The Trouble With Bunnies

**The Waiting**

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The passing of each second is marked with a loud tick as I watch the clock edge closer and closer to the closing hour. My mama always said you'll die waitin' for the water to boil if you spend all your time watching it. I understand her better now.

Time has slowed to an excruciating crawl that makes my skin prickle in anticipation. 8:57 blinks at me from the register as I run the dust cloth over the pristine countertop for the fifteenth time. Three more minutes.

Three more goddamn minutes.

I reach across to straighten our rack of gum and candy, straightening each pack so it fits perfectly in the slot. I like the lines to be clean and neat. Orderly. Tidy.

Glancing up at the clock, I try to stare it down, willing it to move faster but the steady tick of each second defies me, marching on without a care to anyone who wants to be free from their retail prison.

One minute.

Glee fills me and I practically dance over to the big glass doors and flip the sign from Open to Closed. With the giant ring of keys I am forced to carry around for eight hours a day, I turn the lock closed and give the door a rattle for good measure.

Slamming my hand down on the lightswitch, I watch with satisfaction as the store is plunged into darkness just as the clock finally hits the magic number.

Nine o'clock.

Turning my phone on, I stare down at the little green chat bubble that has been taunting me all day.

My fingers hover over the touchpad as I contemplate how to answer it.

I can't appear too eager. That doesn't set the right tone. I can't be too casual either. I have to have balance. I crave balance. Without balance, I can't function.

Biting my lip, I shove the phone back in my back pocket without answering. I need to finish closing. I've ignored this little green chat bubble all day. Another few minutes won't hurt it. The chat bubble is nothing.

Nothing but pure, unadulterated trouble.

I quickly count the cash and bundle it, shoving the whole envelope into the slot in the safe.

If I were to screenshot it and send it to any of my friends, my roommate, or even my ex, they would all tell me the same thing: trouble. They would remind me of the last time I answered that text and how I ended up fired and needing a ride home from Vegas. I can almost hear their voices in my head, shouting at me, pleading with me to see reason. They mean well.

But they don't understand the pull. As much as I hang my head in shame and nod, agreeing with their assessment of my piss-poor excuse for life management skills, I get a secret thrill from the memories.

They don't understand. How can they? They just see the aftermath. They don't see the flight. The ecstasy. The trust.

I walk out to my car and slide in, sliding my bare legs over the worn leather seats with a barely contained moan of pleasure. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I sigh and send off a quick response to that annoying bubble.

The chat bubble lights up and the response is almost immediate.

An address and an ID # greets me. Plugging the address into my map app, I sigh and turn the radio up.

Eighteen minutes until trouble.

I can't wait.

My app takes me through the inner city and out towards the industrial part of the city. Train yards, receiving docks, and dimly lit warehouses surround me as I follow the directions. Glancing at the dismal surroundings, I feel a little buzz of anticipation again.

I crave this kind of trouble deep in my soul. I can't resist it. For ten long years I've flirted with this trouble, I've let it caress my skin, submitted to it, and every now and again, I've overpowered it and came out on top.

My friends don't understand. My family never will. Most of my exes only saw it as a perk of dating me. A story-in-the-making to tell friends at a bar long after the relationship has ended.

My relationship with trouble is unique... but I have no regrets.

Pulling into the parking lot, I slide into the parking spot with the pink kitten sticker. I reach behind me and pull the tattered blue duffle bag to the front seat. Deftly undoing my nametag, I throw it in the console and take off the blue work polo my boss forces me to wear. Glancing down, I grimace at my plain white sports bra. I had known trouble would be calling tonight, I would have worn something a little more provocative. Oh well.

I unbutton the stiff khaki shorts with the obnoxious fake pockets and wiggle out of them. The sharp pain of my hip colliding with the emergency hand brake makes me swear profusely. My underwear isn't the fanciest, but it'll do. That's the great thing about boyshorts. If you have enough confidence, or perhaps if you, like me, just don't give a flying fuck -- they become actual shorts. Digging through my bag, I pull out my trusty red boots and zip my tired feet into them. My hair is quickly freed from the conservative French braids I wear at work and let loose in all its curly, chaotic glory.

I am almost ready and that familiar ache in my core begins to rise. The dress shirt is next. It's wrinkled and way too big for me. Wearing it tonight is a bold move. I sometimes take souvenirs from my adventures, but rarely do I flaunt them. The lipstick stain on the collar brings back memories from last time and a gleeful giggle escapes me. Oh yes, this is what I want.

Quickly, I fasten two of the buttons and smooth the wrinkles as best I can. Opening the car door, I slide out, lamenting the loss of the leather against my skin for one brief moment. The cool night air blows the open flaps of the shirt and my nipples harden from the cold. Running a hand through my unruly hair, I cock my hip out and swing my trusty blue bag over my shoulders.

Time to go find some trouble.

There's a small line in the entryway and clusters of people are huddled together, moving slowly forward as each group is checked in and made aware of the rules. The energy is full of sexual tension, anticipation, and nerves. Newbies. I inhale deeply and feel the stress of the day, the week, hell, the last month, dissipate.

I've needed this for so damn long.

"Did you know they have The Boxes here?" a giggly whisper behind me interrupts my silent meditation and I perk my ears up to listen.

"That's just where the biggest freaks play. I hear they are all professionals anyway. It's not real. No one would actually agree to that." another voice answers, her tone dripping in scorn.

A part of me wants to turn around and set them straight but tonight isn't about them or their thoughts about anything. Tonight is about me and getting what I need. As we move up through the line, the two behind me continue to discuss The Boxes, trading theories -- each more fantastical than the first. By the time we get to the counter, Giggles has decided that the submissive women are identified in the crowd and convinced to come play in The Boxes and Grumpy, her friend, has decided that The Boxes are merely a ploy to trick people into going past their limits for the amusement of sadistic assholes.

The urge to say something grows almost impossible to ignore. This is my happy place. My fondest source of trouble. To hear someone malign it with such blatant lies makes me rage.

"They don't care what you want, they just care what you look like and whether or not you can be bought," Grumpy admonishes her friend just as I reach the counter and wave to Natalia, the attendant.

I snap, whirling around to face the two. Giggles looks just like I imagined her. Young. Hopeful. A nervous sort of energy combined with an openness and a readiness to explore. I see myself in her a little bit. I'm not sure I was ever that cute, but I was that idealistic, once. Grumpy is perfect. She's manicured from head to toe and she radiates coldness and disdain.

"Why are you here?" I ask them, gritting my teeth to keep from growling at Grumpy.

"Excuse me? That's your business, why?" Grumpy steps forward and into my personal space. I hate people in my personal space uninvited.

"You made it my business when you lied about what we do here. You don't have to understand it. You don't have to participate. Hell, you don't have to do a goddamn thing you don't want to do. That's the fucking point. You choose. Consent. Heard of that? That's what we build our foundation on," I huff, pointing at the giant sign on the door that outlines the rules.

Grumpy looks me up and down slowly, her eyes lingering on the wrinkles in my shirt-dress and my sports bra, "I don't imagine you will have to do much choosing, hag." She spits out, turning to her friend and giving me the cold shoulder. The judgement and disdain dripping off her is almost tangible.

Bitch.

I count to ten in my head and then count again. Finally, I have my breathing under control and I turn around to face Natalia who is glaring daggers at the duo. "Want me to ban them?" she mutters angrily, scanning the gold card I hand her and typing furiously on her keyboard, "I'll have Killian throw them out on their yoga-built asses. Just say the word."

"No. I don't care about them. They won't last long in there. Newbies with an attitude rarely do. Tonight isn't about babysitting, it's about what I need. What do you have for me?"

Natalia huffs again but taps on her screen, bringing up two options for me.

"Box Seven is open. Searching for a bunny and sensory deprivation. Or," she smiles at me wickedly, "You could go visit Box Nine. It's been awhile since you visited Three and you know how much fun it was last time..."

I do remember Three. I had trouble walking for a week after that. Three is a wonderful, wonderful way to get into trouble. But it's not the kind of trouble I need tonight. I am craving something very specific.

Glancing back at Giggles and Grumpy, an idea pops into my head.

"Tell me, is The Web available?"

Natalia grins and picks up her little hand-held radio, adjusting the volume with an ear-splitting squeal.

"Spider, report to your Web, we have a special treat for you," she glances at me with a knowing grin, "and bring Nine with you. I don't think you can handle this little flyer all all on your own."

A small gasp sounds from somewhere behind me and whispers start up but I ignore them.

I blow a kiss to Natalia and sashay out the door and into my kingdom.

"You should know the only reason we are letting you in tonight is because she told me not to kick your sorry ass out of here. You won't get another chance." I hear Natalia railing at Grumpy and Giggles as they approach the counter and I grin.

Enough with the trash. It's time to play.

**The Playing**

The Web is in the direct center of the room and I have to weave my way through the scrum of people to get there. We're lucky here. Our playspace is top-of-the-line. Any number of vices can be found and indulged in once you gain entry to this multi-level space. Private bedrooms, public orgy beds, implements of all kinds -- we have them all. Catwalks crisscross the whole room with large clear boxes hanging precariously from enormous chains over the open space. I glance up at Box Four, directly above me, and smile happily when I see a leather clad woman pushing a naked man into a cage the size of a dog kennel and then sitting on the top, the toe of her heel tapping on the clear plexiglass floor. Beautiful. These are my people.

The sharp crack of a whip and the corresponding wail of pleasure from the fenced off whip pen forces me to pay attention to my surroundings once again. I am surrounded by people dressed in leather and latex, lingerie or, more often than not, little to nothing at all. Another night, and I might take my time, wandering through the landscape -- indulging my inner voyeur. But not tonight. Tonight, I am selfish. Trouble invited me and I want to find it.

A thick black velvet rope separates the entrance to The Web from the rest of the play space. Unlike The Boxes flying high and out of reach of all the participants, The Web comes up from the ground. Carefully welded cables and beams are interlocked together to create a metal tangle of different heights and widths. A wild playground set in the middle of a dungeon. Corners are built in to provide little pockets of faux-safety from prey who might like to hide, while large open spaces allow for maximum viewing from all those who wish to watch the battle between Spider and prey. The catwalks up above allow for viewing at all angles. Soft grey mats cushion the harsh cement and spotlights are strategically placed to intensify the experience when needed. The velvet rope surrounds the entire structure and space, serving as a silent guardian for all those who might enter. The dungeon monitor stationed just outside serves as the enforcer.

It's been three years since I last played on The Web. The thrill of the chase is the kind of trouble one must be in the mood for. To be chased and captured and made to submit in front of an audience? Well, that's the kind of mood I'm always in. I want to let loose and just feel. To let my body do what it does best. To set it free.

The dungeon monitor nods at me respectfully, stepping over to review the gold card I carry before unhooking the velvet rope and allowing me to pass. A full body shiver runs through me when I drop my bag onto the mat.

I could have asked Natalia who was playing the part of the Spider and who was playing the part of Nine tonight but the idea of not knowing sends a thrill through me. I will know them eventually. There are only thirty of us that carry the gold cards of The Collective and I know each of their touches, their styles, their tastes, and their limits. All of them, but one. Our most recent member. Number Thirty has eluded me thus far but it is only a matter of time before we collide. The Boxes, The Web, and The Playground are our domain to play with each other in. To laugh, to cry, to fuck, or to let our demons out for a run. None of us can stay away for long. That's the joy of being part of The Collective.

We come from different backgrounds. We have different kinks. But in this -- our own little world -- we are the absolute rulers.

I breath in through my nose and out through my mouth, bringing my hands up over my head to stretch towards the sky before widening my stance and reaching down to touch the floor between my feet. Unbuttoning the shirt, I toss it onto one of the lower hanging cables and stand in the middle of the mat with confidence. My faded floral panties, my white sports bra, and those red fuck-me boots are a combination that is eye-catching. It may not be as sleek or sensual as the playsuits around me, but that doesn't matter. The end goal for most of us is the same and no matter how we get there, most people who journey into these spaces end up naked at some point.

Stretching my arm behind my head once more, I shake out my wrists and crack my neck. I'm ready.

I can already feel the eyes start to find me. Any time anyone enters a space reserved for The Collective, it's a draw. Add in the mystery of The Web and the fact that very, very few people ever come over here and I expect we will have a full blown audience before we're done. Mystery is like a beacon for the voyeurs, the curious, and those who understand the pull of this particular brand of trouble.

Goosebumps form on the back of my neck the moment I feel assessing eyes on me. This isn't the gaze of an onlooker, it's a predator assessing their prey.

"Well now, look who has wandered into my web," the smug voice from behind me alerts me to his presence. His faint accent is unfamiliar to me and the idea that this might be my first time playing with Number Thirty excites me even more. The Spider.

"Tell me, little butterfly, do you know what you are getting into?"

I can't stop the smile that spreads across my face. "I believe I do, my dear Spider," I answer cheekily, wiggling my ass a little with anticipation.

"I've heard of you, I am delighted to see if the rumors are true," he answers carefully, "But let us first see if what we seek is the same, eh? What are you after, my butterfly?"

I want to turn around and ruin the surprise for myself. I know this is the mysterious Number Thirty

and not getting to see his face is making me wild with curiosity.

"I wish to fly, dear Spider. Let me fly before you wrap me up and hang me from your lair and do with me what you will," I start cheerfully, "But be advised, breathplay is off limits, I have no desire to bleed or be humiliated. I prefer to be hung on my left side rather than my right. Bring your toys but not your pain, and you and I can have a delightful time. I have a special request for you too."

"Agreed on all counts, butterfly. Now what is your request?" His voice is sensual and soft, the accent becoming more pronounced with each word.

"I don't want to see you. Not until the end."

His chuckle is like music to my ears.

"And Nine, do you wish to speak separately to him?" he asks.

I shake my head, "No. I only need Nine to tell me he understands the same rules apply."

Nine laughs and agrees, his voice familiar and comforting to me. "You'll get what you want, bunny. Never fear."

"Close your eyes," Spider commands and I feel myself snap to attention, my eyes squeeze shut as requested. Something soft touches my face and moves up to settle across my eyes. Gentle hands tie it firmly behind my head.

Cold hands touch me, caressing my exposed flesh and leaving a trail of goosebumps as they move along. The rustle, clang, and clip of a carabiner being attached to metal excites me.

"Hold still, my sweet little bunny," Nine purrs, as someone slides something up the center of my bra. I freeze and the pull and tear of scissors claws at the fabric, slowly freeing me. Hands are on my shoulders, caressing my arms, pulling the straps of my torn bra down and off me before securing my wrists behind my back. Lips brush against my bare shoulder, trailing my spine and causing me to shiver.

More hands run down the front of my body, palming my breasts, stopping to tweak each of my nipples before caressing my stomach and thighs.

"Such a beautiful little butterfly to be caught in my web," Spider murmurs. I feel hands hook under the band of my panties and tug, pulling them down, exposing me to all who might be watching.

I bite my lip and jut my ass out, bumping into the one who has my arms pinned. I grind on him, pleased to feel the evidence of his arousal already growing under his jeans.

A growl and a hand in my hair stops my movement momentarily. "Look who thinks she's in charge, Nine?" Spider asks, as someone wraps their hand into my hair and pulls my head back hard enough to make me gasp.

"Perhaps we should remind her of just how precarious her position is, Spider."

The excitement in my body is pulsating and I can hardly stand. Roughly, they guide me deeper into The Web, stopping me suddenly and pushing me down onto a rough fabric seat that swings with my movement. My arms are released from behind my back and I feel someone unzipping my boots, securing my feet into little pockets with velcro straps to keep me leaning back into a reclining straddle. More straps are secured around my waist while another supports my head until I am swinging freely and secured. It feels more secure than a standard sex swing and I try to figure out what it is. The way the fabric wraps around me reminds me of aerial silks, but the straps that are securing me are distinctly bondage related. I vaguely remember seeing a yoga inversion swing in the back storage once upon a time and a wild idea pops into my mind.

I start to rise in the air and the sway of the swing causes me to spin slightly. I toss my head back and giggle, spreading my body out further to embrace the freedom.

"Is this all you've got, my dear Spider? Nine? I can hang like this all day long!" I call down to them, enjoying the spattering of laughter I hear from my observers as I taunt my tormentors.