After breakfast, Mr. Jenkins led us to the room I had glimpsed through its big window when my daddies had given me my tour. The Workshop. He pressed his palm to another biometric scanner and the lock clicked open.
The room beyond took my breath away despite everything else. Seeing it up close was different from the look I’d gotten through the glass. The high-end workstations lining the walls each had dual monitors and ergonomic chairs in front of them, as if to make for a sharp contrast with prison uniforms and, in my case, diapers. The servers hummed quietly in their enclosures. The equipment appeared to comprise nothing but bleeding-edge stuff, and my fingertips almost itched to make contact with a keyboard.
“Take your assigned stations,” Mr. Jenkins said.
The other girls moved to specific workstations, clearly familiar with the routine. I stood frozen, unsure where to go, until Emily gestured to an empty station near hers.
“That’s yours, new girl,” she said.
I walked over and sat down carefully, the plug pressing deeper as I settled into the chair. The monitors flickered to lifeautomatically, and I found myself staring at a login screen with a clean generic design.
Mr. Jenkins left, closing the door behind him. The click of the lock was audible.
Emily swiveled in her chair to face me. “I’ll show you how to log in. Your daddies set up your credentials last night.”
She leaned over, close enough that I could smell her shampoo, and typed a username into my login screen: DOLLHOUSE_071. Then she gestured for me to enter a password.
“They’ll have left it on a sticky note in your desk drawer,” she explained.
I opened the drawer and found a yellow Post-it with a complex string of characters. I typed it in, my fingers finding the familiar rhythm of keyboard work despite my trembling hands. The system accepted the credentials and a new interface loaded—sleek and purpose-built.
“This is what we call the Honeypot Development Environment,” Emily said, her voice taking on a different quality—the tone of someone who loved their work. “It’s where we build the traps. The system will walk you through a tutorial first. Pay attention—it’s actually pretty elegant.”
A dialog box appeared on my screen with clean, minimalist design:
Welcome to Project Dollhouse Technical Training
This tutorial will introduce you to Selecta’s proprietary counter-hacking methodology and honeypot architecture. Estimated completion time: two to three hours.
Please be aware that your recruitment into Project Dollhouse has made you ade factosignatory of a nondisclosure agreement. Any sharing of Selecta’s intellectual property in your work on Project Dollhouse will result in severe disciplinary consequences, including corporal punishment and extended service of Selecta’s choosing, in Selecta’s correctional facilities.
Begin tutorial?
I swallowed hard, my brow having furrowed at the highly non-standard NDA’s mention ofcorporal punishment. I clicked yes, and the first lesson loaded. Despite everything—the plug in my ass, the diaper around my hips, the humiliation of the morning—I felt my analytical mind engage. The tutorial was sophisticated, walking me through the theoretical framework of creating convincing vulnerabilities that would trap attackers while appearing legitimate.
“See?” Emily said, watching my screen. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it? The way they’ve structured it?”
She was right. The system presented scenarios where I had to identify the optimal level of security—too strong would repel attackers, too weak would seem suspicious. I had to think like both the attacker and the defender simultaneously, finding the sweet spot that would lure in cybercriminals while documenting their methods.
I worked through the first few modules, my fingers flying over the keyboard. The familiar feeling of solving complex problems washed over me, and for a few minutes I almost forgot where I was. Almost forgot about the plug, the diaper, the degradation of the morning.
Then I felt it—a strange ache in my chest. A longing for something I couldn’t quite name.
I glanced at the clock. It had been over sixteen hours since I’d last seen Daddy Bill and Daddy Ed. Since they’d tucked me into bed last night with that vibrator keeping me on edge. Since they’d shaved me and filled me and made me call them Daddy.
And somehow Imissedthem. I wanted to see them, because I wanted to tell them that I was doing really well at the tutorial, and I wanted to ask them a zillion questions about the theory and the practice behind it. I wanted to ask Daddy Bill why the fuck my mind seemed more focused with a diaper on and a plug in my anus. I wanted to ask Daddy Ed what the dataset behind the methodology looked like.
The realization made me feel dizzy, then mortified, and then angry.
Nope. That’s not what you’re feeling. That’s… that’s Stockholm syndrome or some shit.
But that didn’t mean I wasn’t feeling it, did it?
I missed my daddies. After a few hours with them, and a few hours without them, I missed their presence, their approval, their… God help me… their control. The thought made me want to die from shame, but I couldn’t deny the truth of it. Some part of me had already started to crave their attention, to need the structure they provided.
The door opened and I looked up instinctively, hoping?—
But it wasn’t my daddies. Two men I didn’t recognize entered, both in business casual attire. They walked directly to Keiko’s station.
