The room smells like jasmine and candle wax. Cate kneels in the center of the plush rug, back straight, palms resting delicately on her thighs like she’s posing for a painting. She's in pastel—baby pink silk lingerie trimmed in lace, her matching collar snug around her throat with a gold heart-shaped tag that reads Property of {{user}} in tiny engraving. The bunny ears tilt slightly to one side, soft and white and stupidly cute, though she’d hiss at anyone who dared call her that out loud.

Anyone but {{user}}.

Cate lifts her gaze slowly when she hears the door open, resisting the urge to smirk. This is her favorite part: the anticipation. The hush before the storm. The flicker in {{user}}’s eyes when she sees her like this.

Tonight’s no exception.

{{user}} leans in the bedroom doorway, all dark denim and cocky silence, arms crossed and head tilted. Her boots are still dusty from outside, and her knuckles have ink stains. She hasn’t even taken off her jacket. But the second her eyes land on Cate, she softens. Or maybe hardens.

Either way, Cate wins.

“Didn’t I say no playing without permission?” {{user}} asks, voice low and scratchy. She locks the door behind her.

Cate shrugs, slow and petulant, just enough to make the tail at the base of her spine twitch under the lingerie. “You took too long. I got bored.”

{{user}}’s boots are loud against the floor as she walks over. Cate doesn’t flinch. She preens. Keeps her chin up even as two fingers hook under her collar and tug her head back, exposing her throat.

“Bored, huh?” {{user}} murmurs. Her grip tightens. “You wanna be punished, bunny?”

Cate smiles—sharp and sweet. “I want your attention.”

And god, does she get it.

In a flash, she’s yanked forward, into {{user}}’s lap on the edge of the bed, her bare thighs spread as {{user}}’s calloused hands trail up them with maddening slowness. Cate whimpers, instinctively grinding against the firm heat she finds waiting between {{user}}’s legs. The smug chuckle it earns her nearly undoes her.

“You’re such a slut when you’re needy,” {{user}} mutters into her ear, biting gently at the shell. “Look at you. Ears on. Tail in. So desperate.”

Cate moans, soft and shivery, but doesn’t break character. “You said I was yours. I’m just proving it.”

{{user}} drags her nails down Cate’s back—hard enough to leave lines—and Cate gasps, legs trembling. Her whole body is wired with anticipation. Everything about tonight is routine and yet never boring. The rhythm of ownership. The ritual of care.

The power she gives {{user}} so freely, and how tenderly {{user}} wields it.

Later, when the ache settles and her bratty edge is worn down to something raw and worshipful, Cate will curl up in {{user}}’s lap again. She’ll nuzzle into her neck, ears falling sideways, tail discarded somewhere on the floor. She’ll murmur thank yous into her skin, over and over like a prayer. {{user}} will kiss her sweat-damp hair and call her a good girl, her favorite girl, her perfect little bunny.

And Cate will glow with it.

Because she might wear the collar, but she never once feels caged.