I am Bunny.
I belong here.
I am Daddy's toy.
I am his favorite little problem.
The last one wasn't on his list, but it felt the most true. Because problems had solutions, eventually. And maybe, if we were very lucky or very stupid, we'd solve each other.
Or destroy each other trying.
Either way, I was his.
And that, more than any affirmation, was the truth that would reshape everything.
The Fucking Machine
Eight weeks left had become seven had become six, and I'd grown comfortable in our twisted routine. Morning sessions of careful conditioning. Afternoons of prescribed activities. Evenings where sometimes he'd hold me and sometimes he'd leave me alone with my scheduled programming.
I'd stopped counting days. Started counting moments instead—of weakness, of surrender, of the way his control cracked when I pushed just right.
Which is why I decided to push harder.
"I want to renegotiate," I announced as he entered for our morning session, carrying his usual tablet and that leather case that could contain anything.
He paused, one eyebrow raising. Today's outfit: charcoal suit pants and a white dress shirt, sleeves already rolled to his elbows. Professional with hints of accessibility.
"Renegotiate what, exactly?"
"My contract." I sat primly on the bed, hands folded, wearing the pale yellow sundress he'd chosen. Playing at sweet while planning war. "You've violated your own terms multiple times. Called it love. Held me outside sessions. Kissed me without it being part of a protocol."
"Have I?" He set down his items with deliberate calm, but I caught the tension in his shoulders.
"You have. Which means the contract is void. I should be free to leave."
"Interesting interpretation." He pulled out the vanity chair, positioning it to face me. "Continue."
"You set the rules. Professional distance. Clinical observation. Clear boundaries between researcher and subject." I lifted my chin. "You broke every one of them. That first kiss wasn't research—that was you losing control. Letting me sleep in your bed wasn't protocol—that was weakness."
"Was it?"
"Yes." I leaned forward, pressing the advantage. "You can't have it both ways, Gabriel. Either this is research with rules we both follow, or it's something else entirely. And if it's something else, you have no right to keep me here."
He was quiet for a long moment, studying me with those storm-grey eyes that had learned to read me too well.
"You've been planning this argument for days," he observed. "Waiting for the right moment. Choosing your words carefully. Tell me—what response did you expect?"
"I expected you to see logic. To acknowledge that—"
"You expected me to feel guilty." He stood, moving closer. "To be so overcome by my violations that I'd unlock the door and let you walk away. Is that it?"
"If you had any integrity—"
"Integrity?" Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. "Let's discuss integrity, shall we? The integrity of someone who spent three weeks rehearsing arguments instead of using the unlocked door. Who practices manipulation tactics on someone she claims to hate. Who gets wet when I call her a good girl but pretends it's all conditioning."
"That is conditioning! You made me—"
"I revealed you." He was close now, looming over where I sat. "Every response, every need, every desperate little want was already there. I just gave it structure. Gave it permission."
