My Daddy. My doctor. My perfectly controlled chaos who'd taught me that breaking could be the beginning of something beautiful.
I drifted toward sleep, body still humming with sensation, mind finally quiet. Tomorrow there would be more sessions. More chairs, probably. More opportunities to practice being the girl who said please and meant it.
But for now, I just existed. Soft and claimed and singing with the simple joy of being exactly where I belonged.
Of being exactly who I was meant to be.
His good girl. His Bunny. His perfectly broken masterpiece learning to shine.
Cuddle Training
Two weeks had become one, and I'd discovered a new kind of hunger. Not for food or water or even the release he'd taught me to crave. This was simpler and infinitely more devastating: I was starving for touch.
He'd been withholding it for three days.
Not punishment, exactly. He still conducted our sessions with professional precision. Still guided me through exercises designed to deepen my responses. But the casual touches had vanished—no hand on my lower back, no fingers in my hair, no absent-minded caresses while he read his notes.
I hadn't realized how much I'd come to depend on those small contacts until they were gone.
"Good morning, Bunny." He entered with his tablet, maintaining careful distance. Today's outfit: grey slacks and a black sweater that made him look softer than his behavior suggested.
"Good morning, Daddy." I sat on the bed's edge, hands folded, wearing the white slip he'd chosen. Everything about my posture screamed 'good girl,' but he didn't comment. Didn't close the space between us.
"How are you feeling today?"
"Empty," I admitted, the honesty training too deep to lie. "Like I'm floating without anchor."
"Interesting." He made a note, stylus moving across the screen. "Can you elaborate?"
"I miss—" The words stuck, but he waited with that terrible patience. "I miss being touched. Miss the weight of your hand. Miss feeling real."
"You are real."
"Not like this." I gestured at the space between us, vast as an ocean. "Not when you're so far away."
"I'm right here."
"Your body is here." Frustration leaked through despite my efforts. "But you're not. Not the way that matters."
"And how is that?"
"Close. Connected. Making me feel—" I swallowed hard. "Making me feel like I exist. Like I matter. Like I'm yours."
"You are mine." Said simply, factually. "Distance doesn't change that."
"Doesn't it?" I stood, moving closer, but he stepped back. Maintaining the gap. "When you don't touch me, I feel like I'm disappearing. Like all the work we've done is unraveling and I'm becoming grey again."
"Dependency on physical contact isconcerning—"
"Don't." The word came out sharp. "Don't retreat into clinical language. Not now. Not when we have a week left."
Something flickered in his eyes. "What would you prefer?"
"The truth. Why are you doing this? Why take away the one thing that makes me feel stable?"
He set down the tablet, giving me his full attention. "Because in one week, you'll leave this facility. You'll exist in a world where I can't always be touching you. Where you'll need to feel secure in our connection even when we're apart."
"So this is training?"
