"Today we're exploring something different," he announced, entering with camera equipment that made my stomach drop. "The relationship between shame and arousal. Between degradation and desire."
"I don't—"
"Don't lie." He set up the tripod with practiced efficiency. "We've danced around this for weeks. The way you respond when I call you mine. The way you flush when I describe what you've become. Time to face it directly."
"Why film it?"
"Because you need to see yourself. Hear yourself. Understand that the words you're afraid to say are already written across your face every time I touch you."
The camera's red light blinked on, and I felt exposed in ways that had nothing to do with the sheer nightgown barely covering me. This was different from being watched. This was being documented. Preserved.
"Tell the camera your name," he instructed, settling into his director's chair.
"Bunny."
"Your full name."
I swallowed hard. "Bunny. Property of Dr. Gabriel Mire."
"When did you become property?"
"The moment I—" The words tangled, but his patient silence demanded truth. "The moment I stopped fighting what I wanted. When I realized being owned meant being safe."
"And what do you want?"
"To be used." The admission burned, but the camera's unblinking eye demanded honesty. "To be valued for my submission. To matter because of how completely I give myself to you."
"Be more specific."
"I want—" My face heated, but I forced the words out. "I want to be your toy. Your stress relief. Your perfect little doll who exists for your pleasure."
"What else?"
Each question pulled deeper truths, darker admissions. The camera recorded everything—my flush, my trembling, theway my body betrayed excitement despite the shame. Or because of it.
"I want to be ruined," I whispered. "Want you to break down every part of me that resists. Want to be so thoroughly yours that I forget I ever existed separately."
"Tell me what you are."
"I'm—" The words he wanted stuck in my throat. But his eyes held mine, patient and inexorable. "I'm Daddy's little hole."
The shame of it washed through me like fire, but underneath was something else. Relief. Arousal. The sick twist of finding freedom in degradation.
"Say it again."
"I'm Daddy's little hole." Easier the second time. "Made to be filled. Trained to be grateful. Empty without you."
"What do you want me to do to you?"
"Use me." The words tumbled out now, dam broken. "Ruin me. Break me into pieces so small I can't ever reassemble into who I was. Make me nothing but nerve endings and need and the echo of your name."
He stood slowly, approaching the camera. Made adjustments that shifted the angle, captured me more fully. When he returned to his chair, his control seemed frayed at the edges.
"Continue," he commanded. "Tell me every degrading thought you've had. Every shameful fantasy. Every way you've imagined me using you."
I talked until my throat was raw. Confessed fantasies I'd barely admitted to myself. Described needs that would have horrified the woman I'd been twelve weeks ago. The camera captured it all—evidence of my complete corruption.
When I finally ran out of words, he stopped recording. But instead of putting the camera away, he connected it to a speaker system I hadn't noticed. Suddenly, my voice filled the room. Every degrading admission, every desperate confession, playing on repeat.
