Chapter 19
Ed
We only found Pam’s sabotage at the last minute.
Our bad girl was just that good. On Georgia’s advice, we’d been as vigilant as we could possibly be, but though the cipher ended up seeming simple in retrospect, we didn’t have the benefit of hindsight as we stood on the verge of deploying Pam’s brilliant honey trap.
I stared at the screen in front of me, my specialized glasses highlighting the anomalous patterns in Pam’s comment structure. Bill leaned over my shoulder, his breathing careful and controlled in a way that told me he was processing something significant.
“There,” I said, my finger tracing a line of seemingly innocuous technical documentation. “See how the phrasing shifts here? This makes the solution sing. It’s not how she writes elsewhere in the codebase.”
Bill’s hand tightened on my shoulder. “You’re sure?”
I pulled up the analysis I’d been running in the background for the past hour. The pattern recognition software I’d thrown together for detecting steganographic communication lit up like a Christmas tree.
“Three lines of remarks, encrypted address embedded using a key phrase I only managed to figure out by following a hunch and running the lyrics of songs her old boss listened to,” I said, feeling my jaw clench.
“It’s the third verse of a Mashiri song.
She’s been leaving breadcrumbs for someone to find.
Someone who would know what to look for. ”
I watched the implications crash over Bill like ice water.
Our brilliant, submissive, seemingly rehabilitated bad girl had been playing us the entire time.
The enthusiasm in her training sessions, the way she’d begged for our cocks, the tears she’d shed during her spankings—all of it had been at least in part a performance.
Calculated manipulation from a girl who was better at it than we’d given her credit for.
Suspended defiance.
“There’s more,” I said, my fingers flying across the keyboard as I traced the deeper layers of her deception. “She’s embedded a backdoor to the facility itself. Network access, biometric overrides, guard rotations. Everything someone would need to breach Project Dollhouse.”
Bill’s breath hissed through his teeth. “And we were going to deploy it in the morning. God, she’s fucking brilliant—to encrypt like that, on the fly, without leaving any notes behind…”
I pulled up Georgia’s protocol on my tablet, scanning through the intervention she’d outlined.
My analytical mind processed the steps quickly and dispassionately, but I felt something darker stirring further down.
Anger. Betrayal. Beneath that, and much more important, a determination to show our bad girl exactly what happened when she tried to deceive her daddies.
“We wake her at oh-three-hundred,” I said, reading from Georgia’s notes. “No warning, no explanation. Maximum disorientation.”
Bill nodded slowly. “And then?”
“Then we show her exactly how harsh we can be when she’s earned it,” I said, feeling my voice take on that cold edge I reserved for the worst infractions.
“Georgia was very clear about this. We can’t show her tenderness until after she’s been broken down completely.
Until she understands the full consequences of what she’s done. ”
I pulled up the biometric data from Pam’s sensor, reviewing the patterns from the past week. The spikes of genuine arousal during our training sessions, the elevated cortisol during her coding work, the complex interplay of submission and resistance that had characterized her responses.
I saw a note Georgia had left on a particular configuration that corresponded to Bill and me coming to fetch her from the Workshop. I’d somehow missed it until now thanks to the excitement of launching the Operation Hornet trap.
Looks like love.
“She loves us,” I said quietly, the realization settling in my chest with uncomfortable weight. “Look at this data. Her physiological responses aren’t faked. She genuinely loves us, Bill. And she’s still trying to sabotage everything.”
Bill nodded, a bit grimly.
“Probably because she doesn’t want it to be true. She’s at war with herself. Part of her wants to surrender completely, and part of her is terrified of that surrender. So she’s trying to destroy it before it can consume her.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to run a diagnostic on my inner hardware, or software, or maybe firmware. When I opened them I met Bill’s gaze, and I saw instantly that we were thinking pretty much the same thing.
“You too?” I asked, my voice sardonic in my ears though the tone didn’t really match what I felt. Something I hadn’t ever felt for another bad girl.
“Yup,” Bill said, his mouth twisting into a half-grin. “I’m falling for our Little Pamela pretty hard.”
“We need to figure something out,” I said, nodding slowly. “Is this the time to make our move on the startup?”
“Definitely could be,” Bill replied. “But first we’ve got some serious work to do with Pam. She’s doing everything she can to self-sabotage.”
I closed the analysis windows and stood up, my body thrumming with purpose. “Then we need to force the issue. Make her choose which part of herself she’s going to be.”
“The protocol is brutal,” Bill warned, though I could see in his eyes that he understood the necessity. “Georgia wasn’t kidding about being harsh.”
“I know,” I said. “But if we’re too soft now, we lose her completely. Either she escapes and spends the rest of her life running, or she stays and never fully submits. Either way, she’ll never be whole—unless we do our job without mercy.”
Pam
My daddies didn’t wake me up as much as they ripped me from sleep into a world of shame and pain.
“Get your ass out of bed, Little Seventy-One,” I heard Daddy Ed say in the darkness, his mouth next to my ear as he pulled me upright with a bruising grip on my upper arm.
“Prepare for Daddy’s belt, Little Seventy-One,” Daddy Bill added, his voice so severe that I knew instantly that they must have discovered the cipher.
The light came on and I blinked stupidly at the men I loved. My heart was going a mile a minute and my mouth felt like it was full of cotton.
“What?” I asked. “Prepare… what?”
They hadn’t used those words before. Prepare for Daddy’s belt. The command sent a thrill of fear and shame and helpless arousal through me so strong my knees nearly buckled under me.
“When a bad girl is told to prepare for Daddy’s belt,” Daddy Bill said, his voice cold and flat in a way I’d never heard before, “she takes the pillow from her bed and places it in the center of the mattress. Then she removes every stitch of clothing. Then she stands beside the bed with her hands on her head and her eyes on the floor, waiting for her punishment.”
The words landed like blows. My hands shook as I reached for the pillow, my mind racing through possibilities. Maybe they didn’t know everything. Maybe I could still salvage this. I arranged the pillow on the bed, my movements mechanical.
My fingers fumbled with the hem of my uniform top.
I pulled it over my head, and dropped it to the floor.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of the bottoms, pulled and pushed.
The fabric fell away, exposing my skin to the cool air of the room.
I swallowed hard as I slid my panties down my trembling legs and stepped out of them, leaving them in a small heap on the floor.
I moved to stand beside the bed, raising my hands to clasp them on top of my head. The position exposed my breasts and lifted them, displayed my shaved pussy. I lowered my eyes to the floor, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might break through my ribs.
The silence stretched out, oppressive and terrible. I could feel their eyes on me, studying me, seeing everything.
“Over the pillow,” Daddy Ed said finally, his analytical voice devoid of warmth. “Face down. Hands under your face to keep yourself from interfering.”
I climbed onto the bed, positioning myself over the pillow so my hips were elevated, my bottom presented, I imagined, at the perfect angle for a butt-whipping.
I tucked my hands beneath my face, pressing my cheek against my knuckles.
The position made me feel small, helpless, utterly at their mercy.
I heard the sound of a belt sliding through fabric loops. Then another. The leather whispered; they must have doubled the belts over, as Emily’s daddies had done when they whipped her. My whole body tensed in anticipation.
The first strike came without warning, the leather connecting with my right cheek with a crack that echoed off the walls.
The pain was immediate and searing, and somehow cold, too.
They always spanked me hard during my sessions.
They always made me understand I was being punished.
Something about my daddies’ belts though, made me feel strangely like I had gotten into real trouble for the first time.
Before I could process the first blow, the second landed on my left cheek.
Then another on the right. They alternated, working in a rhythm that gave me no time to prepare, no time to brace myself.
The belts fell again and again, covering every inch of my bottom, wrapping around to catch the tender flesh where my ass met my thighs.
I bit my lip, trying to hold back the sounds that wanted to escape. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. I wouldn’t—
The belt caught me low on my thigh and I screamed, the sound ripping from my throat before I could stop it.
“That’s it,” Daddy Bill said, his voice still cold. “Let us hear you, bad girl.”
The whipping continued, relentless and thorough. My bottom felt like it was on fire, the pain building with each strike until it consumed everything else. Tears streamed down my face, soaking into my hands.
“Do you have something to tell us, Little Pamela?” Daddy Ed asked, his belt still landing in steady rhythm.
I sobbed into my hands, my body shaking. They knew. They had to know. But admitting it felt like admitting defeat, like surrendering the last piece of myself I’d been trying to hold onto.
“I… I…” The words stuck in my throat.
Another lash landed, even harder than the others. I screamed again.
“Tell us,” Daddy Bill commanded.
“I sabotaged the code!” The confession burst out of me in a wail. “I embedded messages in the remarks. A backdoor to the facility. I encrypted it so someone could find it and—”
My words dissolved into sobs. But even as I admitted what I’d done, even as my bottom burned with the consequences, a small voice in my head whispered: It’s not over. You’ll find another way. A better way. They can’t watch you every second.
The whipping stopped. Strong hands lifted me from the bed, and I felt Daddy Ed’s arm around my waist as he carried me toward the bathroom. My legs wouldn’t have supported me anyway.
They positioned me in the bathroom, bending me over the counter. I saw my reflection in the mirror—face streaked with tears, eyes red and swollen, hair disheveled. I looked broken.
I heard water running in a sink behind me. I turned my face over my shoulder to see.
“Eyes front, Little Seventy-One,” Daddy Ed commanded. “You know that.”
He put his hand on my hip to hold me steady and spanked me three times. I yelped, the sound echoing off the tile. I realized with a hot blush that my fellow bad girls must all be awake after how much noise I’d made—all of them listening.
When I opened my eyes and looked in the mirror in front of me I could see what Daddy Bill was doing, beyond the humiliating sight of my red, tearstained face. He had an enema bag. He was filling it.
“Please,” I whimpered. “Please don’t—”
“Reach back and spread those cheeks, bad girl,” Daddy Ed told me. “Don’t make us whip you anymore.”
I sobbed as I took the little halves of my thoroughly whipped bottom into my hands. I pulled them apart, weeping at the pain.
Then I cried out as the lubed nozzle pressed against my anus and slid inside. The water began to flow, warm and invasive, filling me in a way that made me feel utterly degraded. The cramping started almost immediately, my body trying to reject the intrusion.
“Hold it,” Daddy Ed said firmly. “You’ll hold it until we say otherwise.”
The water kept coming, more and more, until I felt like I would burst. The cramping intensified, waves of discomfort rolling through my abdomen. I sobbed openly, my hands gripping my punished cheeks, my hips moving back and forth in a futile attempt to make it feel better.
“Please,” I gasped. “Please, I can’t—”
“You can,” Daddy Bill told me. “And you will.”
When the bag was finally empty, Daddy Bill removed the nozzle and I whimpered at its withdrawal, thinking that it might make the pressure feel less uncomfortable. The cramping continued unabated, though. My belly felt distended, uncomfortable, wrong in every way.
“Stand up,” Daddy Ed instructed.
I straightened slowly, my hands instinctively moving to my abdomen. The pressure was intense, my body screaming at me to release what they’d forced inside me.
“Hands at your sides,” Daddy Bill said sharply.
I dropped my arms, tears streaming down my face. The cramping intensified and I doubled over slightly, a sob escaping my lips.
“Walk,” Daddy Ed commanded, his hand on my shoulder guiding me toward the door.
“Please,” I gasped. “I can’t—I need to—”
“You’ll walk when we tell you to walk,” Daddy Bill said, opening the door to the hallway. “And you’ll hold it until we give you permission to let it go.”