"I need—" The words tangled, pride and desperation at war. "I need you to touch me."
"I am touching you."
"More. Please. I need more."
"Do you?" He pulled away entirely, leaving me cold. "What makes you think you've earned more? You spit at me. Fought me. Made me lose control in ways that..." He paused, and when he continued, his voice had roughened. "In ways that changed things."
"I'm sorry." The words came out broken. Seven days of isolation had worn down my defenses, left me raw and needy and honest. "I'm sorry I pushed. Sorry I spit. Sorry I—"
"Are you?" His weight shifted again, and I felt him moving around the bed. "Or are you just sorry about the consequences?"
"Both. Neither. I don't know." Tears leaked from beneath the blindfold. "I don't know anything anymore. You took my name and gave me a new one. Took my choices and gave me rules. Took my pride and gave me—gave me—"
"Gave you what?"
"Purpose," I whispered. "You gave me purpose."
Silence stretched between us, heavy with admission. Then his hands were on me again, both of them, mapping my body like territory to be claimed.
"Do you know what you gave me?" His touch turned clinical, examining. "You gave me obsession. Three years of perfect control, and you destroyed it in three weeks."
His fingers found my nipples, pinching just hard enough to make me arch. "I haven't taken another subject since you arrived. Haven't been able to focus on anyone else's data. Just yours. Just you."
"Gabriel—"
"Doctor," he corrected, and the switch made my head spin. "During sessions, I'm Doctor. We need boundaries, don't we, Bunny? Lines we pretend mean something?"
"Yes, Doctor." The title felt strange after using his name, like stepping backward and forward simultaneously.
"Good girl." His hands moved lower, spreading my thighs wider. "Now, let's discuss what you've learned during your isolation."
"I learned—" His fingers found my clit, circling with devastating precision. "Oh god."
"Focus." The pressure increased slightly. "What did you learn?"
"I learned that—that I need—fuck, please—"
"Language." The touch disappeared. "Try again."
"I learned that I need structure," I gasped out. "Need rules. Need someone to—to push against."
"What else?" His fingers returned, building a rhythm that made thought difficult.
"I learned that silence is worse than punishment. That being ignored is worse than being controlled."
"And?"
"And I—" The pressure built, bringing me close to an edge I'd been chasing alone for days. "I learned that I don't hate you as much as I should."
"Good girl." But just as release approached, he stopped. "What else?"
"Please—"
"What else did you learn?" His voice had gone clinical again, that therapist tone that made me want to scream. "During those long nights with just your thoughts and that charming rabbit?"
"I learned that I'm broken!" The words tore out, raw truth after a week of only my own company. "That something in me is fundamentally wrong. That normal people don't get wet when their kidnapper calls them a good girl. Don't have orgasms from sucking on a pacifier. Don't lie in bed touching themselves while listening to recordings of their captor's voice."
"You touched yourself?" Something dark entered his tone. "Without permission?"
