"Doctor," he corrected, but there was heat in it now. "During sessions—"
"Fuck sessions." The profanity felt good, like stretching muscles I'd let atrophy. "Fuck protocols. Fuck this whole careful dance where we pretend this is still about research."
"Language." The word came out clipped, controlled, but I could see the tension in his shoulders.
"What are you going to do? Spank me? Make me count? Put me over your knee and tell me what a bad girl I've been?" I moved closer, nightgown transparent in the afternoon light. "We've done that dance. Find a new song."
"Bunny." Warning now, clear as a bell.
But I was tired of warnings. Tired of careful control and measured responses. Five weeks of being good, of acceptingpraise, of melting every time he called me baby. I wanted something else. Something real.
"That's not even my name," I spat. "It's just another collar. Another way to make me yours without admitting what this really is."
"And what is this, exactly?"
"Captivity dressed up as care. Stockholm syndrome with a research grant. A man so desperate for control he has to break women down to nothing just to feel—"
He moved faster than I'd ever seen him move, backing me against the wall with his body. One hand beside my head, the other gripping my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes.
"Careful," he said softly, but there was nothing soft in his expression. "You're playing with fire, little one."
"Maybe I want to burn."
"Maybe you do." His thumb traced my lower lip. "But not like this. Not out of boredom or restlessness or whatever tantrum you're building to."
"It's not a tantrum—"
"Isn't it?" His grip tightened. "Seven weeks of conditioning, and you're reverting to week-one behavior because you're frustrated. Because you want something I can't give you."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both." He leaned closer, and I could feel his control fraying at the edges. "The world outside isn't safe for what you've become. For what we've become."
"So I'm a prisoner."
"You're protected." The distinction mattered to him, I could tell. "Kept safe while you finish becoming."
"Becoming what? Your perfect little doll? Your broken toy? Your—"
He kissed me, hard enough to hurt, swallowing whatever venom I'd been about to spit. This wasn't the careful kisses of morning sessions or the gentle touch of aftercare. This was claiming, consuming, barely controlled violence shaped like affection.
When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
"You want real?" he asked, voice rough. "Want to drop the pretense? Fine. But don't cry when you get exactly what you're asking for."
"I don't cry anymore," I lied.
"You will."
He dragged me to the bed, movements sharp with suppressed fury. I'd pushed him to this edge before, but never quite over it. Never to the point where the careful researcher disappeared entirely, leaving only the man who'd been wanting things he couldn't name for seven weeks.
"On your back."
I complied, but slowly, making him wait. The nightgown rode up, exposing the pale pink panties that matched everything in this careful prison. His eyes tracked the movement, dark with something that had nothing to do with research.
"Spread your legs."
"Make me."
