Chapter 8 Craving Contact
Craving Contact
Seven days.
Seven days of pink walls and perfect silence. Seven days of the AI's cheerful voice being my only companion. Seven days of meals through the slot and showers alone and sleeping curled around a stuffed rabbit because it was the only thing I could touch that didn't feel like punishment.
Seven days of nothing but my own mind eating itself alive.
I woke to restraints I didn't remember being put in. Soft leather around my wrists and ankles, spreadeagled on the bed like a specimen pinned for display. The familiar weight of a blindfold pressed against my eyes, though this one felt different. Silk maybe, or something equally expensive.
"Good morning, Bunny."
His voice hit me like a physical thing. I jerked against the restraints, a sound escaping that might have been his name or might have been pure need. Seven days of silence, and now his voice poured over me like honey mixed with gasoline.
"Gabriel?" My own voice came out cracked, unused. "Where—why did you—"
"Shh." Something touched my hair, so gentle I might have imagined it. "I'm here now."
"Seven days." The words tumbled out, accusation and plea twisted together. "You left me for seven days. No sessions, no—no anything. Just me and these fucking walls and—"
"Language." But there was no real censure in it. His fingers traced down my cheek, and I turned into the touch like a flower seeking sun. "Did you miss me, little one?"
Pride said lie. Say no. Say the isolation was a vacation from his mind games and careful cruelty. But my body had already betrayed me, arching toward him as much as the restraints allowed.
"Yes." The admission burned. "I missed—I thought—"
"What did you think?" His weight settled on the bed beside me, close enough to feel his heat but not quite touching. "Tell me."
"I thought you were done with me. That I'd pushed too far. That you'd decided I wasn't worth—" I cut myself off, horrified by what I'd almost said.
"Wasn't worth what?"
"Your time." The lie tasted bitter. What I'd meant was: worth keeping. Worth studying. Worth anything at all.
"Oh, Bunny." His hand found my throat, not squeezing, just resting over the collar. "You're worth so much more than my time. You're worth my complete attention. My professional reputation. My carefully maintained control."
"Then why—"
"Because you needed to miss me." Simple, clinical, devastating. "You needed to understand what my absence felt like. To crave what you claim to hate."
"I don't crave—"
His hand moved lower, between my breasts, down my stomach. The nightgown was gone, I realized. I was bare except for the restraints and blindfold, exposed and vulnerable and already responding to his proximity.
"Your body says otherwise." His fingers traced patterns on my inner thigh, never quite touching where I needed. "Seven days of conditioning, and look how you react to just my voice. Just my presence."
"That's not—it's just—"
"Just what?" His weight shifted, and I felt him lean closer. His breath ghosted over my ear. "Just your body recognizing its owner? Just your mind finally admitting what it needs?"
"Fuck you."
"Such language from such a sweet girl." His fingers found my center, barely a touch, just enough to make me gasp. "Is that any way to greet Daddy after a week apart?"
The word hit different after seven days of nothing. Made something crack in my chest, something I'd been holding together through sheer spite.
"Please." I didn't know what I was begging for. His touch, his absence, his everything.
"Please what?" His fingers traced lazy circles, never quite enough. "Use your words, baby. Tell me what you need."
"I need—" The words tangled, pride and desperation at war. "I need you to touch me."
"I am touching you."
"More. Please. I need more."
"Do you?" He pulled away entirely, leaving me cold. "What makes you think you've earned more? You spit at me. Fought me. Made me lose control in ways that..." He paused, and when he continued, his voice had roughened. "In ways that changed things."
"I'm sorry." The words came out broken. Seven days of isolation had worn down my defenses, left me raw and needy and honest. "I'm sorry I pushed. Sorry I spit. Sorry I—"
"Are you?" His weight shifted again, and I felt him moving around the bed. "Or are you just sorry about the consequences?"
"Both. Neither. I don't know." Tears leaked from beneath the blindfold. "I don't know anything anymore. You took my name and gave me a new one. Took my choices and gave me rules. Took my pride and gave me—gave me—"
"Gave you what?"
"Purpose," I whispered. "You gave me purpose."
Silence stretched between us, heavy with admission. Then his hands were on me again, both of them, mapping my body like territory to be claimed.
"Do you know what you gave me?" His touch turned clinical, examining. "You gave me obsession. Three years of perfect control, and you destroyed it in three weeks."
His fingers found my nipples, pinching just hard enough to make me arch. "I haven't taken another subject since you arrived. Haven't been able to focus on anyone else's data. Just yours. Just you."
"Gabriel—"
"Doctor," he corrected, and the switch made my head spin. "During sessions, I'm Doctor. We need boundaries, don't we, Bunny? Lines we pretend mean something?"
"Yes, Doctor." The title felt strange after using his name, like stepping backward and forward simultaneously.
"Good girl." His hands moved lower, spreading my thighs wider. "Now, let's discuss what you've learned during your isolation."
"I learned—" His fingers found my clit, circling with devastating precision. "Oh god."
"Focus." The pressure increased slightly. "What did you learn?"
"I learned that—that I need—fuck, please—"
"Language." The touch disappeared. "Try again."
"I learned that I need structure," I gasped out. "Need rules. Need someone to—to push against."
"What else?" His fingers returned, building a rhythm that made thought difficult.
"I learned that silence is worse than punishment. That being ignored is worse than being controlled."
"And?"
"And I—" The pressure built, bringing me close to an edge I'd been chasing alone for days. "I learned that I don't hate you as much as I should."
"Good girl." But just as release approached, he stopped. "What else?"
"Please—"
"What else did you learn?" His voice had gone clinical again, that therapist tone that made me want to scream. "During those long nights with just your thoughts and that charming rabbit?"
"I learned that I'm broken!" The words tore out, raw truth after a week of only my own company.
"That something in me is fundamentally wrong.
That normal people don't get wet when their kidnapper calls them a good girl.
Don't have orgasms from sucking on a pacifier.
Don't lie in bed touching themselves while listening to recordings of their captor's voice. "
"You touched yourself?" Something dark entered his tone. "Without permission?"
"I—yes."
"How many times?"
Heat flooded my face. "I don't know."
"Liar." His fingers returned, building me up again. "How many times did you make yourself come while thinking of me?"
"Every night." The admission broke something. "Sometimes twice. I couldn't—couldn't stop. Kept hearing your voice. Kept feeling—"
He stopped again, leaving me hanging on the edge of release. "Kept feeling what?"
"Empty," I sobbed. "I felt empty without you."
"There's my honest girl." His approval washed over me like warm water. "See how much easier it is when you stop fighting the truth?"
"I hate the truth."
"I know." His weight shifted, and suddenly his mouth was where his fingers had been. The first touch of his tongue made me scream. "But your body doesn't."
He worked me with the same methodical patience he brought to everything. Building me up over and over, always stopping just before release. Seven days of need compressed into moments of almost, and he wielded my desperation like a scalpel.
"Please," I begged, dignity abandoned. "Please, I need—"
"What do you need?" He pulled back enough to speak, breath hot against sensitized flesh. "Be specific."
"I need to come. Please. Please let me come."
"Let you?" He laughed, the sound vibrating through me. "Oh, baby. I'm not keeping you from coming. You're keeping yourself from coming."
"What?"
"You could come anytime. All you have to do is ask properly." His tongue traced patterns that made my thighs shake. "Ask to come home."
"I—what?"
"My bed," he clarified, pulling away entirely. "You want to sleep in my bed tonight. Want me to hold you while you shake apart. Want to be mine completely, not just during sessions."
"That's not—"
"Isn't it?" His fingers returned, brutal in their precision. "Seven days of dreaming about it. I know. I watched the footage. Watched you curl around that rabbit and whisper my name in your sleep."
Humiliation burned through me, but it only made the need sharper. He was right. I had dreamed of it. Of being held by someone who knew exactly how broken I was and wanted me anyway.
"Ask," he commanded. "Ask to come home to Daddy's bed."
The words stuck in my throat. This was different from calling myself Bunny, different from accepting praise. This was asking for something real. Something that would change the dynamic we'd built on careful cruelty and measured responses.
"I can't."
"You can." His touch gentled, soothing instead of stimulating. "You've been so brave, baby. So strong. But you don't have to be strong anymore. Just be mine."
"I'm already yours." The truth of it hit like a physical blow. "You know I am. The collar, the name, the way I respond—"
"Those are just symbols." His weight shifted, and I felt him lean over me. When he spoke, his lips brushed mine. "I want the reality. Want you to choose it. Choose me."
"Gabriel—"
"Doctor," he corrected, but gently. "Stay in the scene, baby. Stay with me."