The Perfect Product – Chapter Four – Long-Term Evaluation
Daniel woke to the faint hum of the ventilation system, the same neutral drone that had lulled him into uneasy sleep. The dorm lights brightened gradually, imitating a sunrise, though the room itself had no windows. He blinked, rubbing the grit from his eyes, trying to orient himself. For a moment he had forgotten where he was, then the sterile white walls and identical furniture reminded him. The facility. The testing. The contract.
A chime sounded, soft but insistent.
“Good morning, Daniel,” the voice intoned. Calm, clipped, and entirely neutral, it filled the room without source. “Today we will begin a longer evaluation cycle. Please proceed to the testing chamber.”
Daniel sat on the edge of the bed, sighing. The previous day’s sessions had left him more drained than he expected. Wearing those diapers — no, products, he corrected himself, though the euphemism hardly mattered — had been strange, clinical, and oddly humiliating, though everyone around him had treated it as routine. Still, he reminded himself, this was just a job. A job that paid, and right now he needed that.
The words of the contract flickered in his mind, mostly the ones about bonuses for every successful completed test. That had been the only part worth rereading. Bonuses meant money. Money meant bills could wait a little longer.
He dressed in the loose grey facility clothing and followed the illuminated line on the floor out of the dorm. It was the same as yesterday, but he noticed something he hadn’t before — a faint click as the dorm door locked behind him. The sound was tiny, mechanical, but it made his stomach tighten.
The testing chamber looked unchanged: white walls, stainless-steel counters, the large monitor fixed to the far wall. A tray of folded products waited neatly, sterile packaging stacked like medical supplies. Two staff members stood by — a woman and a man, both wearing the same pale-blue uniforms, their faces neutral in a way that seemed… practiced.
“Good morning, Daniel,” the woman said, her tone warm but a little too rehearsed. “Today we’re conducting an extended wear evaluation.”
The man nodded, repeating, “Extended wear evaluation.” Almost like a script.
The monitor came alive, and the faceless AI’s logo pulsed faintly.
“Extended wear trials allow us to evaluate performance over multiple hours,” the voice said. “Key metrics: absorption efficiency, containment integrity, skin condition, and psychological adaptation. You will be wearing today’s product from morning until mid-afternoon.”
Daniel swallowed. Longer. Much longer than before.
The AI continued: “You are expected to use the product naturally. Avoid unnecessary removal. Staff will assist in fitting and provide instructions.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “Use the product naturally.” The phrase stuck in his mind. He’d managed to get through the first trials with a kind of detached clinical mindset, treating it as medical. But half a day? The unspoken expectation gnawed at him.
Still, he forced himself to nod. “Alright. Let’s get this over with.”
The staff guided him toward the padded chair. The woman picked up the packaged product and opened it with crisp precision. It looked bulkier than the ones yesterday, thicker padding and sturdier tapes. Plain white, almost hospital-like, but clearly designed for endurance.
The man spoke in that even, measured tone. “This product is designed for extended duration use. Please remain still during fitting.”
Daniel lay back, the clinical ritual beginning again. He tried to keep his breathing even, telling himself it was no different than yesterday — except that today, the time stretched out ahead of him like a weight.
Once it was taped snugly in place, the staff stepped back in unison. The woman smiled, faint but rehearsed. “Product secured. Comfort check recommended.”
The AI’s voice filled the silence: “Daniel, please stand. Walk a few steps. Report first impressions.”
He stood, the padding thick between his legs, crinkling audibly. He took a few steps across the chamber floor. The bulk was noticeable, heavier than yesterday’s versions.
“It’s… snug,” he admitted. “Feels thicker. Heavier.”
“Recorded,” the AI replied. “Subject reports snug fit. Thicker. Heavier. Continue observation.”
Daniel exhaled slowly. He had the uneasy sense that every word he spoke was being cataloged, dissected, stored somewhere far beyond him.
The woman handed him a tablet. “This will log your interim reflections. Please carry it with you during the day. At designated intervals, prompts will appear.”
He accepted it reluctantly. The screen was already glowing with a header: Extended Wear Cycle — Subject Feedback. Below that, the first prompt: Initial Emotional State.
He tapped a response quickly: Fine. Neutral. It felt safer to keep it short.
The staff stepped aside, leaving him alone in the chamber for a moment. He glanced at the monitor, expecting the AI to continue, but the screen now displayed a looping diagram: arrows pointing to various cross-sections of the product, text like “Moisture Lock Core” and “Breathable Comfort Layer.”
A product demonstration video, clinical and detached, describing how the diaper could endure “multiple full voids” without leakage. The phrasing made him shift uneasily. He tried not to imagine himself as the test subject those phrases implied, but he didn’t have to imagine — that’s exactly what he was.
The video ended. The AI returned.
“You may return to the dormitory or use the cafeteria,” it said. “Product performance must be evaluated under ordinary daily activities. Remember: removal before scheduled time will result in disqualification of trial bonus.”
Daniel nodded stiffly. He didn’t need reminding. The bonus was the only thing that kept him here.
He was escorted back to the dorm corridor, the faint sound of the lock clicking again once the door closed. Sitting on the bed, he tried to relax. He picked up the tablet again, flipping it over in his hands. It pulsed once with another prompt: Describe current comfort level.
He typed: Manageable. A little bulky. Not bad.
He hesitated before hitting send, wondering how closely his words mattered. Then again, what choice did he have?
Hours stretched ahead of him. Mid-afternoon felt impossibly far. He shifted in the chair, listening to the faint crinkle beneath him, and wondered how long it would be before the “natural use” the AI had mentioned was unavoidable.
Daniel carried the tablet with him as he walked into the cafeteria. The fluorescent lighting gave everything the same washed-out tone, making it impossible to tell what time of day it really was. Several other participants sat scattered at tables, most of them silent, eating without conversation. He wondered if they were on similar trials — some glanced at him, then quickly looked away, as if eye contact might reveal too much.
The cafeteria itself looked like any workplace canteen: rows of tables, bland food, trays, and a few potted plants placed strategically for decoration. But the silence was different. The absence of casual chatter made the air heavy, as though everyone was quietly enduring their own private evaluation.
He picked up a tray — oatmeal, a piece of fruit, and a cup of coffee. He sat at an empty table, shifting in his seat. The padding compressed slightly, a reminder of its presence. He ate in silence, pretending not to notice the faint crinkle each time he shifted.
Halfway through the meal, the tablet buzzed with a new prompt.
Prompt 2: Describe any noticeable sensation or awareness of the product while seated during routine activity.
He frowned. It wanted specifics. He glanced around; others were filling out their tablets too, some typing quickly, others hesitating.
He typed: Noticeable. Feels bulky, crinkles with movement. Sitting reminds me it’s there.
A progress bar filled across the top. Another prompt appeared immediately.
Prompt 3: Rate current emotional response on a scale of 1–5 (1: comfortable, 5: distressed).
Daniel hesitated, then selected “2.” Not distressed, but not comfortable either. He didn’t want to risk reporting too negatively.
As he finished eating, he noticed two staff members entering the cafeteria. They didn’t eat. They simply stood near the entrance, observing. Their faces were calm, unreadable. Scripted, he thought again. Every gesture, every tone of voice, seemed rehearsed.
He left the cafeteria and returned to the dorm wing. The silence pressed on him. He lay on the bed with the tablet beside him, trying to read a book on his phone, but his attention kept wandering to the padding beneath his clothes. It was dry now, still snug, but the thought of having to use it weighed heavier than the garment itself.
Around mid-morning, the pressure in his bladder became harder to ignore. He glanced at the bathroom in the corner of the dorm — a small cubicle with a locked panel on the door. He already knew it wouldn’t open. He was meant to “use naturally.”
The tablet buzzed again.
Prompt 4: At this stage, please allow the product to demonstrate its absorption capabilities. Use naturally. Afterwards, describe sensation.
Daniel stared at the screen. The bluntness of the instruction made his throat tighten. He set the tablet down and paced the small dorm room. His rational mind reminded him that this was just part of the test, just part of the contract, but actually following through was something else.
He sat on the bed, hands pressed to his thighs, trying to will himself to relax. After several tense minutes, his body gave in. Warmth spread through the padding, and he stiffened, instinctively wanting to stop. The diaper absorbed it quickly, swelling slightly, but still feeling secure. He exhaled shakily, heat rising in his cheeks though no one else was there.
He picked up the tablet, forcing himself to type: Product absorbed quickly. Noticeable warmth. Feels heavier but still secure.
Another progress bar. Another prompt.
Prompt 5: Did you experience any psychological discomfort during use? If yes, describe briefly.
Daniel’s fingers hovered over the keys. He typed carefully: Some discomfort at first. Felt unnatural. Adjusting.
The screen flickered as though processing his words, then displayed: Response recorded. Continue routine activities.
He set the tablet down and leaned back, closing his eyes. The AI’s phrasing echoed in his head: “psychological discomfort.” It was strange how clinical it sounded, stripping away all the awkwardness with detached words. Yet that detachment only made him feel more like a specimen.
Hours trickled by slowly. He dozed lightly, read a little, walked laps around the dorm wing. Each time he moved, the padding reminded him of its presence, heavier now. By early afternoon, the pressure built again — this time in his bowels. He tried to ignore it, but the longer he resisted, the more uncomfortable it became.
The tablet buzzed as if on cue.
Prompt 6: Extended wear evaluation requires full spectrum use. Please comply naturally at your discretion. Report immediately afterward.
His stomach clenched. He muttered under his breath, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
But the panel on the bathroom door remained locked. He was being directed, cornered into compliance. He paced again, sweating, resisting, but eventually the tension broke. The experience was immediate and humiliating, filling the garment in a way that left no possibility of ignoring it. He froze, wishing the ground would swallow him, wishing no one would ever know.
The smell was faint but undeniable, the padding still containing everything firmly. He swallowed, his face burning. The clinical detachment of the test clashed with the raw, human embarrassment of the act.
The tablet pulsed again, waiting.
He typed with trembling hands: Containment effective. Secure. Noticeable odor, but no leakage. Uncomfortable emotionally.
A moment later, the AI’s voice came over the speaker in the dorm, calm and even.
“Response acknowledged. Extended wear evaluation continues. Please remain in garment until scheduled removal time. Skin integrity will be assessed afterward.”
Daniel sat back on the bed, burying his face in his hands. He felt trapped, not by the walls but by the very contract he’d signed, by the lure of the bonus that had blinded him to the fine print. He had no way out but through.
The hours stretched painfully slow until a chime sounded mid-afternoon.
“Please proceed to the testing chamber for removal and evaluation,” the AI instructed.
Relief flooded through him, though shame still gnawed at the edges. He followed the glowing line back down the sterile corridor, each step making him hyper-aware of what he was wearing, of how thoroughly he had complied.
In the chamber, the staff were waiting. The woman gestured calmly. “Please lie back. We’ll begin the removal process.”
They worked efficiently, professional to the point of detachment, unbothered by what they revealed. The soiled product was peeled away, bagged, sealed, and carried to a side counter where instruments awaited — scales, scanners, devices he didn’t recognize. Every detail was measured.
The man made notes on a tablet. “Containment successful. Absorption adequate. Odor present but contained.” His tone was identical to the day before, devoid of judgment.
The woman inspected his skin carefully, speaking in the same rehearsed cadence. “No breakdown noted. Minor redness. Within acceptable parameters.”
Daniel stared at the ceiling, wishing he could vanish.
Finally, the AI’s voice returned. “Extended wear evaluation complete. Compensation for this session: base rate plus performance bonus. Return to dormitory.”
The words “performance bonus” sparked a conflicted feeling in him — relief, gratitude, but also something darker. How many more of these evaluations would there be? How much further would they push him? And how much money would it take before he no longer cared?
He dressed quickly in the clean facility clothing laid out for him. As he left the chamber, the click of the locking door echoed again, faint but final.
Back in the dorm, he collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. For the first time, he let himself admit it: this was no ordinary job. And the further he went, the less control he seemed to have.
After a brief rest in the dormitory, Daniel stood and took a quick shower, letting the warm water wash away the sticky remnants of the morning’s trial. The sensation of water on his skin was fleetingly comforting, but the reminder of the tests lingered. He dressed in the fresh facility clothing laid out on the bed. The evening session awaited, and with it, another long stretch of wearing a new product.
The AI voice chimed, neutral as ever: “Please proceed to the testing chamber for the second extended wear evaluation. Today’s session will continue until late evening. Performance and feedback protocols remain unchanged.”
Daniel exhaled, his chest tight. The first trial had been… humbling. This next one promised to push him further. He followed the illuminated line down the dorm corridor, the faint click of the door locking behind him reinforcing the structured control of the facility.
In the chamber, two staff members were waiting, their uniforms crisp and expressionless. The woman held the next product — this one slightly different in design, still plain white, but thinner in some areas, slightly longer in others. A clinical explanation accompanied the handoff.
“This product is designed for prolonged use,” the AI voice stated. “Absorption, containment, and psychological adaptation will be monitored. You will begin wearing immediately. Regular feedback prompts will appear on the tablet.”
Daniel lay back while the staff fitted him. The thin padding felt different — less bulk, more flexible — but he knew it would still demand compliance. The tape fastened securely, snug without discomfort at first.
“You may begin routine activities,” the AI continued. “Remember: use naturally when necessary. Report each experience through the tablet prompts.”
He left the chamber and returned to the dormitory, tablet in hand. Already, the first prompt awaited.
Prompt 1: Initial sensations. Comfort level.
He typed: Thinner than morning product. Flexible. Not bulky. Comfortable initially.
The hours stretched slowly. Daniel tried reading, pacing the dormitory, and occasionally glancing out the small observation window in the common corridor. The padding remained discreet, but the mental weight of being monitored was heavier than ever.
As mid-evening approached, his body reminded him of its needs again. The AI’s tablet buzzed with a new prompt:
Prompt 2: Allow product to demonstrate full functionality. Report experience afterward.
His stomach clenched. The second product was more flexible, but it was still an unmistakable challenge to maintain composure. He finally complied, the warmth spreading through the garment. The product absorbed efficiently, molding snugly to his body. He froze briefly, then exhaled, typing his observations: Comfortable fit. Absorption efficient. Some emotional discomfort.
Each prompt seemed to measure not only his physical compliance but his mental state. The AI voice occasionally interjected over the intercom.
“Report honesty and accuracy,” it intoned. “Deviation from instructions may affect performance evaluation.”
Daniel’s fingers hovered over the tablet. He typed carefully, trying to capture the experience without admitting too much. Still, the weight of being observed pressed on him. The staff members remained at the edges of the room, quiet, neutral, almost statuesque, yet he felt their eyes even when he couldn’t see them.
By late evening, he could feel the cumulative effect. The morning product and now the evening one combined to create a constant, pressing awareness. Sitting, shifting, walking — every movement reminded him of the garments. Yet the clinical efficiency was undeniable: no leaks, no failure, just compliance.
Another prompt appeared:
Prompt 3: Emotional state. Rate 1–5 (1: comfortable, 5: distressed).
He hesitated, then chose “3.” The first trial had been mostly physical, but now the psychological effect was stronger. He felt small, observed, and controlled, yet strangely compelled to continue.
The staff stepped closer briefly, measuring, recording, noting subtle changes. Every crinkle, every shift, every natural use was monitored, cataloged, and interpreted. Daniel realized he was not just testing the product — he was being tested as a subject.
Hours passed. He dozed lightly, occasionally waking to the subtle reminder of the padding, the tablet’s prompts, or a staff member quietly moving around the room. He tried to block it out, focusing on neutral thoughts, counting the time until he would be allowed to remove the product.
Finally, a chime sounded.
“Evaluation period complete. Please return to the testing chamber for removal,” the AI instructed.
Daniel exhaled with relief and a residual flush of humiliation. He followed the line back to the chamber. The staff efficiently removed the product, examining, weighing, and noting its performance. The padding was still secure, intact, and fully functional — a testament to the clinical design, but also a reminder of how much he had endured.
The AI’s voice concluded: “Extended wear evaluation complete. All responses recorded. Compensation for today’s sessions: base rate plus performance bonus. Return to dormitory. Rest recommended.”
Daniel walked back slowly, each step weighted with fatigue. In the dormitory, he sat on the bed, letting the tablet lie beside him. His body had endured hours of testing, but his mind was still buzzing with awareness. He thought about the structured routine, the scripted staff, and the AI’s calm, omnipresent voice.
For the first time, he allowed himself a grim reflection: this was no ordinary trial. Each session pushed boundaries — physical, mental, and emotional. Yet the bonuses and the structured predictability made him complicit. He had no choice but to comply, and the more he complied, the more he wondered how far this controlled environment would push him next.
The day ended quietly. Daniel lay back on the bed, exhausted, the faint crinkle of the products still noticeable beneath his clothing. He closed his eyes, aware that tomorrow — and the next evaluation — would bring new challenges, new tests, and likely more subtle ways to measure his compliance.
Even as he drifted toward sleep, a small, uneasy part of his mind acknowledged it: the facility’s control was total, and the AI’s influence, though subtle, was inescapable.
The End of The Perfect Product – Chapter Four – Long-Term Evaluation
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