I hummed again, that soft sound of contentment that seemed to be my new default. He held me tighter, pressing kisses to my hair.
"My musical little bunny," he murmured. "Singing your happiness for anyone to hear."
"Just for you," I corrected. "Everything is just for you now."
"No." He pulled back to meet my eyes. "It's for you too. This happiness, this peace, this version of yourself that hums lullabies—she exists for you. I just helped you find her."
"By strapping me to chairs and making me beg?"
"By showing you that surrender isn't weakness." His thumb traced my collar. "That being owned doesn't mean being diminished. That you can be completely mine and more yourself than ever."
I thought about arguing, but what was the point? He was right. Had been right from the beginning, probably. I was more myself in this pink prison than I'd ever been in my grey apartment. More real in submission than I'd been in stubborn independence.
"Two weeks left," I said against his chest.
"Does that scare you?"
"No." And it didn't. "Whatever comes next, I trust you to guide me through it. To keep me safe while I figure out who Bunny is outside these walls."
"She's whoever you want her to be." He stood, lifting me easily. "The girl who hums when she's happy. Who kneels when she needs to. Who asks for what she wants without shame."
"Who loves her Daddy even when he straps her to furniture?"
"Especially then." He carried me back to my room, my soft pink sanctuary that felt more like home than anywhere I'd lived before. "Because she knows every restraint is really support. Every rule is really care. Every moment of control is really an act of love."
He tucked me into bed, pulling soft covers up to my chin. I should have felt infantilized. Instead, I felt cherished. Protected. Held even when his hands weren't on me.
"Rest now," he instructed. "Process what happened. Tonight we'll talk about what comes next."
"Will there be more chairs?"
He laughed, warm and genuine. "Probably. I have a whole collection planned for the mountain house. Each one designed for different responses, different needs."
"You really have been planning this."
"Since week two," he admitted. "Since you looked at me with such fury and I thought 'I need to keep her. Need to see who she becomes when the anger burns away.'"
"And who am I becoming?"
"Yourself." He kissed my forehead. "Just the version that was always there, waiting for permission to exist."
I hummed again as he left, that soft sound of contentment that seemed to live in my throat now. The chair's effects still echoed through my body—little aftershocks of pleasure that reminded me how thoroughly I'd been claimed.
But more than physical sensation, something had shifted internally. Some last wall crumbling, some final pretense abandoned. I'd meant every word in that chair. Every please, every thank you, every desperate declaration of belonging.
I was his.
Not because he'd conditioned me. Not because he'd broken me down. But because being his felt like coming home to myself. Like finding pieces I hadn't known were missing.
Two weeks left of contracts and protocols.
A lifetime after that of choosing this. Choosing him. Choosing the version of myself that hummed with happiness and knelt with grace and found freedom in surrender.
The thought should have terrified me. Instead, I just hummed louder, letting the sound fill my pink room like a prayer. Like a promise. Like a declaration of everything I was becoming.
Everything I'd maybe always been, just waiting for someone patient enough to help me see it.
Waiting for him.
