Chapter 12 Bottle Fed & Fucked #2
"Good girl," he breathed, and I felt him shaking with the effort of going slow. "Been wanting this for so long. Wanting you. Do you know what torture it's been? Watching you come apart on my fingers, my tongue, that fucking machine, but never—"
I swallowed again, and he pushed deeper, cutting off his own words with a groan. The bottle forced me to focus, to work for what I wanted. Each gulp earned another inch, another moment of connection I'd been denying myself out of principle I couldn't even name anymore.
"Look at you," he said when he was fully seated, both of us trembling with the newness of it. "Finally where you belong. Full of Daddy's cock and nursing like the good little girl you pretend you don't want to be."
I should have been humiliated. Should have been fighting. Instead, I was lost in sensation—him inside me, the warm milk coating my throat, the weight of his body holding me in place. This was what I'd wanted, what I'd pushed for. Complete surrender, but on terms that felt like victory.
The bottle was half empty now, and he started to move. Slow, deliberate thrusts that made me moan around the nipple. He watched my face with those analytical eyes, cataloguing every response, filing away what made me clench around him.
"Seven weeks," he said, voice rougher now. "Seven weeks of wanting this. Of you spread beneath me, taking everything I give. Do you know how many protocols I'm breaking right now?"
I swallowed in response, earning another thrust that hit exactly where I needed. The rhythm was maddening—dependent entirely on my compliance, my willingness to nurse from the bottle like the baby he'd accused me of being.
"All of them," he answered himself. "Every single rule about distance and objectivity and professional boundaries. Because of you. Because you crawled under my skin and made a home there. Because you're mine in ways that have nothing to do with contracts."
The bottle was getting light, maybe a quarter left. Panic fluttered in my chest—when it was empty, would he stop? Leave me empty and aching like another lesson in asking nicely?
"Please," I mumbled around the nipple.
"Please what? More milk?" He smiled, dark and knowing. "You'll have to ask properly. Let Daddy know what his baby needs."
I let the nipple fall from my lips, milk dripping down my chin. "Please, Daddy. More milk. Need—need more."
"Need more milk? Or need me to keep fucking you?"
"Both." The honesty came easier now, with him buried inside me and my defenses shattered. "Please, Daddy. Need to be full. Need you to—to keep going."
"There's my honest girl." He reached to the nightstand, producing another bottle. This one was fuller, heavier. "But this time, you'll have to work for it. Show me how grateful you are."
He pulled out slowly, the loss making me whimper. But before I could protest, he was repositioning us—him sitting against the headboard, me in his lap. The new angle when he pulled me down onto him made stars explode behind my eyes.
"Now," he said, pressing the new bottle to my lips. "Drink while you ride Daddy. Show me what a good baby you can be."
The position required coordination—nursing from the bottle while moving on him, finding rhythm that satisfied both needs. But something about the challenge focused me, narrowed my world to sensation and submission and the warm sweet milk that tasted like giving up.
"Perfect," he murmured, hands on my hips guiding my movement. "Look at you. So desperate to be filled. To be fed. To be fucked. My needy little girl who fought so hard against what she needed most."
I moved faster, chasing something that built with each swallow. The bottle created a rhythm—suck, swallow, rise, fall. My body knew the dance now, trained by weeks of conditioning to seek pleasure in obedience.
"Getting close?" He could read my body like a book now, knew every tell. "Want to come on Daddy's cock while you're drinking your bottle? While you're being exactly the baby you swore you weren't?"
I nodded frantically, sucking harder at the bottle. The milk was nearly gone again, and I whimpered around the nipple. I needed more time, more fullness, more of everything he was giving me.
"Swallow," he commanded. "Show me you can be good. Show me you deserve it."
I gulped the last of the milk, and he grabbed my hips, driving up into me with force that made me scream. The empty bottle fell from my lips as I came apart, convulsing around him while he held me steady.
"That's it," he growled, fucking me through it with abandon that showed his control had finally, completely snapped. "Take it. Take everything. My perfect fucking girl who needed to be broken just to feel whole."
He followed me over, face buried in my neck, my name—my real name—on his lips as he filled me. We clung to each other, shaking, sweating, stripped of every pretense we'd built between us.
When we finally stilled, I was crying again. But these weren't tears of shame or frustration. These were something else. Something that tasted like relief and release and maybe even happiness.
"Why the tears, baby?" he asked softly, thumbs wiping them away.
"Because—" I hiccupped, trying to find words for the enormity of feeling. "Because I've been empty for so long. And now I'm not. Now I'm full of you and milk and these feelings I don't understand and—"
"And you're scared," he finished.
"Terrified." The admission came easily now, with his softening length still inside me and my defenses decimated. "What happens when this ends? When the contract's up? When I have to go back to being Lilah?"
"You don't." Simple, certain. "Lilah's gone, baby. Has been for weeks. There's just Bunny now. My Bunny. And she's not going anywhere."
"You can't just keep me—"
"Can't I?" He shifted us carefully, laying me back against the pillows while staying buried inside. "You have no job to return to. No apartment—it's been sublet. No life that wasn't emptiness disguised as existence."
"You—what?"
"Week three," he admitted. "When I knew I couldn't let you go. I had my assistant handle the details. Your possessions are in storage. Your few friends think you took a research position abroad. There's nothing to go back to."
I should have been furious. Should have felt violated, controlled, manipulated. Instead, all I felt was relief so profound it made me dizzy.
"You planned this."
"I adapted." He traced my collar, fingers lingering on his initials. "The moment you spit at me that first day, I knew you were different. Knew the twelve weeks wouldn't be enough. So yes, I made arrangements. Cleared the path for what we both knew was inevitable."
"Which was?"
"This." He gestured to our tangled bodies, the empty bottles, the room that had become our whole world.
"You, mine completely. Not because of a contract or conditioning or careful manipulation.
Because you choose it. Because you need it.
Because anything else would be a lie we're both too tired to tell. "
I thought about arguing. About pointing out the coercion, the careful psychological manipulation, the way he'd dismantled my life while rebuilding me to suit his needs. But what was the point? He was right. Had been right from the beginning.
I was his.
Had been his from that first "good girl," from the first time I'd knelt, from the moment I'd chosen to stay when the door was unlocked. Everything else was just the slow process of accepting what my body had known immediately.
"So what happens now?" I asked.
"Now?" He finally pulled out, making me whimper at the loss. "Now we finish your training. Five more weeks of sessions, of pushing boundaries, of becoming. And then..."
"Then?"
"Then we see who Bunny is when she's not in a pink room.
When she's in my bed every night and at my table every morning.
When she's mine without contracts or conditions.
" He smiled, and it was tender and terrible and everything I'd never known I needed.
"When she's just mine because that's what she wants to be. "
"And if I don't? Want that?"
"Then I'll let you go." The words clearly hurt him to say. "Set you up with a new life, new identity if you want. Make sure you're safe and provided for. But we both know that's not what you'll choose."
"Cocky."
"Confident." He retrieved a warm cloth, cleaning me with careful attention. "You haven't wanted to leave for weeks. Haven't even thought about it except in abstract terms. This is home now. I'm home now."
The truth of it settled into my bones like the milk in my belly—warm and nurturing and undeniable. He was home. This room, these games, this careful dance of dominance and submission. All of it had become more real than the life I'd lived before.
"I hate you," I said, but there was no heat in it.
"I know." He pulled me against his chest, arranging us like puzzle pieces that had been cut to fit. "I love you too."
And there it was again. That word that was too big and too real and too true to examine closely. But I was tired of fighting truth. Tired of pretending I hadn't been falling for weeks, maybe from that first moment he'd looked at me and seen something worth keeping.
"Five more weeks," I said against his chest.
"Five more weeks."
"And then?"
"Then forever." He pressed a kiss to my hair. "If you'll have me. If you'll let me keep you the way you've kept me—completely, obsessively, permanently."
"That's a long time."
"It's not enough time." His arms tightened around me. "Not nearly enough to learn every way you break. Every sound you make. Every thought that passes through that brilliant, twisted mind."
"You make me sound interesting."
"You are interesting. The most interesting thing that's ever walked into my life and spit in my face." He laughed, and I felt it rumble through his chest. "My angry little bunny who became everything I never knew I needed."
"Your experiment."
"My salvation." The seriousness in his voice made me pull back to see his face. "I was dead inside before you. Going through motions, following protocols, studying human behavior like I wasn't human myself. You changed that. Changed me."
"By being a brat?"
"By being real. By feeling everything so intensely it leaked through your defenses. By fighting even when you wanted to surrender." He traced my face like he was memorizing it. "By making me feel things I'd trained myself not to feel."
"Like what?"
"Need. Want. Possessiveness so intense it scares me. Love so complete it rewrites everything I thought I knew about myself." He smiled, wry and honest. "You ruined me, baby. For other subjects. For clinical distance. For any life that doesn't have you in it."
"Good," I said fiercely. "You ruined me first."
"We ruined each other." He pulled me back down, tucking my head under his chin. "And now we get to build something new from the wreckage."
"Something with baby bottles and contracts?"
"Something with trust and choice and yes, probably baby bottles." His hand found mine, threading our fingers together. "Something real, even if it looks nothing like what either of us expected."
I thought about that—about expectations versus reality. I'd expected to endure twelve weeks of humiliation for money. Instead, I'd found myself. Found him. Found a version of happiness that required kneeling and collars and calling a man Daddy while he did unspeakable things to me.
"I want to keep the collar," I said suddenly.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. It's..." I touched the metal at my throat, warm from my skin. "It's mine now. Part of me. Like you are."
"Then you'll keep it." Simple as that. "Keep anything you want. The clothes, the toys, the name. Whatever feels right."
"Even Mr. Hoppy?"
"Especially Mr. Hoppy." He squeezed me gently. "That rabbit has seen things. He's part of our story now."
Our story. I liked the sound of that. Liked that we had a story, twisted and beautiful and ours.
"Tell me about after," I said. "After the five weeks. Where do we go? What do we do?"
"Where do you want to go?"
"I don't know. Somewhere... else. Somewhere that's not here but not my old life either."
"I have a house," he offered. "In the mountains. Isolated but not institutional. Space to be ourselves without observation or judgment."
"You'd leave the facility? Your work?"
"I'd take a sabbatical. Write papers on my findings. Consult remotely." He paused. "Figure out how to have a life with the woman who started as subject 47 and became everything."
"That sounds..."
"Terrifying? Impossible? Necessary?"
"Perfect," I admitted. "It sounds perfect."
"Then that's what we'll do." He said it like it was simple. Like rewriting two lives was as easy as making a decision. "Five more weeks here, then a house in the mountains where you can be Bunny without pink walls. Where I can be Gabriel instead of Doctor. Where we can be whatever we're becoming."
"What if we don't know how to be normal?"
"Then we'll be abnormal." He shrugged, the movement shifting me against him. "Normal is overrated anyway. I'd rather be real."
Real. The word that had started this whole confrontation. But lying there, full of him and milk and feelings too big to name, I understood that we'd found it. Not the real I'd been demanding—some false freedom beyond these walls—but the real that mattered.
The real where I could be small and protected and his.
The real where he could be controlling and obsessive and mine.
The real where love looked like dominance and submission and baby bottles and tears that meant joy instead of shame.
"Okay," I said simply.
"Okay?"
"Okay to all of it. To five more weeks. To a house in the mountains. To whatever comes after." I pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "To being yours in all the ways that matter."
"And I'll be yours," he promised. "In all the ways you'll let me."
"Deal."
We lay there as afternoon faded to evening, two people who'd broken each other open and found something worth keeping inside. The baby bottles sat empty on the nightstand, evidence of how far we'd fallen from normal. How far we'd risen above it.
"Bunny?"
"Mmm?"
"No more tantrums about going outside. The world will be there when we're ready for it."
"And when will that be?"
"When you stop being afraid you'll lose yourself out there. When you trust that who you are now is who you're meant to be." He tilted my chin up for a kiss. "When you believe that Bunny is enough, with or without pink walls to contain her."
"That might take a while."
"Good thing we have time then." Another kiss, deeper. "All the time we need."
And we did. Five more weeks of careful conditioning. A lifetime after that of choosing what we'd been shaped to want. Time to be broken and whole, controlled and free, exactly as fucked up as we needed to be.
Time to be real in all the ways that mattered.
Time to be home.