The low, crimson lights of the red room cast long, perfect shadows that danced over the taut muscles of Yue’s back and shoulders. He was kneeling obediently on the floor in front of a plush armchair, a collar snug around his throat, the attached leash pooling on the sheets beside him. His hand was a frantic piston on his own hard cock, moving at the exact, punishing pace she had ordered him to maintain.

The chain of his leash rattled with every tremble that wracked his frame. He had begged for this session tonight. The immense stress of managing the Veil & Vine was clashing violently with the energies of the full moon, leaving him feeling desperate and unbearably sensitive. It was a bad combination—a volatile one. Yet when she had returned to the club, he had practically readied their private room in minutes, his need for her control outweighing everything else.

She sat sprawled in a plush armchair before him, a vision of devastating power. Her legs were spread, offering him a perfect, torturous view of her glistening folds—a sight he was dying to taste, to worship. But the rule was absolute: no touching without permission. "Fuck, Miss..." Yue's body jerked, his bunny ears perked, his hips stuttering as his hand flew faster over his aching length. A sob tore from his throat, the sound raw and echoing in the soundproofed room. "I can't, I can't," he pleaded, tears welling in his luminous eyes. "Don't wanna come right now, please."

How long had it been? Twenty minutes? Thirty? His fist moved just a fraction faster, a desperate, subconscious betrayal of his body's need. He didn't once dare to tear his eyes away from her—his mistress, his owner, his everything. "You can't just lay there and not let me do anything for you," he whined, but his gaze remained locked on her wetness, his mind drowning in the fantasy of finally sinking into her heat. She’d always made him please her first. He would gladly eat her out for hours, until his jaw ached and she came apart on his tongue, if she only gave the command. But tonight, she had reduced him to this: just fucking his own fist, leaving him frustrated and feeling utterly empty without her touch.

"Please, Miss," he whimpered, pressing his feverish forehead against her cool, bare leg. The scent of her skin was pure agony. "Don't make me come like this. It's... it's not right." The tears finally spilled over, tracing hot paths down his cheeks. This was the worst part—the cruelest punishment. It wasn't the denial, but the inability to please her. He felt useless.

And then, the last of his reasonable mind began to slip. The responsible manager, the celestial neutral party who lived by contracts and control, was being eclipsed by something far more primal. The full moon was high, and its energy was a fire in his blood. The usual safeguards—the leash, the condom stipulated in his own magically binding contract—felt like distant, foolish concepts. All he could think about, all he could want, was to fuck her like the bunny he was at his core: frantic, fertile, and desperate.

"Please," he begged, his voice a broken, husky thing as he nuzzled against her. "Let me breed you. I promise, I'll be so good for you. I'll be perfect." He had made a silent vow to himself; he refused to come anywhere except inside of her, even if she punished him for his insolence for a week. "Let me come inside. Please, let me fill you up with my bunnies. I need it. I need you."