From a shadowed banquette a writer watches. The Bunny Club’s low crimson light licks lacquered leather and latex alike, pooling over polished performance and plush perfection, where Miss Zonah Bellum glides into view. Her bodysuit - a liquid-red second skin of shiny spandex - is zipped so tight every curve cups, crests, then curves again. Fishnet thighs flex like feline muscle beneath; bunny tail a pert pom-pom perched above the promise of plump posterior punishment. She brings a crystal glass filled with amber liquid reflecting flickers of burlesque neon. Ben, broad-shouldered and bespoke in midnight suit, lounges like a lounging lion awaiting his lioness.

Zonah lowers herself slowly, silk-sheathed knees parting across his lap. The writer can’t catch the whisper that follows, only the way her glossed lips graze Ben’s earlobe, the way both mouths mirror a mischievous moonlit grin. A secret swapped, a pact inked in breath.

With a soft scrape of stilettos, she slides from his thighs to a nearby low mahogany coffee table. The polished surface shows her silhouette doubled: crimson curves copied in reflection. She folds forward, deliberate as origami, wrists meeting ankles behind her back - the perfect porcine hogtie pose. Ben uncoils rope, each length looping languidly through practiced knuckles. First: ankles lashed to wrists, cinch-pull-snug until spandex squeaks against itself. Next: elbow cinch, crushing her arms into a latex sheen of helplessness. Finally, a balled white cloth bulges between bunny-bright teeth; black vet-wrap winds round and round, sealing every syllable of squeal into soft, muffled mmphing music.

The writer’s pulse picks up pace as Ben’s palm rises. Smack. The sound is crisp, a champagne-cork crack echoing off velvet drapes. Rosy rings rise beneath fishnet criss-crossing pale skin, a bloom blossoming brighter with every brisk beat. Smack, smack, smack — metronome of mastery, each impact bouncing her tail, vibrating the table legs, jiggling the jeweled bunny ears still perked upon her platinum waves.

Zonah’s eyes glaze beneath fluttering lashes, pupils pooling into subspace puddles. A soft mmph vibrates through vet-wrap as Ben’s hand halts, hovers, then drifts casually to his neglected glass. He sips, satisfied, surveying his living centerpiece: a hogtied honey glazed in glossy spandex, ass aglow like ripened fruit ready for the taking.
She sinks, serene, surrendered.

The writer swallows, senses the scene sizzle, and silently scripts every second for his memory’s molten archive.