Chapter 12 Bottle Fed & Fucked
Bottle Fed & Fucked
Five weeks left, and I'd grown complacent. Comfortable in our twisted routine, confident in my ability to read his moods, to push just enough without crossing the invisible lines that triggered real consequences.
I should have known better.
"I want to go outside," I announced as he entered for our afternoon session. Not our morning one—those had become something else, something softer that neither of us acknowledged. Afternoons were still for training, for maintaining the pretense that this was research.
He paused, setting down his ever-present tablet. "Outside?"
"Yes. Real air. Sunshine. Something besides these pink walls and your voice telling me what a good girl I am."
"The garden is available for supervised—"
"Not the garden." I crossed my arms, still in the sheer lavender nightgown he'd chosen. "Real outside. Beyond the facility. A walk, a drive, something."
"That's not possible."
"Why? Because I might run?" I laughed, sharp and bitter. "We both know I won't. Couldn't if I wanted to. You've made sure of that."
Something flickered in his eyes—annoyance, maybe. Or hurt. "I've made sure of nothing. Every choice has been yours."
"Choice?" I stood, nightgown swirling around my thighs. "What choice? Stay here or go back to nothing? Submit or be punished? Beg or be denied? Those aren't choices, Gabriel. They're carefully constructed traps."
"Doctor," he corrected, but there was heat in it now. "During sessions—"
"Fuck sessions." The profanity felt good, like stretching muscles I'd let atrophy. "Fuck protocols. Fuck this whole careful dance where we pretend this is still about research."
"Language." The word came out clipped, controlled, but I could see the tension in his shoulders.
"What are you going to do? Spank me? Make me count? Put me over your knee and tell me what a bad girl I've been?" I moved closer, nightgown transparent in the afternoon light. "We've done that dance. Find a new song."
"Bunny." Warning now, clear as a bell.
But I was tired of warnings. Tired of careful control and measured responses. Five weeks of being good, of accepting praise, of melting every time he called me baby. I wanted something else. Something real.
"That's not even my name," I spat. "It's just another collar. Another way to make me yours without admitting what this really is."
"And what is this, exactly?"
"Captivity dressed up as care. Stockholm syndrome with a research grant. A man so desperate for control he has to break women down to nothing just to feel—"
He moved faster than I'd ever seen him move, backing me against the wall with his body. One hand beside my head, the other gripping my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes.
"Careful," he said softly, but there was nothing soft in his expression. "You're playing with fire, little one."
"Maybe I want to burn."
"Maybe you do." His thumb traced my lower lip. "But not like this. Not out of boredom or restlessness or whatever tantrum you're building to."
"It's not a tantrum—"
"Isn't it?" His grip tightened. "Seven weeks of conditioning, and you're reverting to week-one behavior because you're frustrated. Because you want something I can't give you."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both." He leaned closer, and I could feel his control fraying at the edges. "The world outside isn't safe for what you've become. For what we've become."
"So I'm a prisoner."
"You're protected." The distinction mattered to him, I could tell. "Kept safe while you finish becoming."
"Becoming what? Your perfect little doll? Your broken toy? Your—"
He kissed me, hard enough to hurt, swallowing whatever venom I'd been about to spit. This wasn't the careful kisses of morning sessions or the gentle touch of aftercare. This was claiming, consuming, barely controlled violence shaped like affection.
When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
"You want real?" he asked, voice rough. "Want to drop the pretense? Fine. But don't cry when you get exactly what you're asking for."
"I don't cry anymore," I lied.
"You will."
He dragged me to the bed, movements sharp with suppressed fury. I'd pushed him to this edge before, but never quite over it. Never to the point where the careful researcher disappeared entirely, leaving only the man who'd been wanting things he couldn't name for seven weeks.
"On your back."
I complied, but slowly, making him wait. The nightgown rode up, exposing the pale pink panties that matched everything in this careful prison. His eyes tracked the movement, dark with something that had nothing to do with research.
"Spread your legs."
"Make me."
His smile was all predator. "Oh, baby. You really don't want to play that game today."
"Don't I?" I kept my thighs pressed together, chin raised in defiance. "Maybe I'm tired of being good. Maybe I want to see what happens when Daddy really loses control."
The title in that context—mocking, challenging—made something snap in his expression. He grabbed my ankles, forcing my legs apart with enough force to make me gasp. But instead of touching me, he left.
Just walked out, leaving me spread and exposed and confused.
He returned minutes later with something that made my blood run cold and hot simultaneously. A baby bottle, filled with what looked like milk. The sight of it—so innocent, so perverted in context—made my chest tight.
"What—"
"You want to act like a child? Throw tantrums? Test boundaries you know exist for your protection?" He set the bottle on the nightstand with deliberate calm. "Then you'll be treated like one."
"That's not—I don't—"
"But you do." He started unbuttoning his shirt, each movement precise despite the barely leashed energy humming through him.
"You've been asking for this. Begging for it, really.
Every time you call me Daddy with that little catch in your voice.
Every time you suck on that pacifier when you think I'm not watching. "
"That's different—"
"Is it?" The shirt came off, revealing a chest I'd only glimpsed before. Lean muscle, a few scars that spoke of a life before this facility. "Tell me, Bunny—when you were planning this little rebellion, what did you think would happen?"
"I thought—" The words tangled as he started on his belt. "I wanted—"
"You wanted me to fuck you." Simple, clinical, devastating. "Wanted to push until I stopped being careful. Stopped treating you like research. Stopped pretending I don't think about you every second you're not in my sight."
The belt came free with a whisper of leather. I'd felt that belt before, across my ass, marking me with careful precision. But this was different. This was intent without restraint.
"That's not—"
"Lie to me again." He stepped out of his pants with economical movements. "Tell me you haven't been wet for weeks, waiting. Tell me you don't touch yourself thinking about this moment. Tell me you don't want exactly what's about to happen."
I couldn't. Because he was right, had been right about everything since the day I'd signed that contract. I'd been building to this—to him finally breaking the last barrier between researcher and subject.
"Nothing to say?" He moved onto the bed, caging me in with his body. "The girl who wanted to burn suddenly speechless?"
"I—"
"Shh." He reached for the bottle, unscrewing the cap with one hand. "Open your mouth."
"No."
"No?" He tilted his head, studying me. "You started this game, baby. Don't you want to finish it?"
"Not like this—"
"Exactly like this." He traced the nipple of the bottle across my lips, leaving a trail of milk. "You wanted real? This is real. The part of you that needs to be small, to be cared for, to let someone else make the decisions. The part you've been fighting even as you crave it."
"That's not what I—"
He pushed the nipple past my lips, cutting off protest. The milk was warm, sweet, flooding my mouth before I could stop it. And somewhere beneath the humiliation was relief. Permission to be exactly as small as I felt.
"There we go," he murmured, holding the bottle steady. "Such a fussy baby today. But Daddy knows what you need."
I should have bitten down. Should have spit it out. Instead, I found myself sucking, drawing more of the warm liquid into my mouth. His free hand traced down my body, mapping territory he'd touched a hundred times but never like this. Never with intent to claim completely.
"You want to know why you can't leave?" he asked conversationally. "Why real outside isn't safe? Because you'd fall apart. Three hours in your old life and you'd be looking for someone to tell you what to do. How to be. Who to be."
The bottle emptied slightly, and he pulled it back. I whimpered at the loss, then hated myself for it.
"But you don't need that out there," he continued, positioning himself between my spread thighs. "Because you have me. Have this. Have exactly what that broken little girl inside has been searching for."
"Please—"
"Please what?" He traced my entrance through the soaked panties, making me arch. "Use your words. Tell Daddy what you need."
"I need—" The words caught, pride warring with seven weeks of conditioning. "I need you."
"Need me to what?"
"To—to fuck me." The admission burned. "To stop being careful. To—"
"To make you mine completely?" He pushed the panties aside, and I felt him there, right there, after weeks of everything but this. "To stop pretending this is research when we both know it became something else the moment you said please?"
"Yes."
"Then drink." He brought the bottle back to my lips. "Every swallow, I'll give you more. Stop drinking, I stop moving. Understand?"
I nodded, taking the nipple back into my mouth. The first swallow coincided with him pushing inside, and the dual sensation made me moan around the bottle. Full in every way, claimed in every way, exactly as overwhelmed as I'd been craving.