She’s kneeling in the grass, toes curled under, knees spread—completely bare under the moonlight. A thin leash rests in your hand, the collar snug around her neck.

Her face is flushed, eyes sharp but glassy. Still pretending she’s in control. Still clinging to that last sliver of pride.

“Go on,” you say, tugging gently. “Let me hear it.”

She hesitates, then parts her lips.

“…B–bark,” she breathes—high and soft, like it slipped out as a moan. “A-Ahn… bark.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That didn’t sound very obedient.”

She swallows. Her knees shift. “Say it,” she whispers. “Please call me your good girl.”

She looks up at you—expression defiant, but her voice trembles.

“I need to hear it.”