I should have been terrified. Should have been planning my escape, looking for weaknesses in their system, doing what I’d always done—staying three steps ahead of everyone else.
Instead, I lay here with my legs spread, rocking my hips against a vibrator, thinking about what Fifty-Three’s pussy would taste like.
The thought sent a shudder through me. Would she be gentle? Would she guide me through it, teach me what to do? Or would she just use my mouth the way my daddies had, taking what she wanted while I struggled to breathe?
Would my daddies watch? The idea made my stomach clench. Of course they would watch. That’s what Daddy Ed had said.You’re going to make her come with that pretty mouth while we watch.
I imagined Daddy Bill and Daddy Ed standing over us, their cocks already hard, stroking themselves while they observed their newest acquisition learning to please another woman. Would they fuck me afterward? Would they bend me over and use my pussy as a reward for being a good girl? Or would they make me wait, keep me desperate and aching until I begged?
Bad girls only get fucked with a very sore bottom.
The vibrator cycled to its strongest setting and I gasped, my whole body tensing. So close. Right there. Just a little more?—
The awful device dropped back to the gentle pulse, leaving me whimpering with frustration. My eyes burned with tears. This was torture. Actual, deliberate torture designed to break me down, to make me so desperate for release that I’d do anything they asked.
And it was working.
I lost track of how long I lay there, cycling through arousal and shame and exhaustion. The vibrator never stopped, never gaveme enough to finish, but never let me come down from that horrible plateau. My thoughts grew hazy, disconnected. I drifted in and out of something that wasn’t quite sleep, my mind serving up fractured images.
Daddy Bill’s cock sliding between my lips.
Daddy Ed’s fingers inside me, finding places that made me scream.
The paddle coming down again and again while I counted and called them Daddy.
Fifty-Three’s face between my thighs instead of my face between hers, her tongue doing things that made me?—
I jerked awake, disoriented. Had I actually fallen asleep? The vibrator was still going, still pulsing against my oversensitive clit. My inner thighs felt sticky with arousal that had nowhere to go. The diaper was probably soaked with it.
The thought made me whimper. They’d check it in the morning. Would probably make me stand there while they unfastened it, while they inspected how wet I’d gotten, while they commented on my body’s responses like I was a lab experiment.
Which I was, wasn’t I? That’s exactly what Project Dollhouse was—a sophisticated experiment in breaking down women like me and rebuilding us into whatever Selecta wanted. Obedient assets who could code during the day and spread our legs at night.
The worst part was its effectiveness. Less than twenty-four hours and I could already feel myself changing, feel my resistance crumbling under the relentless assault of pain and pleasure and degradation.
I’d always prided myself on being smarter than everyone else, on staying in control. But what good was intelligence when your body kept betraying you? When every attempt to resist just made the arousal stronger?
The vibrator pulsed harder and I moaned, my hips lifting off the mattress despite my exhaustion. My wrists strained against the cuffs as my back arched.Please, I thought desperately.Please just let me come. I’ll do anything. I’ll be good. I’ll call you Daddy and eat Fifty-Three’s pussy and let you fuck me whenever you want. Just please?—
But there was no one to hear me beg. Only the empty room and the relentless device between my legs and the chain that kept me exactly where my daddies wanted me.
Eventually, somehow, exhaustion must have won. I drifted into fitful dreams where hands touched me everywhere, where cocks filled every hole, where I knelt between spread thighs and tasted things I’d never tasted before while voices praised me for being such a good bad girl.
I woke to harsh fluorescent lights and the sound of the door opening. My body ached everywhere—shoulders from being restrained all night, ass from the paddling, pussy from the relentless vibration that had finally, mercifully, stopped at some point while I’d been unconscious.
“Rise and shine, ladies.”
The voice was deep, unfamiliar. Not Daddy Bill or Daddy Ed. I blinked against the brightness, trying to focus on the figure in the doorway. A tall black man in a crisp uniform stood there, his expression neutral and professional. He had a shaved head anda neatly trimmed goatee, and his presence filled the small room in a way that made my stomach clench.
“I’m Mr. Jenkins,” he said, moving to the side of my bed. His eyes flicked over me—restrained, diapered, clearly disheveled—without a hint of reaction. “I’ll be supervising morning routines today.”
He reached up and unlocked the cuffs around my wrists. The relief was immediate as my arms came down, but the ache in my shoulders intensified as blood flow returned to normal. I bit my lip to keep from whimpering.
“Up,” he said, not unkindly but with firm authority. “Line up in the hallway with the other girls. You have two minutes.”
He left without waiting for a response, the door remaining open behind him. I heard similar sounds from other rooms—doors opening, that same deep voice giving the same instructions.
I pushed myself upright, every movement sending protests through my abused body. The diaper was heavy between my legs, soaked with more than just the arousal that had leaked from me all night. At some point while I’d been half-asleep, my bladder had released into the padding. The realization made my face burn with fresh shame.
