The Velvet Hare - Chapter I - Mark
"You are cordially invited to the Velvet Hare. Rumours about the provenance of our delicious Bunnies are just that: rumours.
I
"You see this shit?" Mark said to his mates over a few too many pints.
Johnny squinted at it, red-faced and incredulous. "I seen it, mate. That bellend you call a brother Mick has been blowing up the groupchat with this shit."
THE VELVET HARE IS A HUMAN TRAFFICKING FRONT FOR THE ILLUMINATI - SUBSCRIBE TO MY PATREON FOR MORE! screamed the screencap, sent from an Instagram account called RealEyesRealiseRealLies.
But that wasn't the interesting part: it was the message from a 67 follower account entitled "The Velvet Hare. "One need not indulge in conspiracy theories, but the Velvet Hare simply says this. The Velvet Hare is an exclusive gentleman's club. Exclusivity breeds jealousy. Any rumours about the provenance of our delicious Bunnies are just that: rumours. Rumours and gross speculation."
"Don't you think it's somewhat credible if they even responded?" Mark shrugged, taking a deep draught of his beer.
"Not really. Could be anyone. Besides, I know Mick's an investigative journalist but he's had some busts in the past - remember that Midsommar-style death cult? Turned out to be hippies just tripping their balls off in a field somewhere."
"But they responded!"
"Mate, it's the internet. Let it go. Mick's not uncovered the next Epstein."
"Well, I reckon there's something here. I'm gonna donate to this RealEyes guy and see what he's all about."
Secretly, Mark was intrigued. The rumours said they took in innocent young women and warped them through some kind of training of conditioning into their Bunnies - hedonistic sluts and whores who would do anything for the right price. The rumours were hot, admittedly, but he didn't really buy Mick's Illuminati bullshit. He'd seen the photos though; those bunnies were undeniably fit as fuck. Privately, a par of him longed to see the inside of this club, sit with these bunnies, feel their curves through the leather. He knew exactly what he wanted to do with them.
Johnny shrugged. "It's your money, mate. Better spent on another pint, if you ask me."
A few hours later, Mark stumbled out of the Old Town pub towards his car. He knew drink driving was a 'crime' but whatever, it was only a five minute drive to his apartment. And besides, the night was dark and quiet anyhow.
Fumbling with the keys, Mark got into the car, breath steaming in the cool night air. He closed his eyes for a spell, as the engine started and the heating came on.
The engine stopped. The heating ceased.
His eyes opened.
He was surrounded by four towering men in sharp suits and ebon-black masks, hare's masks.
"Wait, no -"
Mark had always thought he'd be able to fight off a mugger - had boxed semi-professionally for a spell in his late teens - but they didn't want his money. Before he could throw a single punch, they'd smashed his window, pinned him down, and dragged him from the car.
Screaming, they silently pulled a hood over his head and cinched it tight around his neck. No light, no vision, the barest hint of air.
II.
It takes a lot to break a man's mind, even a weak one like Mark's.
The van was dark, the Hares as silent as cemetery groundskeepers. Mark thrashed and screamed, throwing himself against the padded walls of the van. The Hares did not bother to stop him. Let him tire himself out, they reasoned (or would have, had they the faculties).
Every panicked breath, every gulp of air, flushed his system with billions of particles of the Velvet Hare's proprietary chemical cocktail. By slow inches, Mark's strength began to sap, then wane; his panic dulling, then cooling. In it's place came other emotions, other sensations.
He shuddered as he realised that his penis was slowly stiffening. His sluggish mind recognised this was profoundly, deeply wrong. He was bound and captured, carted off to some horrific facility, and yet he was growing ever more aroused with every passing second.
Mark felt his heart begin to race, his cheeks begin to flush.
"Please, help me, something's wrong..."
His dick was painfully erect. His mind - still working in fits and starts - was flush with imagery: his girlfriend's lips on his; the first time he'd gotten a blowjob; that time in Cancun when he'd fucked his ex by the pool...
He moaned and writhed, his hard cock caged within his jeans.
"Mm...I don't - I - "
The Hares watched on coldly, motionless, as he creamed his pants. They knew what this meant. He was too weak now to struggle, too sedate to be anything but compliant.
III.
The Velvet Hare understood brainwashing in a way that most did not. It is not about forcing the person to believe a lie. It is about conditioning someone to accept a truth they did not yet understand.
Mark was too weak to resist as they shackled him to the bed, cocooned by banks of screens and strange looking speakers. Slowly, they began to flash abstruse imagery that he could not make out.
Black light, purple light.
"Please, just let me go, I don't know what's happening -"
His body was so tender, every touch of the Hares' gloved hands made him shiver with delight, despite himself. He was scared but it was a distant fear. A fear that somehow he knew he would not act upon.
"What are you doing, wait -"
Black light, purple light.
He came violently, ropes of cum spurting against the screen banks, as they latched a grotesque suction device onto his nipples, his aching, erect cock. The horror, the ecstasy. He thrashed, panting, long enough for them to turn him over. He could smell the chemicals now, drowning him in compliance -
Black light, purple light.
"Please, stop, I don't think this is -"
Mark gave a shamefully girlish yelp, as they plugged his virgin ass hole. He felt it stretch his walls, then slowly pulse inside of him, throbbing right on his prostate.
Black light, purple light.
The images reformed. He saw Bunnies going about their business, in leather and lace, all high breasts and curves. Sedate imagery of serving drinks. Nothing sinister, beyond the black of their leather.
Black light, purple light.
It was hard to focus, hard to think.
Black light, purple light.
A single thought kept recurring in his mind: Where is the mask?
Black light, purple light.
He must have said it aloud, because a black-haired bunny, beautiful and plastic and blank spoke.
Black light, purple light.
"We have to break your conditioning first -"
Black light, purple light.
" - you've been confused your whole life -"
Black light, purple light.
"- you've never been a man -"
Black light, purple light.
"- just a stupid, little, slutty whore."
He cried between moans, terrified but oh so painfully, terrifically aroused.
IV.
He knew not how long he had been strapped to that table. Time was meaningless in that liminal space. Only pleasure remained - the thrumming of the dildo, the suction of the cups - and the music, and the words.
The words settled into Mark's shredded psyche.
Mark is weak.
"Mark is weak."
Mark is willing.
"Mark is willing."
Mark is the lie.
"Mark is the lie", he said, feeling tears forming in his eyes as the dildo rewarded him with pleasure. He didn't understand it. If Mark was a lie, then who was he? What was he? They had dragged his certainty away from him, the foundations of his being. What was it?
Mark is the lie.
"Mark is the lie", it agreed.
Marissa is the truth
"Marissa is the truth," it agreed, feeling a flush of relief as some foundation returned to it.
Who is Marissa?
The question hit it, laden with import, an island of meaning in a storm of uncertainty. There was only one answer that made sense. Only one lifeboat to cling to in the storm.
"I-I am Marissa," she whispered breathily.
Her world was eclipsed by pleasure as a burst of imagery surged all around her. Epileptic imagery overwrote her foundational memories. She saw herself on her knees before a faceless man, lowering towards his turgid cock. She remembered the sticky heat of the cum hitting her face as she sucked. She remembered the feeling of her little boypussy stretching as she took her first cock. She remembered the moans she let out as the man pulled her hair and fucked her until she shot thin ropes from her girlcock.
She found herself smiling as her mind cracked, shifted, moved to accomodate this new reality. This real reality. She remembered who she was, beyond the debris of her meaningless boy mind.
Marissa was the truth. Blank, submissive, eternally lustful, eternally caged within his pathetic boy-cage.
The Velvet Hare would set her free.
When the dildo came, Marissa gratefully opened her slutty little mouth wide to receive it, tongue out to lap at its base.
V.
The bank of screens had receded, replaced by strange apparatuses, with caressing hands, suctioninig pistons, and squirting liquid, Across hours, they reshaped her false body, warping it into the depraved feminine facsimile that was Marissa.
Silicon filled tits sitting high on her chest; waist cinched tight to flare out into wide hips; an ass you could use as a shelf; skin soft as silk, nipples pink and hard and ever-erect.
The mask enclosed around her face as pinprick needles lanced and shaped away her false masculinity, replacing it with a dainty nose, immaculately plucked and trimmed brows, and obscenely full lips - forever pursed. She giggled with joy as the cock returned to her mouth, pushing past her super-sensitive lips, coated in some delightful chemical, deep into her throat. Her gag reflex was gone - all the better for taking cock deep.
But the greatest change was in her eyes. They glazed over, all false thoughts of reprisal and escape gone. Her mind clicked into place. There was only the Velvet Hare. The only joy and pleasure came from the Hare. She laughed, gagging on the cock, at this realisation.
It was all so simple.
They unshackled her, led her to a blank room. They'd left little girlcock remained, a vestigial limb, flaccid and small. Marissa preened and stroked herself before the mirror, her long nails gleaming, her now long hair a black curtain that fell past her slender shoulders.
She was hornier than she'd ever been in her life. She needed to have her cock sucked, to suck cock, to feel cock press against her girlpussy and boypussy both. She licked the precum from her flaccid little cocklet.
"When do I get my mask?" she moaned, voice full of need and longing and desperation. "When do I get my little pussy? A real whore needs more holes. I'd do anything for my pussy."
She grinned to herself, a little bit of animal cunning. She remembered seducing the gym teacher at her school as a freshly eighteen little whore. All it took was a few whispered, moaning words. Surely the Velvet Hare was no different.
Silence.
VI.
They left her in that room for a full week. A full week without pleasure, doused in subliminal prompting, and chemicals.
It came to make sense to her. She still thought of pleasure as hers. Something for her to receive, something of hers to give.
That was not the way of the world. Not the way of the Velvet Hare.
As her will withered, Marissa understood why she had to suffer this cage of chastity for now. They may have broken her mind and body, turned her into a ravenous whore who'd do anything for a cock or pussy, but they needed her to accept the truth of the world.
That there was nothing but the Velvet Hare.
That she was nothing but a tool of the Velvet Hare. Little better than a dildo, a ball-gag, or a vibrator. Her ego had no place here. It did not exist anymore.
She looked up to the cameras with a look of blank ecstasy.
"I am whatever you need me to be," she breathed. "Take my cock. Wrap me in leather. Make me a Bunny."
VII.
With this, her final submission, Marissa finally became her true self.
A blur. A ceremony. The Bunny's legs buckled with ecstasy, as the Masters bestowed her with her mask, wrapped her in leather, took her manhood away.
There was never a way back for her.
She was a Bunny.
The Velvet Hare was her world.
Her days warped into nights warped into weeks into months into years. Every hole serviced. Every limb a tool for pleasure.
She did not question when the man came before her, tears in his eyes, face reddening with shock and horror.
"M-mark, is that you? Oh my God, it is! That's your scar o-on your forehead! It's me, Mick, your brother! Jesus Chris you've been gone for two years."
Bunny Marissa just watched, lips ever-parted, pussy ever-wet. The response came naturally:
"Mark was a lie. There is only Marissa."
"Marissa, what the fuck do you mean? What are you doing?"
His protests ceased as she kneeled, her tits a shelf in her bustier, her red lips parted, green eyes blank with anything but lust."
"Let Bunny Marissa show you real pleasure, sir."
"N-no, please -"
"The Masters welcome you to the Velvet Hare."
She descended onto his stiffening cock, and sucked.
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