Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58317 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58317 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
And in front of the table, facing them, was a chair. Not a normal chair. This one had restraint cuffs built into the arms and legs.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” the bearded man said, standing. His voice was calm, authoritative in a quiet way. “We’ll take it from here, once you’ve restrained Little Seventy-One here in the chair.”
The officers guided me to the chair and pushed me down into it. I tried to resist, but my body was exhausted, my ass still burning, and they were too strong. The cuffs closed around my wrists with decisive clicks. Then my ankles. I was trapped again.
The officers left without another word, closing the door behind them.
The bearded man settled back into his seat, folding his hands on the table. “Pamela Nelson. Convict Seventy-One—or, as you’ll learn to think of yourself, Little Seventy-One. Welcome to Project Dollhouse. My name is William Ogilvie, but you’ll call me Daddy Bill. This is Edward Jarndyce. You’ll call him Daddy Ed.”
“I’ll call you Go Fuck Yourself,” I said.
Ed leaned forward, his intense blue eyes fixed on me. “That’s six swats with the paddle, Little Seventy-One. We’ll administer them at our convenience, of course. Could be later today. Could be tomorrow. You’ll find out when it happens.”
I opened my mouth to tell him what he could do with his paddle, but something in his expression stopped me. Not anger. Not even irritation. Just a clinical detachment, like he was noting data points for later analysis.
Bill spoke again, his tone unchanged. “Project Dollhouse is a specialized rehabilitation program for female cybercriminals. We’ve found that traditional incarceration doesn’t address the underlying psychological patterns that drive young women like you to commit these crimes. Our approach is different.”
“Different,” I repeated flatly. “You mean fucked up.”
“We mean effective,” Ed said. “You’ve been assigned to two daddies. That’s us—you can think of us as your ‘handlers’ to start off with, if you want. But you’ll call us your daddies, if you want to sit comfortably. And by the time you’re rehabilitated, you will think of us that way too. We’re going to oversee that rehabilitation. You’ll live in a controlled environment where you’ll learn submission, obedience, and appropriate behavior. You’ll also continue to develop your technical skills, which Selecta will utilize for our own purposes.”
Bill nodded. “Think of it as reprogramming. You’ve spent years operating outside societal structures, rejecting authority, using your intelligence as a weapon against ordinary folks’ peaceful lives. We’re going to teach you a different way.”
I stared at them, waiting for the threats, the yelling, the violence. But they just sat there, watching me with that same patient calm. It was unsettling in a way I couldn’t quite articulate.
“The program has three phases,” Ed continued, pulling a tablet toward him and glancing at it. “Training, service, and integration. You’re currently in phase one. The diaper you’re wearing isn’t just punishment—it’s a lesson. We’re teaching your body and mind that you need to think again about how to be a grownup in a complicated world. Also, just as important, you’re going to learn that you don’t have control anymore. Your daddies do.”
My bladder chose that moment to make itself known. A small twinge, nothing urgent yet, but present. I shifted slightly in the chair and immediately regretted it as the movement pressed the diaper padding against my still-burning ass.
Bill’s eyes flicked down to where I’d moved, then back to my face. He didn’t comment.
“During phase one,” he said, “you’ll learn basic obedience protocols. How to address your daddies. How to ask for things you need. How to accept correction without resistance. How to receive what your daddies give you gratefully, especially when what we give you is our hard cocks in your little body.” He paused. “It’s the most difficult phase for girls like you. You’re used to being the smartest person in the room and to being able to tell a man no. You’re used to manipulating others to get what you want. That won’t work here.”
The pressure in my bladder increased slightly. I ignored it.
Ed tapped something on his tablet. “Your psychological profile is fascinating, actually. High intelligence, obvious. But also significant trust issues, fear of vulnerability, use of sexuality as a manipulation tool rather than genuine intimacy. The sensor data from your processing confirms what we suspected—you respond physiologically to submission even as your conscious mind rejects it. The fight between your psychology and your physiology is going to be—”
“Do you need to use the bathroom, Little Seventy-One?” Bill interrupted, his eyes still on my face.
The question hit me like a slap. My face burned instantly. I hadn’t realized how obvious my discomfort had become, how much I’d been shifting in the chair. The mortification of having these men—these strangers who wanted me to call them Daddy—notice my bodily needs made me want to sink through the floor.