Chapter 17
Pam
Over the next three days I carefully deployed the private code, working it into my comments with the precision of a surgeon.
The key phrase came first: ‘This makes the solution sing’ embedded in a remark about optimization protocols.
Then, over the next three lines of remarks, I encrypted the backdoor address using the cipher I’d memorized during those late nights with Leo’s network.
The address that would let someone with real expertise rootkit the international transfer system.
I let my fingers move across the keyboard with the confidence of muscle memory, developed when I’d felt like an unstoppable black hat.
Anyone reviewing the code would see nothing but technical documentation.
But the right people—people who knew what to look for—would find the breadcrumbs I was leaving.
“It’s just what I need to do,” I whispered to myself, watching the lines of code populate my screen. “It’s just what needs to happen.”
The mantra helped. It kept my mind focused, kept me from thinking too hard about the implications. I was operating on autopilot now, my analytical brain compartmentalizing everything into discrete tasks. Write the code. Hide the message. Maintain the facade.
In my training sessions with my daddies, as if to compensate, I found myself becoming increasingly performative.
When Daddy Bill bent me over his knee for my maintenance spankings, I sobbed louder than necessary, let my voice break with theatrical desperation.
When they filled my mouth with their cocks, I sucked with exaggerated enthusiasm, moaning around their shafts like I was desperate for the taste of them.
“Please, Daddy,” I begged when Daddy Ed had me spread wide on their bed, his fingers working my clit while the plug stretched my ass. “Please let me have your seed inside me. I need it so badly.”
The words came easily now. Too easily, said a voice in my head.
I pushed away the troubling thought that crept in during these moments—that the performance was starting to feel less like acting.
That when I pleaded for their cocks in my anus, some part of me actually meant it, as insane as that would have seemed a week ago.
Stockholm syndrome, I told myself firmly. That’s all this is. My brain trying to cope with captivity by bonding with my captors. It’s a survival mechanism, nothing more.
I told myself how good it would feel to destroy Project Dollhouse. How satisfying it would be to watch their smug faces when they realized their star pupil had been sabotaging them all along. How sweet freedom would taste when I finally escaped this place.
The fantasy sustained me as I worked deeper into the codebase.
On the fourth day, I found the vulnerability I’d been looking for—a way to encrypt a backdoor to Project Dollhouse itself within the remarks of the honey trap.
The security protocols were sophisticated, but I was better. I always had been.
I embedded the instructions carefully: how to breach the facility’s network, how to override the biometric locks, how to access the residential floor where the bad girls were kept. I even included details about the guard rotations I’d observed, the camera blind spots, the emergency exits.
Someone would find it. Someone would come. And when they did, I’d be ready.
“How’s the work coming, Little Seventy-One?” Emily asked, rolling her chair over to my station during a break.
I minimized the screen reflexively, my heart rate spiking. “Good,” I said, forcing my voice to stay casual. “Just refining the authentication protocols.”
She leaned closer, her sharp eyes scanning what little remained visible on my monitor. For a terrifying moment I thought she’d seen something, noticed something off about the comment structure. But then she smiled and patted my shoulder.
“You’re doing amazing work,” she said. “Your daddies must be so proud.”
“They are,” I replied, and hated how much warmth bloomed in my chest at the words.
That night, Daddy Ed inspected the code I’d written while Daddy Bill prepared me for bed. I stood naked in their suite, trying to keep my breathing steady as Daddy Ed’s eyes moved across his tablet screen, parsing my work line by line.
“This is exceptional, Little Pamela,” he said finally, looking up at me with genuine approval. “The adaptive response protocols here are even more sophisticated than your initial design. You’re exceeding every expectation. And your remarks are…”
I swallowed hard, hoping he would see the red that crept into my face as a flush of embarrassed pride.
“Well, everyone knows that it takes a great coder to write remarks this clear.”
The praise hit me like a drug, flooding my system with dopamine. I felt myself smile—a real smile, not the calculated ones I’d used to manipulate men before my arrest.
“Thank you, Daddy,” I whispered.
Daddy Bill guided me to their bed, his hands gentle on my shoulders. “Such a good girl deserves a reward,” he murmured. “Tonight you can come as many times as you want.”
They used me thoroughly that night, both of them taking turns in my pussy and my ass while I cried out with pleasure I couldn’t fully fake. When Daddy Ed finally let me sleep, curled between their warm bodies, I felt safe in a way that terrified me.
This isn’t real, I told myself in the darkness. This is an illusion. This is manipulation. You’re playing a role.
But the doubt had crept in, insidious and persistent. What if I wasn’t playing anymore? What if the performance had become reality?
I forced my mind back to the code, to the backdoor hidden in plain sight, to the escape plan crystallizing in my mind. I just needed to hold on a little longer. Just needed to keep the facade intact until someone found my messages.
Then I would be free. Then I could figure out who I really was, separate from what they were making me.
I had to believe that. Because the alternative—that I was genuinely becoming their good little bad girl—was too terrifying to contemplate.
On my second weekiversary at Project Dollhouse, as I couldn’t help thinking of it, all ten of the daddies came together to get us in the Workshop, at the end of our morning coding session.
“We’re having a special celebration today,” Daddy Ben announced to the Workshop as all the daddies filed in. “Our Little Fifty-Three has been placed with a very important client. We’ll be saying goodbye to her this evening.”
My stomach dropped. Emily was leaving? I glanced over at her station and saw her face light up with an expression I’d never seen before—pure, unguarded joy.
As they led us to the cafeteria, the hall passed by me in a blur of anxious thoughts.
I tried to focus on my steps, tried not to think about Emily leaving, but my mind kept circling back to it.
She’d been my guide here, the one who’d taught me the rules.
Without her, Joyce would be the Trusty, I guessed.
I’d gotten used to special duty in the showers, which happened every few days, on a schedule it seemed only Emily and the daddies understood.
I didn’t know how it would be serving another girl that way, though.
The weight of these realizations settled on my shoulders as we filed into the cafeteria.
The room had been transformed—streamers hung from the ceiling, and a table along one wall held trays of food that actually looked appetizing instead of institutional.
The daddies stood in clusters, talking and laughing in a way I’d never seen them do before.
The center of the floor had been cleared out, and gym mats laid there. I swallowed hard as I wondered what that meant.
Emily stood at the far end of the room, the center of attention, still in her pink uniform but glowing with excitement. I made my way over to her, my heart hammering with questions I wasn’t sure I wanted answered.
“Hey,” I said quietly. “So you’re really leaving?”
She turned to me, her sharp features softening. “Yeah. Tonight, actually. Daddy Kevin is sending a car for me in an hour.”
“Daddy Kevin?” I couldn’t keep all ten of them straight, but I didn’t think that was the name of any of the Project Dollhouse daddies.
“Kevin Isilcross,” she explained, her voice dropping slightly.
“Billionaire tech guy. My daddies took me to a sampling suite on the first floor yesterday to meet him.” Her cheeks flushed slightly.
“They watched him spank me and fuck me in all my holes. He was… you know, pretty thorough. But also really impressed with my coding portfolio.”
I felt my own face heat at her casual description. “And you’re okay with this? With going to serve him?”
“Okay with it?” Emily laughed, a genuine sound of delight.
“Pam, he offered me five million dollars. Five million. To serve him and work on his app’s code.
I’ll have my own apartment in his building, my own workspace.
They say I won’t be fully rehabilitated for another year—if I behave myself, that is.
When I am, though, I’ll be rich and free. ”
“That’s… that’s amazing,” I managed, trying to feel happy for her and mostly succeeding.
She studied my face for a long moment, and I saw something shift in her expression. “You’re falling in love with them, aren’t you? Your daddies.”
The words made my whole body flash hot. “What? No, I’m—”
“I can see it in your eyes,” she said gently. “The way you’re reacting to the idea that you’ll get sold too. It’s written all over your face, Pam.”
I opened my mouth to deny it, but the words wouldn’t come. Because she was right. God help me, she was right.
“That didn’t happen to me,” Emily continued, her voice taking on a thoughtful quality.
“I like my daddies. They’re good men who helped me become better at what I do.
But I’m fine with leaving. Actually, I’m excited about it.
More freedom, more opportunities.” She reached out and squeezed my hand.
“I hope we can stay friends. Maybe when we’re both fully rehabilitated, we can get coffee or something. ”
“I’d like that,” I whispered, my throat tight.
The realization crashed over me in waves. I had fallen in love with both of them. Daddy Bill with his warm brown eyes and gentle hands. Daddy Ed with his analytical mind and the way he saw straight through to my core. It wasn’t just Stockholm syndrome. It wasn’t just survival.
They’d unlocked something in me. They’d seen my potential—not just as a coder, but as a person.
They’d pushed me harder than anyone ever had, demanded more from me than I’d thought I could give.
And in doing so, they’d revealed a need I’d never acknowledged: the need for abject submission to a man’s sexual pleasure.
The need to surrender completely to four enormous hands and two huge, hard cocks, and somehow to feel remade by the degradation and the discipline.
“Attention, everyone,” Daddy Ben called out, his voice cutting through the chatter. “Before our Little Fifty-Three departs, we’re going to celebrate her graduation properly.”
My daddies appeared at my sides, their hands on my shoulders. Around the room, the other daddies moved to their own bad girls.
“Uniforms off, ladies,” Daddy Bill said, his voice carrying that firm authority that made my pussy clench. “All of you.”
My hands trembled as I unfastened my uniform, sliding it off along with my panties until I stood naked in the cafeteria, at the edge of the array of gym mats, whose purpose had become much too clear.
Around me, Keiko, Shaniqua, Joyce, and Emily did the same.
The vulnerability of standing exposed like this, in front of all the daddies, made my face burn with shame and arousal.
“Now,” Daddy Howard said, his analytical voice somehow making everything more intense. “You’re going to pleasure each other—and especially your sweet little Trusty—while your daddies watch. Show us what you’ve learned about serving.”