"There." He stepped back, and I could hear the satisfaction in his voice. "Now you look like what you are. A bratty little bunny who needed to be put in her place."
I tried to move, to adjust to the foreign fullness. The tail—because of course it was a tail—swished against my thighs with every movement. Humiliation burned hotter than the welts from his belt.
"Turn around."
I did, slowly, aware of how I must look. Tear-stained face, dress rucked up, tail peeking out beneath. His eyes were still dark, control not fully restored. And there, straining against his jeans, evidence of exactly how affected he was.
"You were right," he said, voice still rough. "I do get hard watching you. Punishing you. Breaking down those wallsyou've built so carefully." He adjusted himself without shame. "The question is: what are you going to do about it?"
"I—what?"
"You pushed until you found a reaction. Well, here it is." He gestured to his obvious arousal. "Your move, Bunny."
I stared at him, this man who'd taken everything from me. My name, my freedom, my sense of self. Who'd rebuilt me into something new, something that responded to his voice and craved his approval even as I hated him for it.
"I don't—"
"Yes, you do." He moved closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne mixed with sweat and something darker. "You know exactly what you want to do. What you've been thinking about during those long nights with your pacifier and your shame."
"Shut up."
"Make me."
The echo of my earlier defiance made something snap inside me. I dropped to my knees, hands going to his belt before I could think better of it. He made a sound—surprise or approval, I couldn't tell.
"Is this what you want?" I looked up at him as I worked his zipper. "To see how low I'll go? How much I'll debase myself?"
"I want to see who you really are when you stop fighting yourself."
I freed him from his jeans, taking a moment to appreciate that even his cock was perfect. Of course it was. Everything about him was designed to make me feel inferior.
"Bunny—"
I took him in my mouth before he could finish, deep enough to make myself gag. His hands flew to my hair, the braid unraveling under his grip. I worked him with all the fury and frustration of the past weeks, using every trick I'd learned in my previous life.
"Fuck." The curse sounded torn from him. "That's—you're—"
I pulled back just enough to speak. "Shut up. You wanted to see who I really am? This is it. Someone who kneels. Someone who takes. Someone who—"
He thrust back into my mouth, cutting off my bitter words. I let him, let him use me the way he'd been using me all along. Tears streamed down my face, mascara running in black rivers. The tail shifted with every movement, reminding me of my humiliation.
When he came, I swallowed it all. Not because he told me to, but because I wanted to take this one thing from him. Wanted to make him as wrecked as I felt.
I sat back on my heels, wiping my mouth, glaring up at him. "Happy now? Is that enough data for your fucking research?"
He was breathing hard, face flushed, that perfect control in tatters. For a long moment, we just stared at each other. Captor and captive. Researcher and subject. Whatever the hell we were becoming.
Then he dropped to his knees in front of me, cupping my face in his hands.
"You're crying," he said softly.
"I'm always crying here."
"No." His thumb traced the path of tears. "This is different. Tell me why."
"Because I don't know who I am anymore!" The words exploded out, raw and true. "I'm not Lilah but I'm not really Bunny either. I'm just... this. Whatever you've made me. And I hate it. I hate you. I hate that I dream about your voice. I hate that the collar feels wrong when I sleep on my side because I'm so used to it. I hate—"
He kissed me.
