Project Dollhouse. The words kept echoing in my mind. What the fuck was Project Dollhouse? Some kind of rehabilitation program? Punishment? Something worse?
I thought about Leo, probably sitting in a normal jail cell right now with access to a lawyer and due process and all the rights I’d just lost. Because I was female. Because Selecta’s fucking assessors had decided my ‘psychobiometric profile’ made me suitable for whatever nightmare waited at the end of this drive.
What the ever-loving fuck was going on?
CHAPTER 3
Pam
The drive probably lasted an hour. When the van finally stopped and the back doors opened, the sudden flood of fluorescent light made me squeeze my eyes shut. Hands grabbed my arms before I could even process where we were, and the officers began unbuckling the restraints.
They pulled me out into what looked like an underground parking garage—concrete floors, harsh lighting, numbered parking spaces. Nothing distinctive. Could have been anywhere in the city or the suburbs.
The horrid rubber pants crinkled loudly as they marched me toward an elevator. I tried to keep my legs together, tried to minimize the waddling gait the padding forced on me, but it was impossible. The officers didn’t seem to notice or care. We reached the elevator and one of them pressed the call button.
The ride up was silent except for the mechanical hum of the elevator and the soft rustling of the pants with each breath. Iwatched the numbers light up: B2, B1, G, 1, 2. We stopped at the second floor.
The doors opened onto a hallway that looked nothing like what I’d expected. Clean carpet, neutral walls, recessed lighting—it could have been any corporate office building. Photos of cityscapes were interspersed with doors marked only with numbers like 2A08. The cognitive dissonance made my head spin.
They walked me down the corridor, past several of the doors, until we reached one with a piece of paper taped to it. The paper had been printed from a standard office printer, nothing official about it. Just two words in Arial font: ‘Dollhouse Intake.’
One of the officers knocked twice, then opened the door without waiting for a response.
Inside was a room that looked like a conference space someone had repurposed. A folding table sat in the center with two men seated behind it. Both wore business casual—khakis and button-down shirts. The one on the left had salt-and-pepper hair, brown eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard. The one on the right was younger, dark hair streaked with premature silver, blue eyes and sharp angular features.
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 canthinkof us as your ‘handlers’ to start off with, if you want. But you’llcallus 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 toreceive 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.”
