The pressure in my bladder increased slightly. I ignored it.
Ed tapped something on his tablet. “Your psychological profile is fascinating, actually. High intelligence, obvious. But also significant trust issues, fear of vulnerability, use of sexuality as a manipulation tool rather than genuine intimacy. The sensor data from your processing confirms what we suspected—you respond physiologically to submission even as your conscious mind rejects it. The fight between your psychology and your physiology is going to be?—”
“Do you need to use the bathroom, Little Seventy-One?” Bill interrupted, his eyes still on my face.
The question hit me like a slap. My face burned instantly. I hadn’t realized how obvious my discomfort had become, how much I’d been shifting in the chair. The mortification of having these men—these strangers who wanted me to call them Daddy—notice my bodily needs made me want to sink through the floor.
But my bladder was getting insistent now, the pressure building. I swallowed my pride.
“Yes,” I said quietly. “I need to pee.”
Bill nodded, his expression unchanged. “Go ahead.”
I stared at him, not understanding at first. Go ahead? But I was restrained in a chair. How was I supposed to?—
Then it clicked. The diaper. He wanted me to piss myself. To sit here in front of them and wet myself like a fucking toddler.
“Go fuck yourself,” I said, my voice shaking with rage and humiliation.
Ed made a note on his tablet without looking up. “That’s twelve swats now. You’re accumulating quite a debt, Little Seventy-One.”
“I don’t care about your fucking paddle,” I spat. “I’m not going to?—”
“You will,” Bill said calmly. “Eventually. The question is whether you do it now, while you still have some control over the timing, or whether you wait until your body makes the choice for you. Either way, you’re going to wet that diaper. We made sure you drank enough water in the van.”
Ed looked up from his tablet. “Now, as I was saying about the technical details of the project. The infrastructure we’ve built is actually quite elegant. We’ve designed a series of honeypot servers that mimic vulnerable infrastructure—financial institutions, healthcare systems, government databases. When cybercriminals attempt to breach them, they think they’re exploiting standard vulnerabilities. What they don’t realize is that every successful ‘breach’ actually installs a custom rootkit on their own machines.”
Despite everything—despite the diaper, the restraints, the burning humiliation—I felt my attention snag on his words. Honeypot servers. Rootkits. This was actual technical work, not just punishment and degradation.
“The genius of it,” Ed continued, warming to his subject in a way that reminded me uncomfortably of myself when I got into the zone, “is that we’re using their own confidence against them. They think they’ve found a zero-day exploit. They think they’re the smartest person in the room. Meanwhile, we’re mapping their entire network, cataloging their tools, identifying their associates.”
My bladder cramped. I squeezed my thighs together as much as the restraints allowed, but it only made the pressure worse. The rubber pants crinkled loudly with the movement.
Bill’s eyes flicked to me again, but he didn’t interrupt Ed.
“The challenge,” Ed said, pulling up something on his tablet and turning it so I could see—actual code, clean and elegant—“is making the honeypots convincing enough. Too secure and they’ll get discouraged. Too vulnerable and they’ll suspect it’s a trap or a teaching exercise or a researcher’s toy. We need that sweet spot where it looks like someone competent but not brilliant set up the security.”
I leaned forward slightly, trying to read the code on his screen. It was good work. Really good. The authentication bypass looked almost legitimate, just sloppy enough to be believable, but not so sloppy that it screamedtrap.
“The other issue,” Ed continued, “is the payload delivery mechanism. We can’t just dump a massive rootkit onto their system in one go. They’d catch it immediately. So we’ve developed a staged approach where?—”
Another cramp hit my bladder, stronger this time. I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood again, trying to focus on Ed’s words, trying to ignore the desperate need building in my body.
“—initial contact installs just a tiny bootstrap,” Ed was saying. “Barely two kilobytes. Then over the course of days or even weeks, it pulls down additional modules disguised as normal network traffic. By the time they have the full payload, if they even notice it, we’ve already extracted everything we need.”
“That’s where you come in,” Bill said, his calm voice cutting through Ed’s technical enthusiasm. “You’re going to help us build these traps. You understand how hackers think because you are one. You know what would fool you.”
I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, trying to will away the pressure. But my bladder was beyond insistent now. It was screaming. Every breath made it worse. Every tiny shift in the chair sent another wave of urgency through me.
And then, underneath the desperate need to pee, I felt something else. Something that made everything infinitely worse.
Heat. Not just in my face, but lower. Between my legs. A warmth that had nothing to do with the diaper or the rubber pants or the humiliation of sitting here listening to these men explain how they were going to use me, but had somehow come from all of it.
No.No, no, no.
But my body didn’t care what my mind wanted. The squirming, the pressure, the helplessness of being restrained while my bladder screamed for release—it was doing something to me. Something I’d spent my whole life denying, something the sensor between my legs was probably recording right now for these bastards to analyze.
I was getting aroused.
