Chapter 10
Bill
Via the panoply of monitors—both video and purely data-based—in the second floor control room I watched the feeds from the residential floor closely.
Reggie Jenkins always conducted a snappy, educative morning inspection, wisely letting his sheer physical presence do a good deal of the work of rehabilitating our bad girls.
Georgia Winters, PhD, one of the assessors assigned to Project Dollhouse, sat beside me at the long counter, her attention fixed on the display that showed the aggregate biometric data streaming from each girl’s sensor.
The imaging screens showed multiple angles of the hallway where our five bad girls stood in their line.
“Seventy-One’s your new girl, right? Pam Nelson?” Georgia murmured. “Her readings are fascinating.”
I watched as she tapped through the overnight data.
“Look at these arousal spikes. She was riding the edge for nearly four hours before exhaustion finally took over.”
I leaned closer to examine the graphs. The sensor had of course captured everything—every attempt to resist the vibrator’s effects, every moment her body had surrendered despite her mind’s protests, the exact timestamp when she’d finally wet her diaper in her sleep.
Beautiful data that confirmed what Ed and I had suspected during her intake assessment.
“She’s more responsive than most,” I observed, watching the live feed as Pam’s face burned with shame when Reggie noted her wet diaper. “Am I reading this line right? Those skin galvanics look like there’s a very deep conflict, no?”
“True,” Georgia confirmed. “And her cortisol levels stayed elevated all night,” Georgia added, scrolling through more data.
“High stress, but not dangerously so. And look here—” She highlighted a section of the graph.
“Even in her sleep, the arousal patterns continued. She’s got a real battle going on in her body—exactly the profile we want to see. ”
On the screen, I watched Reggie direct Pam toward the bathroom.
She moved with the distinctive waddle the wet diaper forced on her, her shoulders hunched forward in a futile attempt to make herself smaller.
The other girls followed behind, and I noticed how Fifty-Three—Emily—kept her eyes on our newest acquisition.
“Emily’s going to enjoy introducing Pam to special duty this morning,” I said, allowing myself a slight smile.
Georgia nodded. “She’s definitely ready to do her part.”
I pulled up Emily’s file on my own tablet, reviewing her progress.
Eight months in the program, and she’d transformed from a defiant hacker who’d nearly crashed a major financial institution into one of our most reliable assets.
Her technical work in the Workshop was exceptional, but more important, she’d fully embraced her role in the hierarchy.
“She’s probably the best Trusty we’ve had,” I agreed. “Her work with Shaniqua has been perfect.” Shaniqua—Little Seventy—had been the first bad girl from whom Emily had commanded the special duty that Pam would have to provide in a few minutes.
Becoming the Trusty involved understanding the value of dominance and submission.
Experiencing both sides taught a bad girl empathy and control.
Emily had needed to learn submission first. Now she had learned how to wield authority responsibly.
Not every bad girl was suited to the role; most of them went to their new owners without spending any time as the Trusty.
For her part, Pam needed to learn that submission wasn’t just about her daddies.
It was about accepting her place in the entire structure of Project Dollhouse as well as of society.
I wasn’t sure yet whether Pam would make a good Trusty, but I suspected she might.
The first few days would tell us a great deal about our new girl’s potential on several fronts.
I switched the view to the bathroom camera, watching as Reggie directed Pam to the sink.
Her hands trembled as she unfastened the wet diaper and pulled the little vibrator out of its pocket.
Her forehead creased as she placed the device on the counter, and I saw tears tracking down her cheeks as she ran water over the thick, sopping cloth.
The humiliation was etched into every line of her body.
“Thanks, Georgia,” I said. “I’d better get up there for the daddies’ meeting.”
Pam
“You can leave the vibrator next to the sink,” Mr. Jenkins told me. “The diaper goes in the laundry bin over there.”
I wrung out the diaper as best I could, my hands shaking, before carrying it to the bin Mr. Jenkins had indicated. The wet cloth felt heavy and shameful in my grip. When I dropped it in, the soft thud seemed to echo in the tiled space.
“You can join the others in the showers,” the enormous guard instructed. “Be sure you get yourself nice and clean.”
Behind me, I could hear the sounds coming from the shower room: multiple showerheads gushing with water. I heard the voices of the other girls echoing off the tile. My stomach clenched with dread. I was about to walk in there naked, to expose myself to their scrutiny and judgment.
But I didn’t have a choice, did I?
I turned toward the shower room. Mr. Jenkins stood next to the tiled entrance, his expression still neutral and professional.
“Go on,” he said.
I walked past him into the large communal space with six showerheads mounted along the walls. Steam already filled the air, warm and thick. The other four girls were spread out under different showers, water cascading over their naked bodies. They all turned to look at me as I entered.
Fifty-Three’s eyes locked onto mine immediately, and I saw something predatory flash across her sharp features.
She stood under the farthest showerhead, water streaming over her blonde hair and down her curvaceous body.
Without the uniform, she looked even more intimidating—confident and comfortable in her nudity in a way I felt like I could never be.
“Well, well,” she said, her voice carrying easily over the sound of the water. “Here she is.”
The other girls giggled nervously. I stood frozen just over the threshold, my arms instinctively crossing over my breasts.
“Hands at your sides, Seventy-One,” Mr. Jenkins called from behind me.
My arms dropped. Fifty-Three’s smile widened.
“Come here,” she commanded, her tone taking on an authority that made my stomach drop.
I walked toward her on shaking legs, acutely aware of every eye on my body. The warm spray from the nearest showerhead caught me as I passed under it, making me flinch.
“Closer,” the other girl said.
I stopped directly in front of her, close enough that the water from her shower splashed onto my skin. She reached out and ran her fingers through my wet hair, her touch surprisingly gentle.
“You’re very pretty, Seventy-One,” she murmured. “I can see why your daddies are excited about you.”
Her hand trailed down from my hair to my cheek, then lower, brushing over my breasts and then my belly.
To my dismay, she turned her hand over as she dropped it further.
Her fingertips, curling slightly upward, found the cleft of my shaven pussy.
Her gaze, which had stayed fixed on my face, flicked downward then returned.
“Go wash this little cunt,” she told me. “I want to see you get yourself clean. Then I’ll teach you about special duty.”
I turned away from her on shaking legs, feeling the weight of all their eyes on my naked body.
The nearest unoccupied showerhead was next to where Sixty-Eight stood, and I walked toward it with my heart hammering in my chest. The water hit me with blessed warmth as I stepped under the spray, and I closed my eyes for just a moment, wishing I could disappear into the steam.
“Eyes open, Seventy-One,” Fifty-Three called out. “It’s time to clean yourself. The soap is right there.”
I forced my eyes open and reached for the dispenser mounted on the wall. My hands trembled as I pumped the liquid into my palm. The scent was generic, institutional—nothing like the expensive products I’d used before my arrest. Before my life had become this nightmare.
I started with my arms and shoulders, working the soap into a lather, trying to ignore the audience. But I couldn’t. I felt their gazes like physical touches, examining every inch of me.
“Lower,” Fifty-Three instructed. “We want to see you wash that pretty little cunt your daddies shaved for you.”
My face burned as I moved my soapy hands down my stomach.
When my fingers reached the bare mound between my legs, I couldn’t suppress a gasp.
The sensitivity was overwhelming—every nerve ending felt electric.
The soap stung slightly against my freshly shaved skin, and the touch of my own fingers sent unwanted sparks of sensation through my body.
“Look how sensitive she is,” Seventy observed, her voice carrying a note of sympathy. “That’s how it feels the first few days after they shave you.”
“Spread your legs wider,” Fifty-Three commanded. “Show us how you clean yourself.”
I widened my stance, the warm water cascading down my body as I worked my fingers between my legs.
The touch against my clit made me bite my lip—not just from the soreness, but from the treacherous arousal that flared despite everything.
After the night I’d spent with the vibrator, my body was primed to respond to the slightest stimulation.
“That’s it,” Fifty-Three said, her voice taking on that same patronizing tone my daddies used. “Now reach back and clean your bottom crack. Make sure you get all the way inside.”
My stomach dropped. She couldn’t mean—
“Do it, Seventy-One,” she said more sharply. “Or would you rather I report to your daddies that you refused to follow basic hygiene instructions?”
The threat was clear. More paddling. More time bent over that bench.
My hand trembled as I reached behind myself, soaping between my cheeks while the other girls watched.
The humiliation was crushing—worse somehow than anything my daddies had done to me, because these were my peers.
Other women my age who were witnessing my degradation.
“Put a finger inside,” Fifty-Three instructed. “Your little hole needs to be clean for your daddies.”
“I can’t,” I whispered, my voice breaking.
“Don’t be absurd.” Her tone left no room for argument. “You got plugged on your first day just like the rest of us. You can definitely get a finger in there.”
I closed my eyes, tears mixing with the shower spray on my face.
My soapy finger found my anus and I pressed against the tight opening.
The resistance was immediate, my body clenching against the intrusion.
But I forced myself to push harder, feeling the terrible ambiguity of the stretch as my finger breached the ring of muscle.
The other girls were silent now, watching with what might have been sympathy or might have been something darker.
I worked my finger deeper, the sensation making me want to die from shame.
This was my own finger violating myself while they watched, and somehow that made it worse than when my daddies had done it.
“Good girl,” Fifty-Three said when I finally withdrew my shaking hand. “Now rinse off and come here. It’s time for your special duty.”
I stood under the spray, washing away the soap with water that felt too hot against my oversensitive skin. When I finally turned off the shower, Fifty-Three was waiting with a towel.
“Dry yourself,” she said, handing it to me.
I took the towel and dried my body with mechanical movements, my mind trying desperately to disconnect from what was about to happen. But I couldn’t. My hands shook as I patted my newly bare pussy dry, as I ran the towel between my legs and over my punished bottom.
“Now kneel,” Fifty-Three commanded. “You can roll up the towel and put it down to kneel on.”
I sank to my knees on the rolled terrycloth, the surface pressing into my kneecaps hard, even with the padding. The position put my face level with Fifty-Three’s hips, and my stomach clenched with dread and helpless anticipation.
“The newest girl serves all her sisters,” Fifty-Three explained, her voice taking on a lecturing quality.
“You’re going to greet each of us with your mouth.
Starting with our pussies, then our bottoms. And when you’re done licking, you’re going to kiss each of our assholes to show your gratitude for being accepted into our sisterhood. ”
The crude words made my whole body flare with heat. Kiss their assholes. The degradation of it was beyond anything I’d imagined. This was about more than sex or submission—it was about establishing hierarchy, about making me understand exactly where I stood in this twisted social structure.
“Start with Sixty-Eight,” Fifty-Three said, gesturing to the quiet Japanese girl. “She’s the kindest. She’ll help you learn.”
Sixty-Eight moved closer, her expression gentle despite the situation. She spread her legs slightly, giving me access, and I saw her pussy glistening with water from the shower. The pink flesh peeked out from between her lips, vulnerable and intimate.
“It’s okay,” Sixty-Eight whispered, reaching down to stroke my wet hair. “Just use your tongue. Just, you know, say hello like you’re supposed to.”