Chapter 9 Obedience Conditioning
Obedience Conditioning
Iwoke in Gabriel's bed to sunlight streaming through those floor-to-ceiling windows and the absence of warmth beside me. The sheets still held his scent—cedar and something darker—but the man himself was gone.
For a moment, I wondered if I'd dreamed it. The rescue from isolation. The confession. The terrifying word—love—that neither of us should have said. But my body remembered. Muscles sore in new ways, the ghost of his arms around me, the collar heavier somehow after a night of being held.
"Good morning, Bunny." His voice came from across the room, and I turned to find him sitting in a leather chair, fully dressed, tablet in hand. Professional distance already restored. "Sleep well?"
"I—yes." I pulled the sheets higher, suddenly aware of my vulnerability. His t-shirt had ridden up in the night, leaving me exposed in ways that went beyond skin. "Where did you—when did you get up?"
"Hours ago. I had reports to review." He didn't look up from his tablet. "The shower is through that door. Your clothes for today are laid out. We'll begin your session in thirty minutes."
Session. Not talk. Not the promised discussion of what we were to each other. Just another day of carefully controlled conditioning.
"Gabriel—"
"Doctor," he corrected, finally meeting my eyes. "During sessions, I'm Doctor. We discussed this."
The whiplash made my head spin. Last night he'd held me like something precious, whispered about obsession and knowing me. Now he sat there in his armor of professionalism, tablet like a shield between us.
"Right." I slid from the bed, his t-shirt barely covering the essentials. "Doctor. My mistake."
Something flickered in his eyes—regret? desire?—but his expression remained neutral. "Twenty-nine minutes now. Best hurry."
The bathroom was all black marble and rain showers, masculine luxury that made my pink prison look even more infantile by comparison.
I stood under water hot enough to hurt, trying to reconcile the two versions of him.
The man who'd kissed me like drowning. The doctor who corrected my use of his name.
The clothes he'd chosen were worse than usual. A white babydoll dress that barely reached mid-thigh, with pink ribbons at the shoulders. White knee socks. Mary Janes that buckled across the instep. I looked like someone's corrupted doll fantasy, which was probably the point.
When I emerged, he was standing by the windows, hands clasped behind his back. The morning light caught his profile—sharp jaw, aristocratic nose, lips I now knew the taste of.
"Beautiful," he murmured, then seemed to catch himself. "The outfit suits today's protocol."
"Which is?"
"Obedience conditioning through positive reinforcement." He turned to face me fully, and I caught that heat in his eyes again before he banked it. "We've established that punishment motivates you to a point. But I believe rewards will prove more effective for long-term behavioral modification."
"Rewards like sleeping in your bed?"
"That was..." He paused, choosing words carefully. "An aberration. Today we return to proper protocols."
"Proper protocols where you call it love?"
His jaw tightened. "Sit."
I remained standing, small rebellion in the face of his retreat. "We were supposed to talk. You said—"
"I said many things in a moment of weakness." He moved closer, and I could see the careful control in every line of his body. "But morning brings clarity. You're my subject. I'm your researcher. Anything else is... complicated."
"Complicated." I laughed, sharp and bitter. "That's what you're calling it?"
"Sit." This time the command came with steel beneath silk. "Or we can revisit yesterday's isolation protocol."
The threat made something cold slide down my spine. Seven days alone had nearly broken me. I couldn't do it again, not after having him close. Not after tasting what it felt like to be held.
I sat.
"Good girl." The praise came automatically, and I watched his face tighten as he realized it. "Today's session will focus on verbal affirmations combined with physical reward. Simple concept—you say what I tell you to say, you get what your body wants."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you get nothing." He pulled out a small remote—different from the usual one. "But I don't think that will be a problem. Not anymore."
He was right, and we both knew it. Seven days of isolation followed by a night in his arms had shifted something fundamental. I was raw, needy, desperate for contact I'd never admitted to wanting.
"On your knees."
The command should have sparked rebellion. Instead, I found myself sliding from the chair, dress riding up as I knelt on the plush carpet. His intake of breath was barely audible, but I caught it. Proof that his control wasn't as perfect as he pretended.
"Hands behind your back."
I complied, the position making me arch slightly, chest pushed forward. The babydoll dress was thin enough that every reaction showed through the fabric. No hiding here. No armor except attitude I was too tired to maintain.
He circled me slowly, predator cataloguing prey. "We'll start simple. Repeat after me: I am Bunny."
"I am Bunny." The words came easier now, worn smooth by weeks of use.
"Good. Again, with feeling."
"I am Bunny." I put more force behind it, hating how naturally it rolled off my tongue.
"Better." He stopped in front of me, and I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Now: I belong here."
That stuck harder. "I..."
"You can do it." His voice gentled fractionally. "Three words. You've said harder things."
"I belong here." The admission tasted like surrender.
"Beautiful. One more: I need structure."
"I need structure." That came easier because it was true. Had been true longer than I wanted to admit.
"Perfect." He moved back to his chair, settling with that controlled grace. "Now we'll combine concepts. Say: I am Bunny and I belong here."
"I am Bunny and I belong here."
"I am Bunny and I need structure."
"I am Bunny and I need structure."
Each repetition wore down resistance like water on stone. The kneeling position, the little girl dress, his voice guiding me through admissions that felt like prayers—it all combined into something hypnotic.
"Good girl." He leaned back, studying me. "Now something harder. Tell me what you thought about during isolation."
"I thought about you." The truth came without thought, weeks of conditioning overriding pride.
"More specific."
"I thought about your voice. Your hands. The way you—" I stopped, heat flooding my face.
"The way I what?"
"The way you make me feel things I don't want to feel."
"Such as?"
"Safe." The word escaped like a sob. "You make me feel safe even when you're hurting me. Especially when you're hurting me. And that's sick, isn't it? That's broken."
"That's human." He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "You associate pain with care because that's how you learned love. Chaos and crisis and cleaning up other people's messes. But here..."
"Here what?"
"Here the pain has purpose. Rules. Limits. It ends when it should end. Begins when you need it to begin." His voice dropped lower. "That's not sick, baby. That's healing."
"Don't." The endearment hit harder after the morning's distance. "Don't call me that if you're going to pretend last night didn't happen."
"I'm not pretending anything. I'm compartmentalizing." He stood again, moving closer. "Now, back to your affirmations. Say: I want to be good."
"I want to be good."
"I want to please Daddy."
My breath caught. We'd used the title before, but this felt different. More real. More like admission than play.
"Say it."
"I want to please Daddy."
"Louder."
"I want to please Daddy." The volume made it feel more true.
"Better." He touched my hair, just barely. "Now the hard one. The one you're going to fight. Ready?"
I nodded, though dread pooled in my stomach.
"Say: I'm Daddy's toy."
"No." The refusal came instantly, instinctively. "I'm not—that's not—"
"Shh." His fingers combed through my hair, gentle and terrible. "Think about it. What's a toy?"
"Something to be played with."
"What else?"
"Something owned. Used. Put away when you're done."
"Is that what you think I do? Put you away?"
"You left me for seven days!"
"To make a point. To show you what absence felt like." His hand tightened in my hair, not quite pulling. "Did it feel like being put away? Or did it feel like missing something essential?"
Tears pricked my eyes. "Both."
"Say it, and I'll make you feel good. Fight it, and you'll kneel there aching." His free hand traced my collar. "Your choice. Always your choice."
"It's not a choice when—"
"When what? When your body already knows what it wants?" He moved around behind me, both hands in my hair now, styling it into something I couldn't see. "When you're already wet just from kneeling? From saying please and repeating truths we both know?"
"Stop knowing things about me."
"Never." He finished whatever he was doing to my hair—pigtails, from the feel of it. Of course. Complete the little girl look. "Say it, baby. Three words. Show me how good you can be."
The remote appeared in his hand, and I tensed. But instead of a vibrator, soft music began playing. Something classical, strings and piano, beautiful and melancholy.
"Music helps with difficult admissions," he explained. "Gives your mind something to hold onto besides the words."
"That's manipulation."
"Everything here is manipulation. The question is whether it serves you." He moved back in front of me, crouching to my eye level. "Look at me."
I did, finding those storm-grey eyes full of something complex. Want and restraint and that terrible patience that would wait forever for my surrender.
"Say it," he whispered. "Not because I'm making you. Because you need to. Because carrying all that autonomy is exhausting and you want to put it down, just for a while."