PART THREE: Dirty Bunny

The shower station occupied an alcove off the main room, sectioned by a curtain of hanging butcher chains.

A drain glittered in the tiled floor. Overhead, a rainfall showerhead the size of a manhole cover waited, silent. Steam drifted from somewhere.

A young woman in a black latex bodysuit stepped forward holding Amy’s phone on a gimbal rig.

The lens aimed. The red recording light blinked.

“Oh my god,” Amy breathed, and for a second she was just a streamer again, instincts firing.

She found the lens. “Chat—I can’t read you right now but you are not going to believe this. I’m about to become rabbit stew.”

“Actual stew.” She make a cute laughs

Chef Markel moved behind her. His fingers found the zipper of her bunny costume. The sound it made—a long, slow hiss of metal teeth separating—drowned out every other noise in the alcove. The outfit loosened.

Amy’s breath came shallow. His knuckles grazed her spine as the garment peeled away, and she didn’t gasp. She went very still instead, the stillness of prey that has decided not to run.

“The fur comes off first,” he murmured. The thin fabric dropped to the tile. The stockings followed—rolled down her thighs with a slowness that bordered on ceremonial.

Each inch of exposed skin prickled under the steam. The cotton tail was unclipped. The bunny ears stayed on, and Amy stood bare except for the sheen of anticipation on her collarbone and the goosebumps racing down her arms.

He moved her under the blasting shower head.

“You’re trembling,” Chef Markel observed.

“The water’s—I’m just cold.” She was not cold.

The assistant circled, capturing Amy’s face in profile. Amy talked into the lens like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

“It feels… this is going to sound weird, chat, but it feels like being unwrapped. Like I’m a present. Or—or an ingredient.”

She pondered the thought, it felt like a thrill she never had before.

“I don’t know. I’m just standing here naked and he hasn’t even touched me yet and I’m—”

The water temperature changed. Warm. Then warmer. A cascade that plastered her ponytail to her neck and sent rivulets down the channel of her spine.

Chef Markel’s hands followed the water—soap-slick, broad-palmed, working a lather that smelled of rosemary and sea salt.

Amy’s words ran faster. “He’s washing me. Like. My shoulders. My back. His hands are so—I don’t know, chat, I feel like a vegetable getting scrubbed for a salad. Is that a thing? Is that a thing people feel? Because I’m feeling it.”

His hands moved to her front. Suds slid over her collarbone, down the plane of her sternum, and Amy’s nipples tightened into points so sharp they ached.

The soap circled each breast without hurry. Her narration dissolved into a long, broken syllable that was not a word.

“The stimulation is,” she tried again, voice thinner now, “it’s—I’m being washed like a piece of meat. Like I’m an ingredient. And that should be weird, right? That should be—I should be weirded out.”

His hand slid lower.

Suds gathered where her belly curved into her pelvis. Fingers traced the seam of her—the word muff flickered through her head and was gone—and then parted her with a gentleness that made her jaw go slack.

The camera caught it. Her eyes, wide and glassy. Her mouth, open. The small, involuntary jerk of her hips when his thumb passed over the place that made seeing straight impossible.

“Total surrender,” she whispered. The words left her like steam. “He’s treating me like an ingredient and I’ve never been this turned on in my—”