1 week ago. Sunday, March 15, 2026 at 4:05 PM
PART I: TAKE
The look on her face when I grabbed her from the safety of her bed—still deliciously burned into my mind. That wide-eyed shock, the surprised yelp as I threw her over my shoulder like she weighed nothing. I ignored the pleading as I dumped her into the opened trunk.
I bound her wrists tight behind her back, then cinched her ankles just as snug. I forced a black fabric sack over her head, muffling her words and slammed the trunk.
The drive should've been quick—forty minutes—but I took the long way and my time. Let the panic stretch. Let her feel every bump, every slow turn, every minute the engine hummed without mercy. By the time I pulled up to the cabin the sun had risen fully.
I left her in the trunk while I unlocked the front door. Inside, the bathroom waited exactly as I'd prepared it: two stainless steel bowls on the wood floor—one filled with water, one with a small pile of plain dry cereal. The heavy metal collar already bolted to the floorboards via a short, thick chain—long enough to let her reach the door if she stretched, but no farther.
Trunk lid up. There she waited—shuddering, beautiful, bound.
“Hush now,” I said evenly. “Conserve your energy. You're going to need it.”
Over my shoulder again, into the cabin. I set her on her knees in the bathroom. The sack came off in one pull. Her eyes blinked against the sudden light, wide and searching.
I untied her ankles first, then her wrists.
I stripped the white cotton nightgown tugging it over her head and yanked down her panties. Naked and embarrassed, she attempted to cover herself, skin prickling in the chill of the room.
The thick metal collar clicked shut around her neck—heavy, cold, final. The sound echoed off the walls. Realization flickered across her face as the weight settled in.
I shut the door without a word and slid the bolt. Locking her into her temporary home.
PART II: EXPOSE
I check my watch—about an hour until the sun sets. I fold the corner of the page I'm reading, set the book on the table, and stand.
I slide the bolt back on the outside of the bathroom door and open it.
She is curled tight asleep. She looks peaceful: knees drawn up, cheek resting on one arm, breathing slow and even. The day's struggles have worn her out, poor little thing. The water bowl is half-empty; the cereal dish barely touched, a few pieces scattered like she tried and gave up.
I stand in the doorway a long moment, watching her. The faint rise and fall of her chest. The way the late-afternoon light from the small window touches her hair. Almost serene—if you ignored the collar, the chain, the dog food bowls.
The floorboard creaks as I step in. She wakes with a start, sits up fast, eyes lifting to mine—silent desperation.
I cross to her, unlock the collar, let it drop to the wood with a dull clang. The black fabric sack goes back over her head.
I take her arm—firm, not cruel—and walk her out of the cabin, across the clearing to a large oak at the edge of the trees. I turn her so her back is pressed against the tree.
I pull her wrists behind her, around the thick trunk, and tie them there with coarse rope—tight enough that the bark bites if she struggles. Ankles left free.
I step back. Look at her once—sack over her head, naked, bound to the tree like an offering—then walk away without a word.
She can feel the warmth of the sun fade inch by inch as it drops behind the ridge. Skin cools slowly at first, then faster. Goosebumps rise. The evening air turns sharp. When the full moon finally clears the ridge, it deepens the shadows around her.
She is alone with the night now.
PART III: HUNT
It’s time.
I step quietly from the cabin, boots soft on the pine needles. Moonlight shines over the clearing. I stand a moment, admiring the way the cold has tightened her body, the faint tremble in her thighs, before I move.
Silent behind her. One hand closes around her bound wrist; the coarse rope parts under my knife in a single stroke. She jumps at the sudden freedom, breath hitching.
I rip the black sack off her head. Lean in close—close enough that my lips brush her ear—and growl low:
“Run, rabbit.”
Her first steps are clumsy, legs stiff from hours against the tree. She stumbles once, catches herself, then bolts into the trees like something released from a trap.
She knows this game well. Just not this board.
I give her thirty seconds—long enough to let hope flare—then follow at a steady walk. These woods are mine. Every root, every dip, every trail mapped in my head. I know exactly where this ends.
Her frantic footsteps crash ahead, then stop abruptly. She ducks behind a thick clump of bushes, trying to make herself small. I smile into the dark.
“Oh, rabbit… that’s not a good hiding place.” My voice carries, calm, amused. “Are you trying to make this easy for me?”
She bursts up and dives deeper into the trees.
I catch the glint of her hair as she runs behind a stand of pines. Good. Let her feel that brief illusion of safety. I close the distance, deliberately snapping a dry twig under my boot—loud enough for her to hear.
A sharp gasp.
“I smell your sweet scent, rabbit,” I call, almost conversational.
She runs harder. A root catches her ankle; she trips, crashes face-first into leaves and damp earth with a muffled thud.
“Uh-oh. Watch where you step, rabbit.”
She scrambles up—dirt smeared across her cheek, chest heaving—and flees again. No direction now. Just pure adrenaline.
I lose sight of her for a minute. No hurry. I start to whistle a slow, lazy tune—so she knows I’m still coming.
A sharp cry slices the night. Thorns. She’s found the thicket I knew she’d hit.
“Looks like my rabbit found some thorns,” I say, voice carrying. “What a shame. That porcelain skin getting all scratched up.”
More crunching leaves, another pained gasp as she fights her way free.
She’s almost there now—the small grove she thinks will hide her. The place she’ll stop to catch her breath, peeking around a trunk, believe for a second she’s won.
I circle wide, boots silent on the needle carpet. Close enough to hear her ragged breathing, the soft whimpers she’s trying to swallow.
“Found you, rabbit.”
She freezes. I step into the moonlight. Take in the sight of her: body streaked with dirt, fresh red scratches crisscrossing her arms and thighs, hair wild with leaves and twigs.
I take another step. A slow, wicked smile curls my lips.
She turns—slowly—to face me.
Not pure terror in her eyes. Something else flickers there. Excitement. A spark. The game isn’t over.
In one quick motion I close the gap, grab her by the upper arms, and drive her down into the soft forest floor. Leaves crunch under her back. Her breath explodes out in a half-laugh, half-cry as I pin her wrists above her head.
The hunt is done.
The rabbit is caught.
PART IV: CLAIM
This is what my rabbit ran for.
I pin her wrists above her head in the leaf litter, knees driving her thighs apart. Her breath comes in shallow, frantic bursts; her heart hammers so hard I can hear it. Moonlight paints silver streaks across her dirt-smeared skin, highlighting every scratch, every tremble.
I run a hand slowly down her arm—possessively—pausing at the delicate column of her neck. Fingers curl, squeeze just enough to make her eyes flutter, then relax. I trace her collarbone, dip lower, cup her right breast roughly, pinching her nipple hard, twist. She arches with a sharp gasp.
My palm continues its path: down her rib cage, over the soft belly, stopping a breath away from her pussy. I watch her face—eyes glassy, lips parted, frustration flickering as I deny her the touch she’s aching for.
“Are you pouting, rabbit?” I murmur, voice low and mocking.
She barely shakes her head once, forcing her expression neutral. Brave little thing.
I keep my hand there for a moment before I remove it entirely from her body. I unzip, shove my jeans down just enough to free my cock—already throbbing, aching from the chase. I force her legs wider, spreading her open beneath me.
I don’t need to check if she’s wet. I can smell it—musky, sweet, undeniable.
No ceremony. No warning.
I slam into her in one brutal thrust.
She screams—shock and instant, overwhelming pleasure twisting together. Her walls clamp down tight around me; I groan at the vise-like grip, the heat. This isn’t gentle. This isn’t about her. This is release—the pent-up tension, the aggression, the primal need that’s been coiling inside me since I first looked down at her sleeping in her bed.
I fuck her hard, relentless. Leaves crunch beneath us with every thrust. I barely register her broken and wild moans when I abruptly pull out.
“On your stomach,” I command, voice rough. “Hips up.”
She obeys instantly—rolling, lifting her ass, knees digging into the earth. Her juices have already slicked down her crack. I press the back of her head down, forcing her cheek into the cool dirt, muffling the sounds she can’t hold back.
Then I line up and push into her ass—hard, burying myself.
She cries out into the ground, body shuddering. I don’t give her time to adjust. I quicken my pace, gripping her hips, driving deep, claiming every inch.
A roar tears from my throat as I cum, spilling into her, pulse after pulse. I collapse over her back, pinning her beneath me.
When my breathing finally steadies, I pull out carefully. I tuck myself back into my jeans, zip up, then sit on the forest floor and draw her gently into my lap.
She curls against me without hesitation, head resting on my thigh. I stroke her tangled, leaf-strewn hair—slow, soothing—then run my palm down her scratched, dirt-streaked body, tracing the marks I helped make. Soft now. Reverent.
“You did so well, rabbit,” I murmur, voice low and warm. “I’m proud of you. My good girl.”
She turns her face up to me—cheeks smeared with earth, eyes shining—and beams. A small, exhausted smile.
“Thank you, Daddy,” she whispers.
The night is quiet around us now. Just crickets, wind in the pines, and the soft sound of her breathing against my leg.