Chapter 12
Pam
“Line up,” Mr. Jenkins instructed, and I took my place at the end of the row, my arms instinctively crossing over my breasts before I remembered his earlier command. I dropped them to my sides, the exposure making my skin prickle with awareness.
He led us down the hallway and into the cafeteria.
The walk was torture—every step made the plug feel like it wanted to press deeper inside me, with only the flared base between my cheeks keeping it in place.
I felt eyes on me from the girls ahead in line, from Mr. Jenkins behind us, from the obvious security cameras in the hall, from everywhere.
In the cafeteria, breakfast was already laid out—more institutional food on plastic trays.
Oatmeal, fruit, toast. My stomach growled despite everything, reminding me I’d barely eaten yesterday.
We took our seats at the same table as last night, and I lowered myself carefully into the plastic chair.
The plug shifted as I sat and I couldn’t suppress a small gasp.
The pressure was constant now, impossible to ignore.
“Eat,” Mr. Jenkins said from his position by the door.
I picked up my spoon with shaking hands and forced myself to take a bite of oatmeal.
The other girls ate in silence; it seemed like breakfast was a less social meal than dinner, as if everyone was unwilling to share the indignities bestowed by their daddies in the night—probably even to think about them.
After breakfast, Mr. Jenkins led us to the room I had glimpsed through its big window when my daddies had given me my tour. The Workshop. He pressed his palm to another biometric scanner and the lock clicked open.
The room beyond took my breath away despite everything else.
Seeing it up close was different from the look I’d gotten through the glass.
The high-end workstations lining the walls each had dual monitors and ergonomic chairs in front of them, as if to make for a sharp contrast with prison uniforms and, in my case, diapers.
The servers hummed quietly in their enclosures.
The equipment appeared to comprise nothing but bleeding-edge stuff, and my fingertips almost itched to make contact with a keyboard.
“Take your assigned stations,” Mr. Jenkins said.
The other girls moved to specific workstations, clearly familiar with the routine. I stood frozen, unsure where to go, until Emily gestured to an empty station near hers.
“That’s yours, new girl,” she said.
I walked over and sat down carefully, the plug pressing deeper as I settled into the chair. The monitors flickered to life automatically, and I found myself staring at a login screen with a clean generic design.
Mr. Jenkins left, closing the door behind him. The click of the lock was audible.
Emily swiveled in her chair to face me. “I’ll show you how to log in. Your daddies set up your credentials last night.”
She leaned over, close enough that I could smell her shampoo, and typed a username into my login screen: DOLLHOUSE_071. Then she gestured for me to enter a password.
“They’ll have left it on a sticky note in your desk drawer,” she explained.
I opened the drawer and found a yellow Post-it with a complex string of characters. I typed it in, my fingers finding the familiar rhythm of keyboard work despite my trembling hands. The system accepted the credentials and a new interface loaded—sleek and purpose-built.
“This is what we call the Honeypot Development Environment,” Emily said, her voice taking on a different quality—the tone of someone who loved their work. “It’s where we build the traps. The system will walk you through a tutorial first. Pay attention—it’s actually pretty elegant.”
A dialog box appeared on my screen with clean, minimalist design:
Welcome to Project Dollhouse Technical Training
This tutorial will introduce you to Selecta’s proprietary counter-hacking methodology and honeypot architecture. Estimated completion time: two to three hours.
Please be aware that your recruitment into Project Dollhouse has made you a de facto signatory of a nondisclosure agreement.
Any sharing of Selecta’s intellectual property in your work on Project Dollhouse will result in severe disciplinary consequences, including corporal punishment and extended service of Selecta’s choosing, in Selecta’s correctional facilities.
Begin tutorial?
I swallowed hard, my brow having furrowed at the highly non-standard NDA’s mention of corporal punishment.
I clicked yes, and the first lesson loaded.
Despite everything—the plug in my ass, the diaper around my hips, the humiliation of the morning—I felt my analytical mind engage.
The tutorial was sophisticated, walking me through the theoretical framework of creating convincing vulnerabilities that would trap attackers while appearing legitimate.
“See?” Emily said, watching my screen. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it? The way they’ve structured it?”
She was right. The system presented scenarios where I had to identify the optimal level of security—too strong would repel attackers, too weak would seem suspicious.
I had to think like both the attacker and the defender simultaneously, finding the sweet spot that would lure in cybercriminals while documenting their methods.
I worked through the first few modules, my fingers flying over the keyboard. The familiar feeling of solving complex problems washed over me, and for a few minutes I almost forgot where I was. Almost forgot about the plug, the diaper, the degradation of the morning.
Then I felt it—a strange ache in my chest. A longing for something I couldn’t quite name.
I glanced at the clock. It had been over sixteen hours since I’d last seen Daddy Bill and Daddy Ed. Since they’d tucked me into bed last night with that vibrator keeping me on edge. Since they’d shaved me and filled me and made me call them Daddy.
And somehow I missed them. I wanted to see them, because I wanted to tell them that I was doing really well at the tutorial, and I wanted to ask them a zillion questions about the theory and the practice behind it.
I wanted to ask Daddy Bill why the fuck my mind seemed more focused with a diaper on and a plug in my anus.
I wanted to ask Daddy Ed what the dataset behind the methodology looked like.
The realization made me feel dizzy, then mortified, and then angry.
Nope. That’s not what you’re feeling. That’s… that’s Stockholm syndrome or some shit.
But that didn’t mean I wasn’t feeling it, did it?
I missed my daddies. After a few hours with them, and a few hours without them, I missed their presence, their approval, their…
God help me… their control. The thought made me want to die from shame, but I couldn’t deny the truth of it.
Some part of me had already started to crave their attention, to need the structure they provided.
The door opened and I looked up instinctively, hoping—
But it wasn’t my daddies. Two men I didn’t recognize entered, both in business casual attire. They walked directly to Keiko’s station.
“Time for your session, Little Sixty-Eight,” one of them said.
I couldn’t keep my eyes from traveling over there as Keiko saved her work and stood, following them out without a word. The door closed behind them and I felt a spike of something like jealousy. She was going to be with her daddies. She was going to get their attention, their touch, their approval.
Session. What did that mean? I felt my tummy flutter at the images that filled my mind, and I realized that my left hand had drifted down under the desk to the front of my diaper.
“Don’t,” Emily said, her voice sharp, but in warning rather than in threat. “You don’t want to find out what happens to girls who touch themselves without permission.”
I looked over to see her gazing back at me steadily, her eyes unreadable.
“Get that hand up,” she told me. “Remember that you’ve got a sensor down there.”
My cheeks blazing, I pulled my hand up and put it back on my keyboard.
I turned back to my screen, trying to focus on the tutorial.
The next module dealt with payload delivery mechanisms—how to install surveillance software on an attacker’s machine without detection.
It was genuinely clever work, the kind of thing that would have excited me under different circumstances.
Twenty minutes later, the door opened again. Another pair of daddies came for Shaniqua, and I watched her leave with that same unwelcome ache in my chest.
Then it was just Joyce and me and Emily, working at our stations.
The tutorial continued, walking me through increasingly complex scenarios.
I found myself getting increasingly absorbed, my mind engaging with the problems in that familiar way that had always been my escape from the general shittiness of my life.
I was deep into a particularly complex scenario about mimicking authentication protocols when the door opened again. This time, when I looked up, my heart did a complicated stutter in my chest.
Daddy Bill and Daddy Ed.
They walked directly to my station, and I felt my whole body respond to their presence. My nipples hardened. My pussy clenched. The plug in my ass seemed to press deeper, reminding me of their control over every part of me.
“Little Seventy-One,” Daddy Bill said, his voice carrying that warm authority that made my stomach flip. “Save your work. It’s time for your session.”
I fumbled with the keyboard, my fingers suddenly clumsy as I saved the tutorial progress. When I stood, my legs felt weak, the diaper as always feeling foreign and shameful between them. I saw Emily glance over with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“Follow us,” Daddy Ed said.
They led me out of the Workshop and down the hallway. Not back to my room, I realized, but in the opposite direction. We passed several doors before stopping at one marked ‘Daddy Suite 2B.’ Daddy Bill pressed his palm to the scanner and the lock clicked.
Inside was a space that looked nothing like the rest of the facility.
The room was warmly decorated—rich wood furniture, a plush area rug, soft lighting.
Through an open door I could see a king-sized bed dominating another room, and I tried not to think about what might happen there.
A leather sofa sat against another wall, with a coffee table in front of it, and there was also a high-backed wooden chair that seemed slightly out of place.
The door closed behind us with a soft click.
“We watched you this morning, Little Seventy-One,” Daddy Ed said, moving to stand in front of me. “We saw everything that happened in the showers.”
My face burned hot. They’d watched. Of course they’d watched. There were cameras everywhere.
“You did very well,” Daddy Bill added, his hand coming to rest on the small of my back. “Pleasuring Fifty-Three like that was difficult, I know. We’re proud of how you performed.”
The praise made that treacherous warmth bloom in my chest again. I hated how much I wanted to hear those words, how much I craved their approval.
“You can earn your panties today,” Daddy Ed continued, his blue eyes studying my face. “And your uniform. If you please your daddies the way you pleased your sisters.”
My breath caught. Real clothes. Not just a diaper. The promise of it made me realize how desperately I wanted to cover myself, to have some small measure of dignity back.
“Yes, Daddy,” I whispered, the words coming easier now. “Please. I’ll be good.”
“We know you will,” Daddy Bill said. “Now, it’s time for your inspection. Let’s get that diaper off you.”
I watched in confusion as he and Daddy Ed moved to the couch and sat down.
“Come here, bad girl,” Daddy Ed said, his blue eyes narrowing a bit as if he meant to note my response with the utmost precision. “Stand right in front of your daddies.”
My knees wobbled as I made my way over, my heart racing. Even with my daddies sitting down, my eyes were only a few inches higher than theirs as I stood looking at their much-too-handsome faces.
“Let’s get that diaper off,” Daddy Bill repeated.
He reached out and took hold of my hips.
I swallowed hard as he moved me as if I were a doll, positioning me between his spread knees.
His hands moved to the Velcro tabs and he unfastened them slowly, deliberately.
The diaper fell away and I stood there completely naked in front of them, the plug still lodged in my ass.
My freshly shaved pussy was on full display, and I felt new heat come into my face as I wondered if they could even see the wetness that I felt sure had gathered there despite my effort to push my arousal away.
“Look at this, Daddy Ed,” said my brown-eyed daddy. “Her little clit is peeking out to say hello.”