Chapter 9
Pam
After my daddies had closed and locked the door behind them, I lay there in the darkness, my arms stretched above my head, the vibrator pulsing relentlessly against my clit. The chain clinked softly as I tested it again, already knowing it was useless. I wasn’t going anywhere.
The room was quiet except for my ragged breathing and the faint hum of the device firmly installed inside my diaper. The sound seemed impossibly loud in the silence.
I tried to focus on anything else—the softness, almost too much, of the mattress beneath me…
the weight of the duvet… the way the pink walls seemed to glow slightly in the dim light filtering under the door.
But my mind kept circling back to the sensations between my legs.
The vibrator cycled through its pattern—stronger, then softer, then stronger again—keeping me hovering in that agonizing space just before release.
My hips rocked involuntarily, seeking more pressure, more friction. The diaper followed each movement, the padding shifting against my newly bare pussy. The smooth skin felt hypersensitive, every brush of fabric sending sparks through my nervous system.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to think about code, about algorithms, about anything technical and cerebral that might distract me from the relentless arousal building in my core. But my brain refused to cooperate. Instead, sense memories and fantasized images flooded my mind.
Daddy Ed’s fingers inside me on the spanking bench: I could watch them penetrate me as if I had witnessed it rather than experienced it.
Daddy Bill’s cock in my mouth. To my distress I seemed to see it from my daddy’s perspective as he enjoyed himself, holding my head still and thrusting relentlessly in and out.
The way they’d used my body like it was their personal property, temporarily on loan to me.
And underneath it all, the terrible knowledge that my body had responded. That I’d come harder than I ever had in my life while they degraded me, while they called me their good little girl and made me call them Daddy.
The vibrator pulsed stronger for a moment and I gasped, my back arching. So close. I was so fucking close. My wrists strained against the cuffs as I tried to reach down, to adjust the angle, to do anything to push myself over that edge. But the chain held firm.
“Please,” I whispered to the empty room. “Please, I can’t—”
But I could. That was the horrible truth. I could take it. My body would keep hovering here, desperate and aching, until exhaustion finally pulled me under. And tomorrow I’d wake up still wanting, still needing, exactly like they’d planned.
I thought about the other girls I’d met at dinner.
Sixty-Eight, who’d been here three months.
Fifty-Three, who’d been here eight. Had they gone through this same torture their first night?
Had they lain here in the dark, restrained and desperate, learning that their pleasure belonged to their daddies now?
The image of Fifty-Three’s sharp features flashed through my mind again, and with it came Daddy Ed’s words. You’re going to be such a good little pussy-licker for Fifty-Three.
A fresh wave of heat rolled through me, and I couldn’t tell if it was shame or arousal or some sick combination of both. Tomorrow morning. Special duty. The newest girl serves the Trusty in whatever way she requires.
I’d never been with a woman. Had never even thought about it seriously. In my world, sex had always been a tool—something I used to manipulate men like Leo, to keep them distracted and compliant. I’d been in control, or at least I’d told myself I was.
But this would be different. I wouldn’t be using my mouth to gain leverage or information.
I’d be doing it because I was ordered to.
Because I was the lowest in the hierarchy here.
Because Fifty-Three was the Trusty and I was just Little Seventy-One, the newest bad girl who needed to learn her place.
The vibrator pulsed stronger again and I bit my lip to keep from crying out.
My pussy clenched around nothing, desperately empty despite the relentless stimulation against my clit.
I wanted to be filled again. Wanted Daddy Ed’s cock stretching me, or even just his fingers.
The plug had felt wrong at first, but now I missed the fullness of it, the way it had made me feel claimed.
God, what was happening to me? It had been less than a day and already I was thinking about their cocks like I had some basic need for them. Like being fucked by my daddies was something I should be grateful for.
But I was grateful, wasn’t I? Some twisted part of me had loved being bent over that spanking bench, loved the way they’d toyed with every hole and filled two of them with cock, promising to do the same to the third.
I had loved calling them Daddy while they hurt me and filled me and made me understand exactly what I was now.
I tugged at the restraints again, harder this time, feeling the cuffs bite into my wrists.
The sharp sensation helped ground me, pulled me back from the edge of the dark fantasies spiraling through my mind.
I wasn’t grateful. I was being conditioned.
Broken down systematically through pain and pleasure until I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
I could almost feel the sensor between my legs recording all of it—every spike of arousal, every attempt to resist, every moment my body betrayed my mind.
Someone would analyze the data tomorrow, if they weren’t already watching me with some kind of infrared camera.
They would use it to refine their approach, to find new ways to make me submit.
I should have been terrified. Should have been planning my escape, looking for weaknesses in their system, doing what I’d always done—staying three steps ahead of everyone else.
Instead, I lay here with my legs spread, rocking my hips against a vibrator, thinking about what Fifty-Three’s pussy would taste like.
The thought sent a shudder through me. Would she be gentle? Would she guide me through it, teach me what to do? Or would she just use my mouth the way my daddies had, taking what she wanted while I struggled to breathe?
Would my daddies watch? The idea made my stomach clench. Of course they would watch. That’s what Daddy Ed had said. You’re going to make her come with that pretty mouth while we watch.
I imagined Daddy Bill and Daddy Ed standing over us, their cocks already hard, stroking themselves while they observed their newest acquisition learning to please another woman.
Would they fuck me afterward? Would they bend me over and use my pussy as a reward for being a good girl?
Or would they make me wait, keep me desperate and aching until I begged?
Bad girls only get fucked with a very sore bottom.
The vibrator cycled to its strongest setting and I gasped, my whole body tensing. So close. Right there. Just a little more—
The awful device dropped back to the gentle pulse, leaving me whimpering with frustration. My eyes burned with tears. This was torture. Actual, deliberate torture designed to break me down, to make me so desperate for release that I’d do anything they asked.
And it was working.
I lost track of how long I lay there, cycling through arousal and shame and exhaustion.
The vibrator never stopped, never gave me enough to finish, but never let me come down from that horrible plateau.
My thoughts grew hazy, disconnected. I drifted in and out of something that wasn’t quite sleep, my mind serving up fractured images.
Daddy Bill’s cock sliding between my lips.
Daddy Ed’s fingers inside me, finding places that made me scream.
The paddle coming down again and again while I counted and called them Daddy.
Fifty-Three’s face between my thighs instead of my face between hers, her tongue doing things that made me—
I jerked awake, disoriented. Had I actually fallen asleep? The vibrator was still going, still pulsing against my oversensitive clit. My inner thighs felt sticky with arousal that had nowhere to go. The diaper was probably soaked with it.
The thought made me whimper. They’d check it in the morning. Would probably make me stand there while they unfastened it, while they inspected how wet I’d gotten, while they commented on my body’s responses like I was a lab experiment.
Which I was, wasn’t I? That’s exactly what Project Dollhouse was—a sophisticated experiment in breaking down women like me and rebuilding us into whatever Selecta wanted. Obedient assets who could code during the day and spread our legs at night.
The worst part was its effectiveness. Less than twenty-four hours and I could already feel myself changing, feel my resistance crumbling under the relentless assault of pain and pleasure and degradation.
I’d always prided myself on being smarter than everyone else, on staying in control. But what good was intelligence when your body kept betraying you? When every attempt to resist just made the arousal stronger?
The vibrator pulsed harder and I moaned, my hips lifting off the mattress despite my exhaustion.
My wrists strained against the cuffs as my back arched.
Please, I thought desperately. Please just let me come.
I’ll do anything. I’ll be good. I’ll call you Daddy and eat Fifty-Three’s pussy and let you fuck me whenever you want. Just please—
But there was no one to hear me beg. Only the empty room and the relentless device between my legs and the chain that kept me exactly where my daddies wanted me.
Eventually, somehow, exhaustion must have won. I drifted into fitful dreams where hands touched me everywhere, where cocks filled every hole, where I knelt between spread thighs and tasted things I’d never tasted before while voices praised me for being such a good bad girl.
I woke to harsh fluorescent lights and the sound of the door opening. My body ached everywhere—shoulders from being restrained all night, ass from the paddling, pussy from the relentless vibration that had finally, mercifully, stopped at some point while I’d been unconscious.
“Rise and shine, ladies.”
The voice was deep, unfamiliar. Not Daddy Bill or Daddy Ed.
I blinked against the brightness, trying to focus on the figure in the doorway.
A tall black man in a crisp uniform stood there, his expression neutral and professional.
He had a shaved head and a neatly trimmed goatee, and his presence filled the small room in a way that made my stomach clench.
“I’m Mr. Jenkins,” he said, moving to the side of my bed. His eyes flicked over me—restrained, diapered, clearly disheveled—without a hint of reaction. “I’ll be supervising morning routines today.”
He reached up and unlocked the cuffs around my wrists. The relief was immediate as my arms came down, but the ache in my shoulders intensified as blood flow returned to normal. I bit my lip to keep from whimpering.
“Up,” he said, not unkindly but with firm authority. “Line up in the hallway with the other girls. You have two minutes.”
He left without waiting for a response, the door remaining open behind him. I heard similar sounds from other rooms—doors opening, that same deep voice giving the same instructions.
I pushed myself upright, every movement sending protests through my abused body.
The diaper was heavy between my legs, soaked with more than just the arousal that had leaked from me all night.
At some point while I’d been half-asleep, my bladder had released into the padding.
The realization made my face burn with fresh shame.
I stumbled to the doorway and saw the other girls emerging from their rooms. Sixty-Eight looked as exhausted as I felt, her eyes red-rimmed.
Seventy moved with the careful stiffness of someone whose ass had been recently paddled.
Sixty-Two—the girl I’d glimpsed in the hallway yesterday—had the glazed expression of someone still half-asleep.
And then there was Fifty-Three. Emily. She looked completely put together despite the early hour, her sharp features alert and assessing. Her eyes found mine and something flickered in her expression—anticipation, maybe, or hunger.
“Line up,” Mr. Jenkins said, gesturing to the wall. “Hands at your sides, eyes forward.”
We arranged ourselves in a row. I ended up between Seventy and Sixty-Two, acutely aware of how my wet diaper sagged compared to their dry ones. Mr. Jenkins walked down the line slowly, inspecting each of us with that same neutral expression.
When he reached me, he paused. “Wet diaper, Seventy-One?”
I looked at the floor, my face burning.
“The answer you’re looking for is Yes, Sir,” Mr. Jenkins told me, his voice sharpening slightly.
“Yes, Sir,” I whispered.
“Well, the good news is you’re headed for the showers. The bad news is that you’ll wash your diaper by hand in the sink before you join the other bad girls in the shower room. Remember to clean that little cooch thoroughly, too.”