Chapter 23
Pam
One week later, my daddies’ pickup truck pulled up to a sleek modern house in the suburbs, the kind of place I had always called a mansion in my head.
The past seven days had offered nothing but a whirlwind of paperwork and meetings and setting up the infrastructure for the new company.
I’d barely seen Daddy Bill and Daddy Ed except in conference rooms or at their computers, working late into the night on business plans and client proposals.
I felt my cheeks get hot even thinking about it, but my bottom hadn’t felt the sting of their hands or their belts in five days, and it seemed like I couldn’t stop squirming in the backseat, as if the lack of discomfort were somehow more distracting than the usual lingering ache.
As for ache, there was another kind between my thighs—an even more embarrassing one.
My pussy felt… well, I couldn’t say sore, I guessed…
but definitely empty with neglect. I felt restless and twitchy, like something under my skin was trying to get out.
“Welcome home, Little Pamela,” Daddy Bill said as he opened my door.
Home. The word should have filled me with warmth. Instead, I felt irritable and contrary as I followed them up the walkway. The house was beautiful—I could see that objectively—but part of me wanted to find fault with it.
They led me through the spacious living room with its floor-to-ceiling windows, past a kitchen that looked like something from a magazine, down a hallway to a closed door.
“Your bedroom,” Daddy Ed announced, opening it with a flourish.
I stepped inside and my stomach dropped.
Like my room at Project Dollhouse, this room was clearly designed for a child—or at least, for someone being treated like one.
The bed had pink sheets with little flowers.
There was a dresser painted white, a bookshelf filled with both technical manuals and what looked suspiciously like children’s books.
And standing on end against the dresser, something whose nature it took me a moment to fathom—before heat flooded my face.
An oversized changing pad, curved into a gentle U in order to keep the little girl being changed in place.
My scalp prickled as I stared at it. A fucking changing pad. Back to the fucking beginning?
“Well?” Daddy Bill asked. “What do you think?”
The words came out before I could stop them. “I think you two have been so busy playing businessman that you forgot I’m actually a person and not a doll you can just dress up and put on display.”
The silence that followed was deafening. I felt my face go even hotter as I realized what I’d just said, how I’d just spoken to them. But instead of taking it back, some perverse part of me doubled down.
“I mean, seriously? A changing pad? What’s next, are you going to make me sleep in a crib?”
Daddy Ed’s expression went cold in that way that made my pussy clench despite my bratty mood. Daddy Bill’s jaw tightened.
“Are you going to be a bad girl today, Little Pamela?” Daddy Bill asked, his voice quiet and dangerous.
I should have said no. Should have apologized and begged for forgiveness. Instead, I lifted my chin defiantly.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m a bad girl today and always.”
The words hung in the air for a long moment. Then Daddy Ed stepped forward, his blue eyes boring into mine.
“Then you know what you need to do,” he said. “Prepare for Daddy’s belt.”
My stomach dropped even as my pussy flooded with heat. I swallowed hard, my defiance crumbling as quickly as it had appeared.
“Yes, Daddy,” I whispered.
My hands trembled as I walked to the bed with its childish pink sheets.
I pulled the two pillows from their place and piled them in the center of the mattress.
Then I reached for the hem of my shirt—I was wearing civilian clothes for the first time in weeks, jeans and a simple top they’d given me for the move.
I pulled the shirt over my head, my cheeks burning. The jeans came next, then my bra and panties, until I stood naked in my new bedroom. I moved to stand beside the bed, raising my hands to clasp them behind my head, my eyes dropping to the floor.
“Good girl,” Daddy Bill said. “Now get over those pillows.”
I climbed onto the bed and positioned myself face down, my hips elevated by the pillows, my bottom presented for punishment. I tucked my hands under my face, pressing my cheek against my knuckles.
I heard the sound of belts sliding through loops, wrapping around enormous fists. My whole body tensed in anticipation.
“We’re going to whip this little bottom until you can’t sit down,” Daddy Ed said, his voice flat and hard. “Then we’re going to put you back in diapers and an appropriate outfit for a bad girl who’s learned a memorable lesson.”
Then the first lash landed across my right cheek and I cried out at the sharp, cold sting.
They didn’t give me time to squirm or to adjust. My daddies’ belts came down in rapid succession, alternating between my cheeks, wrapping around to catch the tender flesh of my thighs. Each strike built on the last, the heat spreading across my bottom until it felt like I was on fire.
“This is what happens when you sass your daddies,” Daddy Ed said, his belt landing with particular force on my left cheek. “When you forget what we’ve taught you.”
“When you get bratty because you’re needy,” Daddy Bill added, his belt catching me low on my right thigh and making me scream. “You could have just asked for what you needed, Little Pamela. Instead, you chose to be naughty.”
He was right. God, he was right. I could have told them I was feeling neglected, that I needed their attention. Instead, I’d acted out like a child throwing a tantrum.
The whipping continued until I was sobbing into my hands, my bottom burning with that deep, thorough heat that meant they’d covered every inch. When they finally stopped, I lay there trembling, tears streaming down my face.
Strong hands lifted me from the bed and set me on my feet.
I stood there trembling, my bottom throbbing with heat, as Daddy Ed opened a drawer in the white dresser.
He pulled out a thick cloth diaper—even thicker than the ones I’d worn at Project Dollhouse.
My face burned as he carried it over to the changing pad, which he pulled away from the dresser and laid flat on the floor.
“Down you go,” he instructed.
I lowered myself onto the pad, wincing as my punished bottom made contact even with the soft surface.
The position was mortifying—lying on my back like an infant while my daddies loomed over me.
Daddy Bill lifted and parted my legs, exposing everything, my shaven pussy and anus on mortifyingly full display for the men who had bought them.
Daddy Ed slid the diaper under my bottom.
The fabric felt distressingly soft against my burning skin as Daddy Ed brought the front up between my legs.
He fastened the Velcro tabs snugly at my hips, adjusting them until the diaper fit perfectly.
I felt tears prick at my eyes again—not from pain this time, but from the overwhelming infantilization of it all.
“Up,” Daddy Bill said, offering his hand.
I took it and stood carefully, feeling the bulk of the diaper between my thighs.
It forced my legs slightly apart, making me waddle as Daddy Ed went back to the dresser and pulled out a pink dress.
Not a woman’s dress—a little girl’s dress, with puffed sleeves and a full skirt that would barely cover the diaper.
He slipped it over my head and I raised my arms automatically, letting him dress me like I was helpless to do it myself. The fabric settled around me, the hem hitting mid-thigh. When I looked down, I could see the white diaper peeking out beneath the pink cotton.
Daddy Bill produced ankle socks with little lace trim and a pair of black Mary Janes. I sat on the edge of the bed—gasping at the pressure on my whipped bottom—and let him put them on my feet, buckling the straps.
“There,” he said, stepping back to admire their work. “That’s what a bad girl looks like when she learns a lesson.”
I caught my reflection in the mirror mounted on the back of the door. I looked ridiculous. Like a grown woman playing dress-up in children’s clothes, the diaper creating an obvious bulge under the too-short dress. My face was still blotchy from crying, my hair mussed.
“Come on,” Daddy Ed said, taking my hand. “We have work to do.”
They led me out of the bedroom and down another hallway to what was clearly their home office. Two desks sat side by side, covered with monitors and equipment. A third, smaller desk had been set up in the corner—presumably for me.
Daddy Bill went to the kitchen and returned with a tall glass of water. “Drink this,” he instructed, pressing it into my hands. “All of it.”
I drank obediently, the cool liquid sliding down my throat. My bladder was already feeling a little full from the coffee I’d had that morning, but I didn’t dare protest. When the glass was empty, Daddy Bill took it from me and set it aside.
“Sit at your desk,” Daddy Ed said. “We’re going to work on the malware detection algorithm.”
I waddled over to the small desk, my diaper hindering me at each step, and lowered myself carefully into the chair. The pressure on my punished bottom made me whimper, but I tried to focus on the monitor in front of me.
Daddy Ed pulled up the code on my screen and began explaining what he wanted. The algorithm was complex—designed to identify suspicious patterns in network traffic that might indicate an intrusion attempt. I forced my mind to engage with the problem, typing out functions and testing edge cases.
But as the minutes ticked by, I became increasingly aware of the pressure in my bladder. The water I’d drunk was working its way through my system, and my body’s signals were getting harder to ignore.
I squirmed in my chair, trying to focus on the code. Daddy Bill glanced over from his desk.
“Problem?” he asked mildly.