“Installation complete,” the doctor said into his recorder, stepping back. He tapped something on a tablet he’d pulled from his coat pocket. To my surprise, he turned to me. “Pam, honey,” he said, as if he meanthoneyto sound reassuring somehow, “I’m going to calibrate the sensor now. I’m afraid you’re goingto find this unpleasant, despite how your body responds—really, judging from your profile, because of how your body responds.”
Then he went back to the cabinet and retrieved something else. When he turned around, I saw what it was and my whole body went rigid.
A dildo. Clear silicone, about six inches long, clinical and impersonal like everything else in this nightmare.
“What the fuck are you?—”
He didn’t answer. Just moved between my legs again and pressed the tip against the scantily furred opening to my vagina. I tried to clench, tried to keep him out, but my body betrayed me, and with a helpless sob I realized how wet I’d gotten when they’d restrained me. The intrusion came slowly, deliberately, and I hated how my flesh yielded to accommodate it.
“Stop,” I said, but my voice came out weak, pathetic. “Please stop.”
He pushed it deeper, watching his tablet the entire time. Not looking at me. Not looking at what he was doing to me. Just watching whatever data the sensor was feeding him.
“Interesting,” he murmured. He withdrew the dildo slightly, then pushed it back in. Out and in. A rhythm that made my face burn with humiliation. “Very interesting. Sensor is functional. Humidity and temperature are nicely elevated. We’ve got a baseline.”
I wanted to scream at him, to demand what was interesting, to assert some kind of control over this situation. But I was strapped to a table with my legs spread and a stranger fuckingme with a piece of silicone while two guards watched, and there was no control left to assert.
He kept going for what felt like hours, but I knew was only a minute or two. The dildo moved in and out while he studied his screen, occasionally making small sounds of satisfaction. My body responded despite my mind’s desperate attempts to shut it all down—I felt more wetness, felt my muscles clenching around the intrusion, and I wanted to die. I bit my lip to keep the whimpers from escaping, until I tasted the metal of my blood.
Finally, he withdrew the dildo completely and set it aside. He picked up a small handheld device and pressed a button.
“Control, this is Dr. Mercer in Processing Seven. Convict Nelson shows optimal response patterns for Project Dollhouse. Recommend immediate transfer.” He paused, listening to whatever response came through. “Confirmed. Preparing for transport now.”
Project Dollhouse.
The words meant nothing to me, but they sounded ominous as hell.
The door opened and two more officers entered. These guys were different—bigger, more purpose-built. The kind of men who spent their lives moving bodies from one place to another.
“You can go ahead and release the restraints,” the doctor said. “She’s headed to her assignment.”
The taller guard from before moved to my legs, unbuckling the straps around my knees. The stirrups released and my legs dropped, muscles screaming from being held in that position. The guard grabbed my arm and hauled me upright.
This was it. My only chance. It didn’t matter in the moment that that chance represented no actual opportunity given where I was and that I was completely naked. I needed at the very least to show these assholes that I had no intention of complying with whatever the fuck Project Dollhouse represented.
The moment my feet hit the floor, I twisted away from his grip and lunged for the door. Made it maybe three steps before hands grabbed me from behind. The officer’s grip was iron around my arms, yanking me backward so hard I thought my shoulders would dislocate. I tried to wrench free, but there were too many of them and I was still naked and vulnerable and they were trained for this.
“No! Let me go!” I screamed, kicking out wildly. My foot connected with something solid, but it didn’t matter. They dragged me back to the center of the room like I weighed nothing.
The doctor had pulled a chair from against the wall, one of those standard office chairs with wheels. He sat down deliberately, adjusting his white coat, and looked up at the officers with an expression of mild annoyance.
“Bring her here,” he said.
I knew what was coming before they positioned me. Some animal part of my brain recognized the setup even as my conscious mind refused to accept it. They maneuvered me to his right side, and then strong hands were pushing me down, bending me forward over his lap.
“No! Don’t you fucking?—”
My words cut off as I found myself draped over his thighs, my bare ass in the air, my face toward the floor. One of his handspressed down on the small of my back, pinning me in place with surprising strength for someone who looked like an academic. I thrashed against his hold, trying to push myself up with my hands against his shin, but he just pressed down harder.
His other hand came down on my right cheek with a crack that echoed through the sterile room.
The pain was immediate and shocking. Not the worst pain I’d ever felt, but the humiliation of it—being spanked like a child, naked, over this stranger’s knee—made it a thousand times worse. I opened my mouth to scream at him, to curse, to say anything, but his hand came down again on my left cheek before I could form words.
And again. And again.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t count. Didn’t explain or lecture or give me any kind of framework to understand what was happening. Just methodically, rhythmically brought his palm down on my ass over and over while I struggled uselessly against his grip. Each impact sent a jolt of pain and shame through me. My skin burned. My eyes watered despite my desperate attempts to keep the tears back.
“Stop! Please!” I hated myself for begging but I couldn’t help it. The pain was building, layering, each new strike landing on already tender flesh.
