Chapter 4
Bill
Pam looked at Ed and me with tear-bright eyes that showed the very special kind of physical and emotional anguish that only a girl’s first submissive epiphany could bring on.
I watched her process what had just happened—the loss of control, the involuntary surrender, the way her body had betrayed her most fundamental understanding of herself.
Little Seventy-One was brilliant enough to recognize the significance of the moment, which only made it worse for her—and, of course, better in the long run.
The sooner she got to work on figuring out what she really needed, the better for her prospects both at Project Dollhouse and after she’d paid her debt to society and Selecta.
“Ed,” I said quietly, “pull up the sensor data from the last ten minutes.”
He tapped his tablet and turned it so I could see the graph. The readings were unmistakable—arousal levels had spiked dramatically during the final minute before she’d wet herself, then surged even higher during the act itself. The correlation was perfect.
“Look at that,” Ed murmured, his analytical mind clearly appreciating the data. “Textbook response. The humiliation triggers arousal, which creates shame, which loops back into more arousal.”
I nodded, filing away the information. Pam’s psychological profile had suggested this pattern, but seeing it confirmed in real-time was valuable. She was exactly the kind of girl who needed what we offered—whether she understood that yet or not.
“Please,” Pam whispered, her voice breaking. “Please let me out of this thing.”
I stood and moved around the table, approaching her chair. She flinched as I got close, but the restraints held her in place. I crouched beside her so our eyes were level.
“Little Seventy-One,” I said gently, “you’re going to stay in that wet diaper for a little while. You need to understand what it means to lose control. What it means to be cared for by your daddies.”
“I don’t want to be cared for,” she said, but the words came out weak, unconvincing even to herself.
“What you want and what you need are two different things.” I reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face.
She jerked her head away from my touch. “You’ve spent your whole life using your intelligence to avoid vulnerability.
To keep everyone at arm’s length. To never let anyone see the real Pam. ”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know what my assessors told me. I know what the sensor’s telling me right now. And I know what I see in front of me—a brilliant, terrified young woman who’s never learned how to trust anyone.” I stood. “We’re going to teach you. Whether you fight us every step of the way or not.”
Ed closed his tablet and stood as well. “Time for the tour, I think. Let her see what her new life looks like.” He turned to Pam. “And then we’ll see to the lesson you earned.”
Pam
Bill and Ed made their way around the table, and I looked up at them, trying to project defiance but undoubtedly just displaying the awful mixture of fear, humiliation, and treasonous arousal that coursed through my body.
Bill reached down and unbuckled the restraints around my ankles first, then moved to my wrists.
The moment the cuffs released, I wanted to bolt—every instinct screamed at me to run—but where would I go?
I was wearing a wet diaper and rubber pants and a pink prison uniform in what was clearly a secured facility.
Ed gestured toward the door. “Stand up, Little Seventy-One.”
I pushed myself out of the chair on shaking legs.
The diaper sagged heavily between my thighs, the wet padding cold now against my skin.
The rubber pants made a humiliating noise with every tiny movement.
I did everything I could to keep from waddling, but my efforts only made me more conscious of the wetness in the diaper.
“This way,” Bill said, opening the door and stepping into the hallway.
I had no choice but to follow, Ed close behind me.
Each step sent the sodden diaper shifting against my punished ass and I couldn’t suppress small whimpers of discomfort.
The wet cloth rubbed against the sensitive places between my legs with every movement, refusing to let me push away, in my mind, the monitoring and the complete loss of privacy.
We walked past several doors marked with letters and numbers that meant nothing to me.
Other doors had windows, and through one I glimpsed what looked like a server room—racks of equipment, the familiar glow of status lights.
My hacker brain catalogued it automatically even as the rest of me focused on the mortifying squelch of the diaper with each waddle.
Bill stopped at an unmarked door and pressed his palm to a biometric scanner. The lock clicked and he pushed it open, revealing a stairwell.
“Third floor,” he said.
I climbed the stairs slowly, gripping the railing. The diaper chafed. My ass burned. Behind me, Ed’s footsteps were steady and patient, like he had all the time in the world to watch me struggle.
The third floor hallway looked different from the second.
The corporate aesthetic was gone, replaced by something that made my stomach clench with fresh dread.
The walls were painted in soft pastels—pale pink, lavender, mint green.
Childish murals decorated the space between doors—cartoon animals, rainbows, flowers.
“Welcome to Project Dollhouse,” Bill said. “This is the residential floor.”
He led the way down the hallway, and despite everything—the wet diaper, the burning humiliation, the treacherous arousal—my mind couldn’t help cataloguing details. Six doors on each side. Security cameras in the corners. The carpet was thick and soft, designed to muffle sound.
Bill stopped at the first door on the right and opened it. “This is your room.”
I peered inside, my stomach dropping. The space was decorated like a little girl’s room with sinister features that made my tummy lurch.
A little bed had a duvet in a pink ruffled cover, but it also had a chain, with pink cuffs at one end, attached at the other to a sturdy-looking anchor in the wall.
Stuffed animals lined shelves. The walls were painted a soft pink that brought a crease to my forehead.
“Each bad girl has her own room,” Ed said from behind me. “You’ll spend your nights here when you’re not with your daddies.”
The casual way he said it—when you’re not with your daddies—made my skin crawl.
“The Workshop is down the hall,” Bill continued, moving on. We arrived at a window that looked into a big room, full of computer equipment. “This is where you’ll do your technical work. We’ve got processors that would make most government agencies jealous.”
Through a window I saw what was clearly a state-of-the-art computer lab. Multiple workstations, server racks, the kind of setup I’d dreamed about when I was running operations from Leo’s shitty apartment. Under different circumstances, I might have felt excited.
“And here,” Bill said, stopping at a door near the end of the hall, “is the Correction Room.”
He opened the door, and I felt my bladder clench even though it was already empty.
The room beyond was clinical and purposeful.
Something that could only be a spanking bench sat in the center—leather-padded, with restraint points at strategic locations.
Paddles and straps hung on one wall in neat rows, organized by size and severity.
A cabinet stood against the far wall, and I didn’t want to know what it contained.
“Go ahead in,” Ed said from behind me. “And take off your uniform. It’s time.”
I spun around, my hands clutched in front of me in tiny, useless fists.
“Time for… for what?” I demanded, somehow pretending even to myself that I didn’t know.
I didn’t get an answer. Bill’s hand closed around my upper arm while Ed grabbed the other, and they hauled me forward into the Correction Room. My feet scrambled for purchase on the carpet as panic flooded through me.
“Wait! Bill… Ed…” The words tumbled out in a rush. “I’m interested in the project… I want to do it… can’t we just… you know, do it like—”
“Like what?” Bill asked, his voice maddeningly calm as they positioned me next to the bench. “Like you’re in control? Like you get to negotiate the terms?”
“Strip her,” Ed said.
Their hands were on me before I could react.
Bill grabbed the hem of my pink shirt and pulled it up over my head while Ed worked the elastic waistband of my pants down over the bulky diaper.
I tried to twist away, but their grips were iron, practiced, and within seconds I was standing in just the wet diaper and rubber pants.
“No, please—” I begged, but Ed was already peeling down the rubber pants, the wet diaper sagging as he exposed it.
The cold air hit my legs and I felt fresh humiliation wash over me as they removed the sodden padding, leaving me completely naked except for the sensor I couldn’t feel but knew was there, recording everything.
They maneuvered me to the bench with ruthless efficiency.
Bill pushed me forward and down, bending me over the padded leather surface.
My breasts pressed against the cool material as my arms were pulled back behind me, wrists crossed and secured with leather cuffs that clicked into place with terrifying finality.
A wide belt came across my waist, cinching tight and anchoring me to the bench.
Then Ed was at my legs, spreading them wider than felt natural, fastening cuffs just above my knees that forced my thighs apart and my backside up and vulnerable.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t protect myself.
Couldn’t do anything but lie there with my punished ass in the air and my legs spread and my face pressed against leather that smelled of cleaning solution and some older scent that could only have been left behind by all the other women who’d been strapped to this bench before me.