All it takes is a rabbit hutch to turn her into the perfect pet.
People leave all sorts of strange objects behind when they move house. In our new place, a sweet little basement flat, Daniel and I acquired a commemorative Golden Jubilee mug, a set of broken fairy lights, a dehumidifier and, in the back garden, a rabbit hutch.
I know how Danny’s mind works.
“No rabbits,” he said softly as we stood looking at the empty hutch. “What a shame.” He stroked the back of my neck, a gentle rub deepening to a more possessive massage.
“I reckon you could fit a person in there,” he went on, and I knew he meant me. “On her hands and knees,” he said. “Locked up like an animal. Naked. Helpless. Mine.” His caress grew firmer on my neck and my groin fluttered with the worst kind of lust; the sort that’s caught up in fear, reluctance and shame; the sort that pulses hotter the more you hate it and fight it. It’s the worst kind and it’s the best kind.
“Uh,” I said, slightly amused because the suddenness of my arousal made me giddy. Amused, too, because he was talking about putting me in a rabbit hutch. If that’s not preposterous, then I don’t know what is.
“You’d hardly be able to move,” he said. “I could make stocks for your hands and feet, just to be sure. Maybe something to keep your head in place as well. And maybe, yes, I could cut a hole for your mouth. And whenever I wanted my cock sucking, I’d stick it in the hole and fuck your mouth.”
“Oh God,” I breathed, amused no longer. I was now too horny to feel any other way.
“Whenever I wanted,” said Danny. “Just stick my cock in the hole.” His voice was alive with dark excitement and the hand on my neck slid higher, fingers tangling in my curls. Slowly, he pulled, snarling up my hair and making my scalp hurt. I winced but made no complaint, instead staring straight ahead, aiming to keep a blank face. I knew I would fail. Around us, the garden was wild and lovely, a scruffy urban mix of brick and concrete with a rickety flowerbed spilling ox-eye daisies, alkanet, foxgloves and poppies as red as lipstick. A bee stumbled among the flower-tops and, though neighbouring houses cast shadows over our sunken patch, the heat of the day seemed to press down, as if the air were so heavy it couldn’t escape our garden walls. Danny’s fist gripped harder in my hair.
“Ouch,” I tried to whisper, failing.
“Stick my cock in the hole and use you,” he said. His voice was hard and mean, laced with threat. “Then… then when I’m bored of that maybe I’ll let you out for some exercise. Bend you over the roof and fuck you. Dirty bitch. Fuck you till you beg for mercy. Then I’ll put you back in your hutch, maybe give you some food in a little bowl. Water too. And I’ll keep you locked up till I want to use you again.”
We stood there, motionless and silent save for the sound of our breath. The world seemed to fall still with us, a hung moment of waiting and wanting, Danny and I suspended in a zone of half-stunned lust. How can something that sounds so wrong feel so right?
At length, Danny loosened his grip on my hair and I felt his stance relax. The moment had gone. We both understood nothing could happen that afternoon. We had crates to unpack. Busy, busy. But for me, something had shifted. Because I’d seen then, with perfect clarity, that what I adore is being dominated. Sounds like a no-brainer, I know, considering all the kinky things we do. But what struck me was that much as I love being tied up, gagged and hit, that’s not quite it. Those games we play are an expression of it, a realisation. Take away sensation and it’s the power imbalance, pure and simple, which leaves me reeling.
Danny tipped my head towards him and stroked my hair. Then in a voice that was menacingly tender, he whispered, “My little rabbit.” I swear my legs nearly buckled with wanting. But, no. Not today. Busy, busy, busy.
Hutch-warming
For a few weeks we did all the usual new home stuff: arranged furniture, phoned utility companies, argued, threw a flat-warming. And each night, we slipped into a familiar bed in an unfamiliar room, our sex life enhanced by our new surroundings and by the fantasy from the garden which refused to leave us be.
“Tell me about the hutch,” I’d whisper as Danny printed kisses on my warm, summer skin. Eagerly, he would, repeating his threat to lock me up and fuck my mouth; or spinning new angles, telling me how he’d invite all his friends round and make me suck their cocks; or how he’d fuck me over the hutch while another guy filled my mouth.
“We don’t care about you,” he’d say. “You’re just our slut to use, our filthy whore.” As his words swam in my mind, I came time and again, lost in the fantasy of being stripped of my will, of having no choice.
I thought it would stay as a fantasy… but Danny likes a DIY project. So one weekend, in the garden, I watched as Danny, naked to the waist, nailed reinforcing planks beneath the hutch, sawed a glory hole at one end, removed an inner partition and sanded away splinters. The sun beat down and I sipped juice, eyeing the flex of Danny’s biceps and the muscles on his back shifting beneath skin glossed with sweat.
It would be a lie for me to say I couldn’t wait to get inside the hutch. I wanted it as much as I didn’t. How humiliating to be caged, tormented, made an object for someone’s pleasure. Oh, and how delicious.
I used to worry that my desires were wrong. After all, getting off on taking orders from a man and being bad-mouthed in bed – well, it doesn’t look like good feminism, does it? But it’s not liberation if I don’t get to come, and it’s not as if I’d take this crap in real life. My submission is a sex thing and Danny’s control of me is illusory. In our relationship we have equality, and from that bedrock we can agree to play our dark games of cruelty and oppression.
Danny, intent on hammering and sawing, barely said a word. Later, I helped him move the hutch onto an old coffee table, positioned in a recess where, as far as we could tell, we wouldn’t be overlooked. The light was starting to fade and swifts were screeching and swooping above the rooftops, the sky glowing pinkish in the west.
Get In Your Box
Danny fixed me with one of his no-nonsense stares and said, “Strip.”
“Danny,” I protested, worrying we might be seen.
He kept his gaze pinned on mine and, with his thumb, tipped my chin higher. “I said, ‘strip’. I want to inspect your body.”
Oh, I love it when he acts the mean, arrogant bastard. Heart racing, I edged back and pressed myself to the wall, hoping to be invisible to our neighbours. I removed my top and bra while Danny stood a couple of feet in front of me, hands in his pockets, cool and indifferent. His face was immobile, his eyes betraying zero emotion as they roamed over my bared tits. I let my skirt fall and kicked it aside with my knickers and sandals. Even then, Danny seemed unmoved.
“Turn around,” he said. “Spread your legs. Hands up.”
I faced the wall as if I were about to be frisked. The evening air was ticklish on the dampness between my thighs. Briskly, Danny swept his hands over my flesh, along my arms, down my back, over my buttocks.
“Let’s check her pussy, shall we?” he said as if someone else were with us. He pushed a couple of fingers inside me, wiggled and withdrew them before I’d barely even moaned.
“You’ll do,” he said. “Now get in your box.”
He stood by the hutch, holding open its wood and wire door with a booted foot.
“Danny, no,” I said, feeling a rush of nerves and claustrophobia. “I can’t.”
“On your knees,” he said sternly. “Now. And crawl into the cage like a good little bitch.”
I whimpered and dropped to the ground.
“That’s right,” he said approvingly.
He tapped my arse with his foot as I clambered into the hutch. It was a cool and shadowy in there, the floor flecked with straw, and it had that stale, mousey smell of pet shops. I crouched, watching Danny through the wire mesh as he twisted the latches into place. When he stood, I gazed ahead at the hutch’s wall of wood, the glory hole a circle of light like a sordid little sun.
“Mouth to the hole,” said Danny, and I obeyed.
For a long time, nothing happened. Danny went indoors and returned to sit on an upturned tub, a chilled beer in hand.
“Mouth to the hole,” he repeated, catching me looking.
He opened the can and its sharp fizz soon had me half mad with thirst. I kept closing my mouth and licking my dry lips while at the split of my legs, my juices pooled. Finally, Danny walked to the head of the hutch. I didn’t even see his cock. I just heard him unzip and felt him enter my mouth through the hole.
“There we go,” he said kindly. He was solid and warm, and his tip nudged deep in my throat, making me cough and splutter. “Take it, slut,” he said, kindness gone.
Make no mistake, it was a rough old blow-job, switching from Danny ramming my mouth to me sucking on his length, my saliva spilling. His dirty words swirled in my mind like poetry for perverts; nasty language to demean and thrill. My groin drummed a beat of longing and though I ached to bring myself off, I couldn’t. Danny was at the helm, and for now I was his, my autonomy and needs made meaningless.
After several minutes, I recognised the note of abandonment in Danny’s grunts. He drove harder, his cock extra taut until he came on a blissed-out groan. I swallowed him, all silky and salty, thrilling to his release and delighted to have taken it when he couldn’t even see me.
Good Little Rabbit
Moments later, Danny was opening the hutch.
“Out,” he said, and I stepped down, my limbs cramped and creaky. Danny showed no sympathy as he manoeuvred me into position, face forward over the sloping asphalt roof.
“Now let’s feel that pussy,” he said. “That wet little pussy. Ah, yes.”
He plunged his fingers in deep, fucking and fretting me while his other hand pressed on the small of my back, holding me down.
“Greedy little tart,” he gasped. “You going to come for me, huh? Show me what a cheap slut you are?”
I panted and moaned, relishing the slam of his fingers and how his words transformed my pleasure into suffering, and so back again. My nearness flickered, climbing higher and higher until I cried out, my orgasm bursting like white light and fireworks.
“Oh God,” I breathed, feeling so floppy and dazed I might stay there forever.
“C’mere,” said Danny softly. He drew me to the ground, and I curled up close, my cold body wrapped in the supple warmth of his. Sometimes, afterwards, the ache for comfort is so intense that sex can feel incomplete without it. Perhaps the extremes of these dark games need the extremes of coddling to restore equilibrium.
“There, there,” said Danny, rocking me gently. “It’s OK, all OK.”
I felt safe and protected, so calm and clear. “You’re such a good girl, so strong,” he said.
And we stayed like this in the same position, letting everything settle, the two of us drifting back to that balanced place where we are a loving, affectionate and equal couple.
“My little rabbit,” said Danny, stroking my hair. And I closed my eyes, deeply happy.
