Chapter 3
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?”