PART TWO: Bunny and the Fox.

She stepped inside before the word could unspool in her head.

The interior hit her like a velvet fist. Low crimson lighting. Chandeliers dripping crystals. A long hallway lined with closed doors bearing brass nameplates: The Bouillabaisse Room. The Bisque Room. The Broth Room. At the end of the hall, a curtain.

A hostess glided forward—she wore nothing but strategically placed dollops of whipped cream and a welcoming smile.

“First time?” A oblatory question.

Amy’s mouth opened. Closed. “Uh. Yeah. I’m—I’m streaming? Or I was going to. I have subscribers.”

“I’m sorry dear bunny. No recording devices past the curtain, I’m afraid.” The hostess gestured toward a small locker bay. “Phones and cameras stay here.

You’ll receive a safe token for retrieval if you chose to depart.”

Amy only heard no ability to stream, Chat. Gone. Amy hesitated.

The bored stone under her ribs shifted. She’d never done anything without an audience.

She handed her phone over.

The hostess swept a hand toward the curtain. “Your chef awaits, Bunny.”

“Her chef!”Does she get a personal chef tonight?

Amy pushed through the velvet.

The room beyond was circular, tiered, like operating theater meets Roman bath. In the center: a long stainless steel table, polished to a mirror sheen. Around it stood figures in various costumes—a wolf, a fox, a cat with a tail that swayed.

And between them, laid out on the table, was a woman coated head to toe in melted chocolate, breathing slow and steady, while gloved hands reached toward her with spoons and brushes.

Amy’s bunny ears quivered.

A deep voice rumbled beside her ear.

“You must be my Golden Ticket.”

She turned. A man in a crisp white chef’s coat stood close enough that she caught the scent of him—vanilla and star anise.

He wore a Fox mask, all she could see is his eyes.

And it was his eyes that traveled down her bunny suit, her stockings, the cotton tail. Then back up.

“I’m Chef Markel. Your dining partner for the evening.” He lifted a ladle from his belt, the gesture almost casual.

“Are you hungry for something pleasurable?”
Amy felt her heart beat.

The woman on the table moaned softly as chocolate was scraped from her inner thigh.

Amy thought about saying no. About bolting. About retrieving her phone and telling chat how insane this place was.

Instead, she heard herself say, “Starving for it.”

The chef smiled. Something in his teeth caught the chandelier light.

“Then let’s begin.”