"I want," I said simply.
"Want what?"
"All of it. The structure and the surrender. The rules and the rewards." I met his eyes, letting him see the truth he'd worked so hard to uncover. "You."
"You have me," he said, and kissed me like a promise. "For as long as you want me."
"What if that's forever?"
"Then I'll spend forever making sure you never regret it." He smiled against my lips. "My perfect little problem. My favorite experiment. My Bunny."
"Yours," I agreed, and meant it.
The video was gone, laptop closed, session officially over. But we stayed there, holding each other in the soft light of morning, two broken people who'd found something whole in the wreckage.
"Gabriel?"
"Hmm?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For seeing me. The real me. And deciding I was worth keeping."
"Baby," he said softly, "you were always worth keeping. You just had to believe it too."
And maybe that was the real transformation. Not the begging or the submission or the way my body responded to his commands. But the slow, careful work of believing I deserved to be seen, to be held, to be kept.
That I deserved to be happy, even if happiness looked like nothing I'd ever imagined.
Even if it looked like being Bunny—Daddy's good girl who cried when she came and meant it when she said please.
Even if it looked like love.
Bottle Fed & Fucked
Five weeks left, and I'd grown complacent. Comfortable in our twisted routine, confident in my ability to read his moods, to push just enough without crossing the invisible lines that triggered real consequences.
I should have known better.
"I want to go outside," I announced as he entered for our afternoon session. Not our morning one—those had become something else, something softer that neither of us acknowledged. Afternoons were still for training, for maintaining the pretense that this was research.
He paused, setting down his ever-present tablet. "Outside?"
"Yes. Real air. Sunshine. Something besides these pink walls and your voice telling me what a good girl I am."
"The garden is available for supervised—"
"Not the garden." I crossed my arms, still in the sheer lavender nightgown he'd chosen. "Real outside. Beyond the facility. A walk, a drive, something."
"That's not possible."
"Why? Because I might run?" I laughed, sharp and bitter. "We both know I won't. Couldn't if I wanted to. You've made sure of that."
Something flickered in his eyes—annoyance, maybe. Or hurt. "I've made sure of nothing. Every choice has been yours."
"Choice?" I stood, nightgown swirling around my thighs. "What choice? Stay here or go back to nothing? Submit or be punished? Beg or be denied? Those aren't choices, Gabriel. They're carefully constructed traps."
