Eventually my struggles weakened, not because I’d accepted it, but because my body simply couldn’t maintain that level of resistance. My ass throbbed with a deep, burning ache that I knew would turn into bruises.
Then, finally, his hand stilled. He kept me pinned there for another moment, his palm resting on my burning skin, and I realized I was sobbing—ugly, helpless sounds I couldn’t contain.
“Get her dressed,” he said, his voice perfectly calm, as if he’d just finished filling out paperwork.
The officers pulled me upright. My legs barely supported me. My ass felt like someone had held a blowtorch to it. I still hadn’t managed to stop crying. I couldn’t even catch my breath between sobs.
One of them left and returned with something white, made out of fabric. It took my blurred vision a moment to process what I was seeing.
A diaper. A fucking cloth diaper.
“No,” I managed, but my voice came out weak and broken. “No, you can’t—”
“If you want to behave like a child,” the doctor said, standing and brushing off his coat a little, “you’ll be treated like one.” He looked at me directly for the first time since the spanking, his cold blue eyes assessing. “And where you’re going, Pam, that’s exactly the treatment you’ll receive.”
The officers moved with intimidating precision. One held my arm while the other positioned the diaper, spreading my legs roughly so that he could thread the cloth underneath my privates. I tried to resist, tried to pull away, but my body was done fighting. The padding pressed against my burning ass and I whimpered at the contact. They pulled it up between my legs—thick and humiliating—and fastened it at my hips.
Then came the rubber pants, translucent and crinkly, pulled up over the diaper to seal it in place. The material made soft rustling sounds with every tiny movement.
“Arms up,” one of the officers commanded.
They dressed me in what looked like a prison uniform, but pink—bright, humiliating pink. The shirt was soft cotton with short sleeves, and the pants had an elastic waistband that accommodated the bulk of the diaper underneath. The outfit was clearly designed for this purpose. I wasn’t the first woman they’d done this to.
I wasn’t going to be the last, either, I felt certain. Fucking Selecta.
They marched me out of the examination room, each officer gripping one of my arms. My legs felt weak, unsteady. The diaper forced my thighs apart slightly, changing my gait, making me waddle. Every step sent the padding rubbing against my punished skin.
We went down another corridor, through a security door, and out into a loading bay where a black van waited. No windows in the back, just solid panels. The rear doors stood open.
Inside was a metal bench along one side with restraint points built into the wall above it. They guided me up the steps—I stumbled, and one of them caught me roughly—and pushed me down onto the bench. The padding of the diaper compressed beneath me and I couldn’t suppress a small sound of pain.
Straps came across my chest, my waist, my thighs—tight enough to keep me in place, but not quite tight enough to cut off circulation. I tested them reflexively, knowing it was useless but unable to stop myself. They didn’t budge.
One of the officers reached into a compartment near the door and pulled out a clear plastic bottle filled with water. He twisted off the cap and held it up in front of my face.
“Drink.”
I turned my face away. “I’m not thirsty.”
“Wasn’t a request.” His hand came up to grip my jaw, fingers digging into my cheeks hard enough to make me gasp. The moment my mouth opened, he pressed the bottle to my lips and tilted it up.
Water flooded my mouth. I tried to spit it out but he held my jaw closed, forcing me to swallow or choke. I swallowed, coughing and sputtering as he poured more in. The water went down the wrong way and I choked harder, my eyes streaming.
“Easy,” he said, without a trace of sympathy in his voice. “You need to drink the whole thing. We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”
He pulled the bottle back long enough for me to catch my breath, then brought it to my lips again. This time I drank, gulping down the water in desperate swallows just to get it over with. My stomach felt heavy and uncomfortable by the time the bottle was half empty, but he didn’t stop. He kept pouring, kept forcing me to swallow, until the last drops were gone.
“Good girl,” he said, and I wanted to spit in his face.
The officers climbed out of the van and slammed the doors shut, plunging me into near darkness. A moment later I heard the front doors open and close, felt the vehicle shift as they settled into their seats. The engine rumbled to life.
We started moving.
I couldn’t see anything. The back of the van was completely sealed off from the front—no window, no gap, nothing. I had no idea which direction we were heading, how far we’d traveled, where they were taking me. The van could have been driving in circles for all I knew.
The restraints held me firmly in place as we turned corners, as the van accelerated and braked. The diaper crinkled with every movement, a constant reminder of my humiliation. My ass still burned from the spanking. I couldn’t actually feel the sensor between my legs, but I kept thinking I could, like a foreign object, a violation I couldn’t escape.
Project Dollhouse. The words kept echoing in my mind. What the fuck was Project Dollhouse? Some kind of rehabilitation program? Punishment? Something worse?
I thought about Leo, probably sitting in a normal jail cell right now with access to a lawyer and due process and all the rights I’d just lost. Because I was female. Because Selecta’s fucking assessors had decided my ‘psychobiometric profile’ made me suitable for whatever nightmare waited at the end of this drive.
What the ever-loving fuck was going on?
[divider]Chapter Three
Pam
The drive probably lasted an hour. When the van finally stopped and the back doors opened, the sudden flood of fluorescent light made me squeeze my eyes shut. Hands grabbed my arms before I could even process where we were, and the officers began unbuckling the restraints.
They pulled me out into what looked like an underground parking garage—concrete floors, harsh lighting, numbered parking spaces. Nothing distinctive. Could have been anywhere in the city or the suburbs.
The horrid rubber pants crinkled loudly as they marched me toward an elevator. I tried to keep my legs together, tried to minimize the waddling gait the padding forced on me, but it was impossible. The officers didn’t seem to notice or care. We reached the elevator and one of them pressed the call button.
The ride up was silent except for the mechanical hum of the elevator and the soft rustling of the pants with each breath. I watched the numbers light up: B2, B1, G, 1, 2. We stopped at the second floor.
The doors opened onto a hallway that looked nothing like what I’d expected. Clean carpet, neutral walls, recessed lighting—it could have been any corporate office building. Photos of cityscapes were interspersed with doors marked only with numbers like 2A08. The cognitive dissonance made my head spin.
They walked me down the corridor, past several of the doors, until we reached one with a piece of paper taped to it. The paper had been printed from a standard office printer, nothing official about it. Just two words in Arial font: ‘Dollhouse Intake.’
One of the officers knocked twice, then opened the door without waiting for a response.
Inside was a room that looked like a conference space someone had repurposed. A folding table sat in the center with two men seated behind it. Both wore business casual—khakis and button-down shirts. The one on the left had salt-and-pepper hair, brown eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard. The one on the right was younger, dark hair streaked with premature silver, blue eyes and sharp angular features.
And in front of the table, facing them, was a chair. Not a normal chair. This one had restraint cuffs built into the arms and legs.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” the bearded man said, standing. His voice was calm, authoritative in a quiet way. “We’ll take it from here, once you’ve restrained Little Seventy-One here in the chair.”
The officers guided me to the chair and pushed me down into it. I tried to resist, but my body was exhausted, my ass still burning, and they were too strong. The cuffs closed around my wrists with decisive clicks. Then my ankles. I was trapped again.
The officers left without another word, closing the door behind them.
The bearded man settled back into his seat, folding his hands on the table. “Pamela Nelson. Convict Seventy-One—or, as you’ll learn to think of yourself, Little Seventy-One. Welcome to Project Dollhouse. My name is William Ogilvie, but you’ll call me Daddy Bill. This is Edward Jarndyce. You’ll call him Daddy Ed.”
“I’ll call you Go Fuck Yourself,” I said.
Ed leaned forward, his intense blue eyes fixed on me. “That’s six swats with the paddle, Little Seventy-One. We’ll administer them at our convenience, of course. Could be later today. Could be tomorrow. You’ll find out when it happens.”
I opened my mouth to tell him what he could do with his paddle, but something in his expression stopped me. Not anger. Not even irritation. Just a clinical detachment, like he was noting data points for later analysis.
Bill spoke again, his tone unchanged. “Project Dollhouse is a specialized rehabilitation program for female cybercriminals. We’ve found that traditional incarceration doesn’t address the underlying psychological patterns that drive young women like you to commit these crimes. Our approach is different.”
“Different,” I repeated flatly. “You mean fucked up.”
“We mean effective,” Ed said. “You’ve been assigned to two daddies. That’s us—you can think of us as your ‘handlers’ to start off with, if you want. But you’ll call us your daddies, if you want to sit comfortably. And by the time you’re rehabilitated, you will think of us that way too. We’re going to oversee that rehabilitation. You’ll live in a controlled environment where you’ll learn submission, obedience, and appropriate behavior. You’ll also continue to develop your technical skills, which Selecta will utilize for our own purposes.”
Bill nodded. “Think of it as reprogramming. You’ve spent years operating outside societal structures, rejecting authority, using your intelligence as a weapon against ordinary folks’ peaceful lives. We’re going to teach you a different way.”
I stared at them, waiting for the threats, the yelling, the violence. But they just sat there, watching me with that same patient calm. It was unsettling in a way I couldn’t quite articulate.
“The program has three phases,” Ed continued, pulling a tablet toward him and glancing at it. “Training, service, and integration. You’re currently in phase one. The diaper you’re wearing isn’t just punishment—it’s a lesson. We’re teaching your body and mind that you need to think again about how to be a grownup in a complicated world. Also, just as important, you’re going to learn that you don’t have control anymore. Your daddies do.”
My bladder chose that moment to make itself known. A small twinge, nothing urgent yet, but present. I shifted slightly in the chair and immediately regretted it as the movement pressed the diaper padding against my still-burning ass.
Bill’s eyes flicked down to where I’d moved, then back to my face. He didn’t comment.
“During phase one,” he said, “you’ll learn basic obedience protocols. How to address your daddies. How to ask for things you need. How to accept correction without resistance. How to receive what your daddies give you gratefully, especially when what we give you is our hard cocks in your little body.” He paused. “It’s the most difficult phase for girls like you. You’re used to being the smartest person in the room and to being able to tell a man no. You’re used to manipulating others to get what you want. That won’t work here.”
The pressure in my bladder increased slightly. I ignored it.
Ed tapped something on his tablet. “Your psychological profile is fascinating, actually. High intelligence, obvious. But also significant trust issues, fear of vulnerability, use of sexuality as a manipulation tool rather than genuine intimacy. The sensor data from your processing confirms what we suspected—you respond physiologically to submission even as your conscious mind rejects it. The fight between your psychology and your physiology is going to be—”
“Do you need to use the bathroom, Little Seventy-One?” Bill interrupted, his eyes still on my face.
The question hit me like a slap. My face burned instantly. I hadn’t realized how obvious my discomfort had become, how much I’d been shifting in the chair. The mortification of having these men—these strangers who wanted me to call them Daddy—notice my bodily needs made me want to sink through the floor.
But my bladder was getting insistent now, the pressure building. I swallowed my pride.
“Yes,” I said quietly. “I need to pee.”
Bill nodded, his expression unchanged. “Go ahead.”
I stared at him, not understanding at first. Go ahead? But I was restrained in a chair. How was I supposed to—
Then it clicked. The diaper. He wanted me to piss myself. To sit here in front of them and wet myself like a fucking toddler.
“Go fuck yourself,” I said, my voice shaking with rage and humiliation.
Ed made a note on his tablet without looking up. “That’s twelve swats now. You’re accumulating quite a debt, Little Seventy-One.”
“I don’t care about your fucking paddle,” I spat. “I’m not going to—”
“You will,” Bill said calmly. “Eventually. The question is whether you do it now, while you still have some control over the timing, or whether you wait until your body makes the choice for you. Either way, you’re going to wet that diaper. We made sure you drank enough water in the van.”
Ed looked up from his tablet. “Now, as I was saying about the technical details of the project. The infrastructure we’ve built is actually quite elegant. We’ve designed a series of honeypot servers that mimic vulnerable infrastructure—financial institutions, healthcare systems, government databases. When cybercriminals attempt to breach them, they think they’re exploiting standard vulnerabilities. What they don’t realize is that every successful ‘breach’ actually installs a custom rootkit on their own machines.”
Despite everything—despite the diaper, the restraints, the burning humiliation—I felt my attention snag on his words. Honeypot servers. Rootkits. This was actual technical work, not just punishment and degradation.
“The genius of it,” Ed continued, warming to his subject in a way that reminded me uncomfortably of myself when I got into the zone, “is that we’re using their own confidence against them. They think they’ve found a zero-day exploit. They think they’re the smartest person in the room. Meanwhile, we’re mapping their entire network, cataloging their tools, identifying their associates.”
My bladder cramped. I squeezed my thighs together as much as the restraints allowed, but it only made the pressure worse. The rubber pants crinkled loudly with the movement.
Bill’s eyes flicked to me again, but he didn’t interrupt Ed.
“The challenge,” Ed said, pulling up something on his tablet and turning it so I could see—actual code, clean and elegant—“is making the honeypots convincing enough. Too secure and they’ll get discouraged. Too vulnerable and they’ll suspect it’s a trap or a teaching exercise or a researcher’s toy. We need that sweet spot where it looks like someone competent but not brilliant set up the security.”
I leaned forward slightly, trying to read the code on his screen. It was good work. Really good. The authentication bypass looked almost legitimate, just sloppy enough to be believable, but not so sloppy that it screamed trap.
“The other issue,” Ed continued, “is the payload delivery mechanism. We can’t just dump a massive rootkit onto their system in one go. They’d catch it immediately. So we’ve developed a staged approach where—”
Another cramp hit my bladder, stronger this time. I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood again, trying to focus on Ed’s words, trying to ignore the desperate need building in my body.
“—initial contact installs just a tiny bootstrap,” Ed was saying. “Barely two kilobytes. Then over the course of days or even weeks, it pulls down additional modules disguised as normal network traffic. By the time they have the full payload, if they even notice it, we’ve already extracted everything we need.”
“That’s where you come in,” Bill said, his calm voice cutting through Ed’s technical enthusiasm. “You’re going to help us build these traps. You understand how hackers think because you are one. You know what would fool you.”
I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, trying to will away the pressure. But my bladder was beyond insistent now. It was screaming. Every breath made it worse. Every tiny shift in the chair sent another wave of urgency through me.
And then, underneath the desperate need to pee, I felt something else. Something that made everything infinitely worse.
Heat. Not just in my face, but lower. Between my legs. A warmth that had nothing to do with the diaper or the rubber pants or the humiliation of sitting here listening to these men explain how they were going to use me, but had somehow come from all of it.
No. No, no, no.
But my body didn’t care what my mind wanted. The squirming, the pressure, the helplessness of being restrained while my bladder screamed for release—it was doing something to me. Something I’d spent my whole life denying, something the sensor between my legs was probably recording right now for these bastards to analyze.
I was getting aroused.
The realization hit me so hard I felt dizzy for a moment. This was it. This was the most shameful thing I’d ever felt. Much worse than sucking Leo’s cock to keep him distracted. Worse than being stripped and examined and spanked. I was trapped in a chair, wearing a fucking diaper, about to piss myself, and my traitorous body was responding like this was some kind of turn-on.
And God help me, recognizing the shame only made the arousal stronger. Some feedback loop I couldn’t break, couldn’t escape. The more mortified I felt, the more my body heated. The sensor would be recording all of it. They would know. They probably already knew.
“You’ll be much more comfortable once you’ve filled your diaper,” Bill said, and there was something in his voice now—a sort of knowingness that seemed to increase the humiliation tenfold. Like he could see exactly what was happening to me.
The words broke something inside me. The last thread of resistance snapped.
With a sob that I couldn’t contain, I let go.
The sound of my pee hitting the diaper filled the silence of the room—a soft hissing that seemed impossibly loud. I felt the warmth spread through the padding, soaking into the cloth, held in place by the rubber pants. The relief was immediate and overwhelming, my bladder finally releasing the pressure that had been building.
But the relief came wrapped in such profound humiliation that I couldn’t separate one from the other. I was peeing myself. In front of these men. In a diaper. Like a fucking infant.
And I was still aroused. The warmth between my legs wasn’t just from the urine now. My face burned so hot I thought I might combust.
Through my tears, I saw Bill and Ed exchange a glance. Not surprised. Not disgusted. Just… satisfied. Like they’d been waiting for exactly this moment, like I’d just confirmed something they’d already known.
The hissing finally stopped. The diaper was heavy now, warm and wet against my skin. The padding pressed against my punished ass and I whimpered at the contact.
“Good girl,” Bill said softly. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
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