I bent back to the paper, aware of his eyes on me but not uncomfortable. Being watched by him had become as natural as breathing.
You broke me. Carefully, methodically, with the precision of a surgeon. But unlike all the other times I'd been broken, you stayed to help rebuild. Showed me that the pieces could fit together differently, better, into something sustainable.
You introduced me to parts of myself I'd been too afraid to acknowledge. The little girl who wanted structure and praise. The woman who craved domination and degradation in equal measure. The person who could find peace in surrender.
You gave me Mr. Hoppy and with him, permission to be soft. Gave me rules and with them, freedom from choice. Gave me your collar and with it, belonging I'd never known existed.
Thank you for seeing beauty in my anger and transformation in my resistance.
Thank you for being patient with my meltdowns and firm with my boundaries.
Thank you for teaching me that submission could be a gift I gave rather than something taken from me.
Thank you for the cold showers and careful punishments and endless wells of understanding.
Thank you for making me crawl when I needed humbling and holding me close when I needed comfort.
Thank you for every moment of these twelve weeks, even the ones that hurt. Especially the ones that hurt.Because each one carved away something that wasn't serving me, leaving space for something better to grow.
But mostly, thank you for loving me. Not the potential version or the fully trained version or the easy version. The actual me, messy and difficult and so very lost when I arrived.
You asked me once what I wanted to be when this was over. I know the answer now: Yours. Simply, completely, eternally yours. Whatever that looks like, wherever that leads, however that develops.
Because being yours is the first identity that's ever felt like home.
Tomorrow the contract ends but my gratitude never will.
Your Bunny, forever grateful, forever yours.
I set down the pen, tears flowing freely now. When I looked up, Gabriel's expression was intense, unreadable, dangerous in its focus.
"Come here," he said softly.
I took the letter and moved to him, kneeling automatically between his spread knees. He cupped my face, thumbs brushing away tears with unexpected gentleness.
"Read it to me."
"Out loud?"
"Every word." His hands dropped to rest on his thighs. "I want to hear your voice speak these truths."
I unfolded the paper with trembling hands, cleared my throat. "Gabriel, tomorrow the contract ends..."
Reading my own words aloud transformed them. What had felt like confession on paper became declaration in speech. Each sentence a promise, each paragraph a vow. Bythe time I reached the middle, describing how lost I'd been, my voice was thick with emotion.
He shifted, adjusted himself, made his needs known without words. I understood, continuing to read while attending to him with the devotion the letter described. The juxtaposition should have felt crude—heartfelt gratitude mixed with service. Instead, it felt perfect. Showing him with actions what the words expressed, proving my submission was complete.
"You taught me that love could include ownership," I read, voice muffled but clear, "without erasure..."
His hand found my hair, not guiding but connecting. Grounding. I continued reading between acts of service, each word punctuated by proof of my devotion. The letter became liturgy, worship made verbal and physical simultaneously.
When I reached the final lines—"Your Bunny, forever grateful, forever yours"—he was close. I folded the letter carefully, set it aside, and gave him my complete focus. Not because he demanded it but because I wanted to. Because serving him had become as natural as breathing, as necessary as heartbeat.
His release came with my name on his lips, and I accepted it like communion. Like blessing. Like the final seal on everything the letter had expressed.
"My perfect girl," he breathed, pulling me up into his lap. "My beautiful, broken, grateful girl."
"Did I—was the letter okay?"
