I let my fingers move across the keyboard with the confidence of muscle memory, developed when I’d felt like an unstoppable black hat. Anyone reviewing the code would see nothing but technical documentation. But the right people—people who knew what to look for—would find the breadcrumbs I was leaving.
“It’s just what I need to do,” I whispered to myself, watching the lines of code populate my screen. “It’s just what needs to happen.”
The mantra helped. It kept my mind focused, kept me from thinking too hard about the implications. I was operating on autopilot now, my analytical brain compartmentalizing everything into discrete tasks. Write the code. Hide the message. Maintain the facade.
In my training sessions with my daddies, as if to compensate, I found myself becoming increasingly performative. When Daddy Bill bent me over his knee for my maintenance spankings, I sobbed louder than necessary, let my voice break with theatrical desperation. When they filled my mouth with their cocks, I sucked with exaggerated enthusiasm, moaning around their shafts like I was desperate for the taste of them.
“Please, Daddy,” I begged when Daddy Ed had me spread wide on their bed, his fingers working my clit while the plug stretched my ass. “Please let me have your seed inside me. I need it so badly.”
The words came easily now.Too easily, said a voice in my head. I pushed away the troubling thought that crept in during these moments—that the performance was starting to feel less like acting. That when I pleaded for their cocks in my anus, some part of me actually meant it, as insane as that would have seemed a week ago.
Stockholm syndrome, I told myself firmly. That’s all this is. My brain trying to cope with captivity by bonding with my captors. It’s a survival mechanism, nothing more.
I told myself how good it would feel to destroy Project Dollhouse. How satisfying it would be to watch their smug faces when they realized their star pupil had been sabotaging them all along. How sweet freedom would taste when I finally escaped this place.
The fantasy sustained me as I worked deeper into the codebase. On the fourth day, I found the vulnerability I’d been looking for—a way to encrypt a backdoor to Project Dollhouse itself within the remarks of the honey trap. The security protocols were sophisticated, but I was better. I always had been.
I embedded the instructions carefully: how to breach the facility’s network, how to override the biometric locks, how to access the residential floor where the bad girls were kept. I even included details about the guard rotations I’d observed, the camera blind spots, the emergency exits.
Someone would find it. Someone would come. And when they did, I’d be ready.
“How’s the work coming, Little Seventy-One?” Emily asked, rolling her chair over to my station during a break.
I minimized the screen reflexively, my heart rate spiking. “Good,” I said, forcing my voice to stay casual. “Just refining the authentication protocols.”
She leaned closer, her sharp eyes scanning what little remained visible on my monitor. For a terrifying moment I thought she’d seen something, noticed something off about the comment structure. But then she smiled and patted my shoulder.
“You’re doing amazing work,” she said. “Your daddies must be so proud.”
“They are,” I replied, and hated how much warmth bloomed in my chest at the words.
That night, Daddy Ed inspected the code I’d written while Daddy Bill prepared me for bed. I stood naked in their suite, trying tokeep my breathing steady as Daddy Ed’s eyes moved across his tablet screen, parsing my work line by line.
“This is exceptional, Little Pamela,” he said finally, looking up at me with genuine approval. “The adaptive response protocols here are even more sophisticated than your initial design. You’re exceeding every expectation. And your remarks are…”
I swallowed hard, hoping he would see the red that crept into my face as a flush of embarrassed pride.
“Well, everyone knows that it takes a great coder to write remarks this clear.”
The praise hit me like a drug, flooding my system with dopamine. I felt myself smile—a real smile, not the calculated ones I’d used to manipulate men before my arrest.
“Thank you, Daddy,” I whispered.
Daddy Bill guided me to their bed, his hands gentle on my shoulders. “Such a good girl deserves a reward,” he murmured. “Tonight you can come as many times as you want.”
They used me thoroughly that night, both of them taking turns in my pussy and my ass while I cried out with pleasure I couldn’t fully fake. When Daddy Ed finally let me sleep, curled between their warm bodies, I felt safe in a way that terrified me.
This isn’t real, I told myself in the darkness.This is an illusion. This is manipulation. You’re playing a role.
But the doubt had crept in, insidious and persistent. What if I wasn’t playing anymore? What if the performance had become reality?
I forced my mind back to the code, to the backdoor hidden in plain sight, to the escape plan crystallizing in my mind. I just needed to hold on a little longer. Just needed to keep the facade intact until someone found my messages.
Then I would be free. Then I could figure out who I really was, separate from what they were making me.
I had to believe that. Because the alternative—that I was genuinely becoming their good little bad girl—was too terrifying to contemplate.
On my second weekiversary at Project Dollhouse, as I couldn’t help thinking of it, all ten of the daddies came together to get us in the Workshop, at the end of our morning coding session.
