Bunny Wife Tied and Eaten

Moonlight silvered the enchanted glade, sliding over moss and pale stones while the air smelled of crushed fern and night jasmine. Rupert, twenty-eight, had cleared the circle that afternoon and spread their blanket where the roots would not bite. He waited in his shirtsleeves, pulse thick, as his wife stepped out of the trees.

Greta was twenty-six, a ceramicist with clay ghosted under her nails and a laugh that undid him in ordinary rooms. Married three years, they had spent most nights inventing private games, but this magical role-play had lived longest between them: a forest, a costume, silk, and the helplessness she craved only from him. She had asked for it on their anniversary. He had said yes before she finished asking.

She turned so he could see her. Soft white ears rose from her dark hair, lined pale pink, trembling when she breathed. A fluffy white tail sat high on the curve of her ass, fastened to a thin harness that vanished under a short flouncy skirt the color of cream. The skirt flipped and showed the undersides of her thighs. Beneath it she was bare. A thin white bodice clung to her breasts and left her stomach naked, and her feet pressed into the cool moss. She looked back, mouth already parted.

"Tie me," she said, delighted. "I've been wet thinking about your hands since lunch."

He crossed to her with the silk ribbons coiled in his palm. She offered her wrists, holding them together at her chest, playful and sure. He wound the silk in overlapping loops, snug enough that she could not slip free, gentle enough to leave no mark. Each pass made her inhale. He knotted it and kissed the inside of one wrist, then the other.

"Still want this?"

"God, yes." She tugged, found the bind true, and smiled. "I'm your rabbit. Do everything we planned."

The glade seemed to lean closer. Rupert stepped back to look at her, bound and glowing, and the heat between husband and wife thickened until he could almost taste it.

He circled her the way they had talked about, letting his fingertips drag along her arm, the dip of her waist, the hem of that little skirt. The ears twitched when she turned her head to follow him. He stopped behind her and spoke against the shell of her ear, voice low and rough with wanting.

"You look obscenely fuckable in this," he murmured. "Soft ears. That tail sitting right where my hand wants to be. Skirt so short I can already smell how ready you are."

Greta made a small broken sound and shifted her weight. The silk held her wrists snug against her chest. "Then stop circling and use your mouth on me."

He only smiled and came around to her front. One knuckle traced her collarbone, then lower, brushing a nipple through the thin bodice until it peaked harder under the fabric. He did not linger. He walked another slow circuit, palm skating over the fluffy tail, giving it a gentle tug that rocked her hips forward into empty air. Moonlight caught the shine already gathering on her inner thigh.

"Rupert." Her voice had gone needy, flirty and wrecked at once. She squirmed, thighs pressing together, then parting when the pressure only made the ache worse. "Please. I'm dripping and you're still admiring the costume. Lift the skirt. Eat me. I've been a good little rabbit all day, and I want your tongue until my knees give out."

He dropped to his knees in the moss. The ground was cool through his pants. He set both hands on her hips, thumbs stroking the bare skin above the cream hem, and looked up at her flushed face between the white ears. Her bound hands flexed. Her chest rose fast.

"Ask me prettier," he said.

"Please, husband." The words came out breathless and shameless. "Lift my skirt and put your mouth on my pussy. I need it. I need you to lick me until I can't stand up in these woods."

He gathered the flouncy hem in both fists and lifted it. The cream fabric bunched at her waist, tail bobbing above his knuckles. She was bare underneath, exactly as promised, her pussy swollen and shining in the moonlight, lips parted, a thread of wetness slipping toward her thigh. The sight punched the air out of him. He leaned in and pressed his mouth to her, open and hungry, and the first broad lick from her entrance up to her clit made her cry out into the trees.

He licked her again, slower, savoring, then sealed his lips around her clit and sucked, eager and thorough.

She tasted like salt and heat and the sweetness that was only hers. Rupert groaned into her and held her hips so she could not shy away from it. Greta stood helplessly bound in the middle of the glade, white ears trembling, wrists trapped in silk against her ribs, and he devoured her dripping pussy with a hunger he had been saving for this exact night. His tongue flattened and dragged through her folds, then pointed and flicked her clit in quick, filthy strokes. He sucked her into his mouth again, gentle then harder, and slid two fingers along her entrance without pushing in, just smearing her wetness, teasing until she whimpered.

"Oh—God—right there," she gasped. "Don't you dare stop. Eat me. Make a mess of me."

He obeyed. He buried his face between her thighs and licked her open, nose nudging her clit while his tongue pushed inside her, fucking her with slow, greedy thrusts of muscle. She was soaked. It slicked his mouth, his chin, the edge of his jaw. Every time he pulled back for air the moonlight showed her shining, and then he went back in, lips sealing, tongue working, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet woods. Her thighs began to tremble. She tried to widen her stance and nearly lost her balance, so he hooked one of her knees over his shoulder and took more of her weight, mouth never leaving her.

"Rupert—I'm close—I'm so close—"

He felt it in the flutter of her, in the way her bound hands strained and her hips rolled helplessly against his face. He sucked her clit in a steady rhythm and slid two fingers into her at last, curling them, stroking that swollen spot while his tongue kept time. She shook. A broken moan tore out of her and carried up into the branches. He brought her right to the edge, held her there, licking and sucking until her whole body was one tight wire, and then he eased off just enough to keep her from falling over it.

"Not yet," he said against her, voice muffled and dark. "I want you bent over when you come on my cock."

"Then do it," she begged, laughing and desperate at once. "Please. I'm yours. Fuck me."

He rose, mouth wet, and turned her toward the fallen log at the edge of the blanket. Moss cushioned the top of it, silvered and soft. He bent her over it with a hand between her shoulder blades, careful of the ears, and she went willingly, chest down, ass up, the fluffy tail bobbing just above where he needed her. Her tied hands stretched forward on the moss, silk pale against the green, and the sight of those bound wrists made his cock ache so hard he had to palm himself through his pants for a second just to breathe.

He hiked the rabbit skirt higher, bunching it at her waist so nothing was in the way. The tail harness framed her. He spread her with both thumbs, looked at how swollen and open she was from his mouth, and shoved his pants down. His cock sprang free, thick and already leaking. He dragged the head through her slick folds, once, twice, coating himself, nudging her clit until she pushed back with a needy little sob.

"Yes," she said. "Inside. All of it. I want to feel you."

He lined up and thrust in, one deep, possessive stroke that seated him to the hilt. Heat clamped around him, soaking and tight, and they both groaned. He held there, hands gripping her hips, letting her adjust, feeling her pulse around him. Then he drew back and fucked into her again, harder, the wet slap of it loud in the glade. The skirt fluttered. The tail bounced. Her bound hands scrabbled at the moss and found nothing to hold, and that helplessness seemed to wind her tighter. She moaned and pushed back to meet him, taking every inch, frantic and willing.

"That's it," he rasped, driving into her in deep, steady thrusts that jolted her whole body. "Take it. My perfect bunny, tied up and dripping on my cock. You feel so fucking good."

"Harder," she panted. "Don't be sweet. Fuck me senseless. I can take it."

He gave her what she asked for. His pace turned rough and hungry, hips snapping, balls tapping her clit with every stroke. He reached under her and rubbed that swollen bud in tight circles while he pounded into her, and she cried out, shoving back, the silk ribbons tugging as her arms strained. The log creaked. Moonlight moved over the sweat on her back, over the white ears knocked slightly askew, over the place where his cock disappeared into her again and again. She was so wet the sound of it filled the clearing, filthy and perfect. He bent over her, chest to her spine, and spoke against her neck.

"Come for me. Come while I'm buried in you. I want to feel this pussy squeeze me."

"I'm—oh—Rupert—"

She broke. The orgasm hit her in a long, shattering wave, thighs shaking, inner muscles clamping down so hard he swore. She moaned his name into the moss and kept pushing back, riding it, milking him through every pulse. He fucked her through it, not slowing, possessive and deep, chasing his own edge while she trembled and gasped and came again in a smaller, helpless aftershock that made her laugh and sob at once.

"Inside," she managed. "I want it. Fill me up."

That undid him. He gripped her hips, slammed in to the root, and came with a rough groan, spilling into her in thick pulses, grinding deep so she took all of it. Pleasure tore through him, white and hot, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades, her bound hands flexing under his as if she needed to hold him even like this. They stayed locked together while the last shocks rolled through both of them, breathing hard, the forest slowly coming back: an owl, the drip of dew, their own ragged sounds.

When he could move, he eased out of her, gentle now, and watched a trickle of his come slip down her thigh. He kissed the small of her back. Then he untied the silk, working the knot loose with careful fingers, rubbing the faint marks on her wrists until the color evened out. She turned in his arms, ears crooked, skirt still rucked up, smiling like she had been lit from the inside.

He gathered her against his chest and lowered them both onto the soft blanket under the stars. The moss gave. The night was cool on their sweat. He kissed her long and tender, tasting her own sweetness still on his mouth, and she kissed him back with a sleepy, satisfied sound, one bare leg hooked over his.

"That was perfect," he murmured against her lips. "Every bit of it."

She traced his jaw, already whispering. "Next time I want the creek. Same ears. Same silk." Her eyes shone. "Will you tie my hands behind me and make me come on your tongue before you even let me beg?"