Chapter 2
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?