Gun Bunny
Copyright© 2026 by Depraved_Angel
Chapter 3
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 3 - Shiloh Kaplan, 29, is the polished face of gun control. On a livestream she accepts Nash Brennan’s dare: three weeks at Ridge Line Defensive Arts, a private compound that trains the militia network she has spent her career calling a threat. Finish, and a million dollars goes to the group she names. Issued a too-tight black “Gun Bunny” onesie and platform heels, she is drilled by her instructor until recoil, rifle chatter, and talk of militias start doing things her politics cannot explain.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Mind Control Heterosexual Military Rough Oral Sex
The plywood house had been painted to look like it had already lost. Gray walls with water stains drawn on in cheap latex, a sagging fake porch, a door that hung wrong on purpose. Inside it smelled like sawdust and hot dust and the sour leftover of last week’s solvent. Shiloh went through the doorway on the six-inch heels because that was the uniform, rifle up, the strap cutting her shoulder through the onesie, and Lang was already in her ear.
“Don’t hunt for a good guy,” he said. “There isn’t one. You walk into a place like this, everybody you see is a problem. You start checking stories, you eat a round.”
The first printed dummy was on a stained couch that wasn’t a couch so much as a box with a cushion thrown on it. Dark face, fade haircut, hoodie, empty hands printed at his sides like that was supposed to make him innocent. Three days ago she would have said that the empty hands were the whole point. She put the red toggle where Kenzie had left it and dumped a burst into the chest oval.
The rifle tried to climb. It always tried to climb when she let the trigger stay down that long. The burst walked up the dummy’s sternum and chewed the drywall over its printed hair, and the kick came up through her wrists and into her tits like a slap. Her nipples were already scraping the front panel. The onesie was damp at the crotch before she’d cleared the door.
“Short,” Lang said. “You’re writing your name on the ceiling. Muzzle down. You’re not ready for this and I shouldn’t be running you through a house until you can keep a burst on a chest, but here we are. Again.”
She stepped over the ruined cushion. The heels ticked on the hollow floor. Another dummy filled the kitchen doorway: brown skin, cheap work shirt, a printed pistol that was really just ink. She hesitated half a breath because the face looked like a man waiting for a bus, and Lang’s voice came in flat and close. “That’s the one that shoots you while you’re deciding whether he’s a constituent. Failed city, Kaplan. White flight already happened. What’s left in a building like this isn’t a neighborhood meeting. Put it down.”
She put it down. The burst was still long. The paper chest blew out. A strip of the dummy’s printed jaw went with it. Heat rolled through her belly like she’d been caught doing something filthy, and the argument started up in her head the way it always did. People lived in places that looked like this. People who weren’t armed. People who were tired. The thought was there. It just didn’t have anywhere to stand while the rifle was still shivering in her hands and her pussy was squeezing around nothing.
“Reload. You’re empty and you’re standing in a fatal funnel like a tourist.”
The clip came out harder than she meant it to. She had two more taped against her vest, fat little boxes of live rounds, and when she seated the fresh one the socketing click went through her like a knuckle on her clit. Live bullets. Real ones. A whole box of them locked into a rifle that would spray them if she asked it to. She yanked the handle and felt the first round chamber and had to swallow against a sound that wanted to be a moan.
“Good,” Lang said, and the word was grudging enough that it shouldn’t have done anything. It did. “Now the hall. You drift high again and I’m pulling you out. I don’t tolerate insubordination from women who still think a zip code is a feeling.”
The hallway was narrow on purpose. A dummy had been wedged in a fake bathroom door, darker skin, tight curls, a printed phone in one hand like she’d been about to record something. Shiloh’s finger eased. For a second the old script came all the way back. Collateral. Unarmed. A woman. She could write the press release in her sleep.
“Civilian damage is what happens when a city is already gone,” Lang said, almost bored. “You wait for a perfect target, you donate the block. Unfortunate. Reality. Shoot her.”
Shiloh shot her, a quick burst. The burst walked again. Lang swore. “You’re fighting the gun like it insulted you. It isn’t a debate partner. Ride it. Short chatter. You’re spraying because you still think noise is the point. Noise is what gets you found. Hits are what keep you breathing.”
She corrected. Not well. Better than the doorway. The dummy’s chest opened up in a ragged oval and the onesie felt suddenly too small across her nipples, a cheap tingle in the fabric she told herself was sweat and recoil and the way the rifle’s vibration lived in her pubic bone. She hated that she could feel herself getting slicker with every burst. She hated more that the slickness had a shape now. It wasn’t random. It lined up with the chatter of the gun and with Lang telling her the neighborhood was already lost.
The next room had two of them. A mattress on the floor, a lamp with no shade, printed men in hoodies posed like they’d been waiting behind it. One had a gun drawn in ink. One didn’t. She took the armed one first because that was the sentence she could still live with, and then she stood there with the muzzle drifting toward the second chest and the old voice in her head saying he was just in the room.
“He’s in the room,” Lang said, as if he’d lifted it out of her. “That’s the standard in a place like this. You don’t get a jury in a hallway. You get a hole or you get got. White families left this floor plan twenty years ago for a reason. You’re not here to process their reasons. Dump it.”
She dumped it. The burst was almost short. Almost. Paper blew. The smell of the shots stacked on itself until the little house felt like the covered lane and the outdoor range and the classroom table all at once. Her clit was a stupid, swollen fact against the seam. She could have cum from the rhythm alone if he’d kept talking. She didn’t. She made herself move.
Empty again. The second clip change was greedier than the first. She knew it. She felt her hands hurry to get the fresh box of bullets into the well, felt the heavy little promise of the clip seating, and the thrill that went through her was so specifically about live rounds that she could have slapped herself. Deadly. Socketed. Ready. She chambered and had to lock her jaw.
“There she is,” Lang said. “You like a full gun more than you like your talking points. Don’t make faces at me like that, I can hear you breathing. Last room. Don’t check corners like a cop on a recruitment poster. If you can see it, it dies. That’s how you hold a street when the official relief is still in sensitivity training.”
The last room was a fake bedroom with a printed child-sized dummy half-hidden by a dresser, and for one awful second she couldn’t make her finger do it. The thing wasn’t even a good prop. It was just smaller, darker, posed low. Her stomach turned. Her pussy did not. That was the part she was going to have to live with later.
“That’s the one that grows up in the same building and learns you hesitated,” Lang said. “Imported chaos doesn’t stay imported. You want a clean conscience, stay on cable. You want the block, you accept the mess. Fire.”
She fired. The burst climbed and she dragged it down by raw panic and the dummy’s printed chest disappeared. She kept the muzzle up through the rest of the room because he’d told her not to hunt for saints, and when there was nothing left that looked like a person she stood in the ringing quiet with her ears full of her own pulse and the rifle’s heat coming up through her gloves.
Lang let the quiet sit for a second. “All right,” he said. “You’re sloppy and you’re late on the second doorway and I wouldn’t put you on a real stack. But you finished the house and you stopped asking me for a permission slip every time the paper had a face. That’s more than I expected out of you on day fifteen. Don’t get cute about it.”
The praise was nothing. It was a man who still thought she was a problem, giving her a crumb because she’d put holes where he pointed. It landed in her like a hand around her throat. The heat that had been building since the first couch dummy went from ache to emergency. Her nipples went painfully tight. Her pussy clenched so hard she had to bend her knees or fall over.
She dropped to one knee on the plywood like she was checking the rifle. That was the story she would tell if she had to. She tilted the gun and looked at the ejection port and pretended the shake in her thighs was adrenaline. The orgasm tore through her anyway, ugly and wet and complete, a shuddering roll that made her vision spot. She came thinking about the fresh clip seating, about Lang’s voice saying unfortunate reality, about a line of men with rifles on gravel who didn’t ask a hallway for its feelings. She bit the inside of her cheek and rode it with her mouth shut, the onesie soaked through the crotch, her body twitching in little helpless jerks while she kept the muzzle pointed at the ruined dresser like a professional.
It took longer than she wanted to master herself again. When she could stand without her knees advertising it, she got up, made her face blank, and walked out into the sun. Lang was where the cameras fed, headset still on, squinting like the light offended him. He was not alone.
Nash Brennan stood in the gravel with a rifle on a strap across his chest and a smile that remembered the handshake. Next to him was a man she knew from letterhead and from the inside of her own hit pieces. Mid-forties, cleaner than Lang, still armed, the kind of hunter who could write a check without changing clothes. Reid Vaughn. The name on her hip. The money in the walls.
She stopped short enough that the heels announced it.
Nash’s eyes went down her the way they had on the livestream, except now there was no host and no makeup chair, just sweat at her hairline and a black onesie printed with the logo “Gun Bunny” and the wet she could feel cooling between her legs.
“There she is,” Nash said. “I told Dekker I wanted a preview. Figured fifteen days was long enough to see if you’d wash out or start looking like you belonged on a line.”
She hated him. She wanted to put her mouth on him. Both things arrived together and neither asked permission. Her nipples tightened all over again at the sight of him standing there like the property was a sport he owned. Her clit throbbed against the wet seam. She knew what he was. Not a LARP with a following. The man who could call other men out of their jobs and put rifles in their hands in a dozen cities. A network. Paramilitary whether her old press releases used the word or not. Looking at him made her think of those units the way looking at the rifle made her think of a clip full of live rounds, and her pussy answered before her pride could get a sentence together.
“She’s loud and she climbs,” Lang said. “House is clear, but I wouldn’t sign her off today.”
“Didn’t ask you to sign her off today.” Nash stepped in close enough that she got the clean soap and the oil on the rifle strap. He looked at her mouth like he was already collecting. “I’m proud of you, Kaplan. Not because you’re good. Because you showed up in that little outfit and you let a man run you through a house that looks like the neighborhoods you raise money off of. That’s growth.”
Vaughn hadn’t spoken yet. He watched her the way a man watched a piece of kit he’d already paid for. The onesie suddenly felt exactly as small as it was.
“When you finish,” Nash said, pleasant, triumphant, talking down to her like she’d come on television to be corrected, “I hope you have a different perspective on firearms than the one you brought through the gate. And on the men who carry them. They’re not a public health crisis. They’re the reason a street stays a street.”
She held the next orgasm by spite. It was right there, stupid and immediate, just from his voice and the picture of those men in vests lining up for him. She would not cum in front of Nash Brennan in a gravel lot at noon. She still had that much pride. “I’ll be glad to be finished with the course soon,” she said.
Nash’s smile widened like she’d given him something he could put on a card.
Lang jerked his chin toward the barracks road. “Lunch. The men have to talk. Back at thirteen hundred. Don’t wander.”
She turned and went at a trot, heels punching the gravel, rifle strap bouncing on her breast. The onesie clung. She could feel how wet she still was and how little the kneeling trick had actually spent. If the barracks were empty at this hour she was going to lock the stall or pull the blanket and finish what Nash’s mouth had started, and she was not going to pretend it would be about stress.
Two days later the morning was all short bursts and Lang’s voice telling her to keep the muzzle in the chest and her mouth shut. She learned the trick of it the way she’d learned the heels. The rifle still kicked a filthy little shiver up through her seam every time it ripped, and her nipples still went tight against the front panel like they wanted a mouth, but she could ride the edge now without going over on the line. That was the win she would not have put in an op-ed. She walked off the dirt with the assault rifle slung across her back because that was what it was, whatever the catalog called it, and Lang took her up the path to the classroom without offering her a chance to wipe the range off her face.
She didn’t need to. Kenzie’s lessons had finally stuck. Concealer bounced under her eyes and down the sun line until the sleepless bunk didn’t show. Brow gel laid her arches down like someone had drawn them for a camera. Tight liner made her eyes look mean and expensive. Two coats of mascara, wiggled at the base the way she’d been shown. Milani blush cut across her cheekbones so the onesie’s low neckline had somewhere to point. Dusty rose on her mouth, blotted once, the kind of color that looked bitten. Dark hair pulled back off the sharp jaw, not the panel knot, a cleaner line that left her throat bare above the Gun Bunny print at her nape. The onesie still cut high on her hips and low across her chest. Sweat from the range had the black fabric clinging to her nipples and the cleft of her ass. The heels put her ass up and her stride long. She knew what she looked like in the glass by the classroom door. She looked like the joke on her hip had stopped being a joke and started being a uniform she could fuck in.
Lang pointed at the usual chair. She unslung the rifle, set it on the table the way she’d been taught, and sat. The strap slithered off her breast. She leaned back and crossed her legs at the ankle because the seam was already wet and she was not going to give him the satisfaction of watching her squirm before the lights even dropped.
He dropped them anyway. The screen came up on a title card she could have written a complaint about in her first week.
WHEN THE LIGHTS GO OUT
No safety sermon. No four rules. A night street with no working lamps, then a line of men in vests and helmets moving through it like they owned the dark. The camera loved the rifles. It loved the way the bursts stitched a doorway and the way a printed chest blew open and became, in the next cut, a real alley and a real shape going down. Maps. Checkpoints. A red grease pencil circling blocks that looked like the cities she used to fundraise off of. A voice she didn’t know, clean and sure, talking about law-abiding citizens who kept firearms because the people paid to keep the peace had stopped doing it.
It never said white. It didn’t have to. Every face in the formations was the face she’d been trained to call a problem. Every neighborhood they “saved” looked like the ones her old talking points had called diverse. The enemy was a smear of words. Elements. Agitators. People who wanted the lights to stay out. Liberals sat under those words like a stain you weren’t supposed to name and couldn’t stop seeing.
A full-auto rip came off the speakers, raw and close, and Shiloh’s hand went to the rifle on the table before she decided to move it. She stroked the receiver the way she’d been stroking it in the bunk, thumb along the puck, fingers on the hot memory of the handguard, and her cunt tightened so hard she had to breathe through it. Short bursts. She’d practiced that all morning. The video did not care. It poured longer chatter over footage of squads sweeping a street, kicking doors, putting holes in hostile targets and calling it a rescue. Saving a block. Neutralizing a threat. Patriotic noise under it, flags cracking in a wind machine, men and women in tactical gear lined up like a recruitment poster that had stopped pretending it was about disaster relief.
The women were the part that got into her worst. They were made up. All of them. Hair done, mouths done, eyes cut the way Kenzie cut hers. Plate carriers worn over bodies that had been dressed to be taken out of the carriers. A blonde on her knees in a ready room passing a rifle up to a man and staying down when he set a hand in her hair. A brunette against a map wall with her onesie peeled to the waist while a squad lead talked checkpoints over her head and used her mouth like it was part of the briefing. Nothing you could put on a broadcast without a lawyer. Enough that Shiloh’s clit throbbed against the seam and her nipples scraped the damp panel with every little shift in the chair. The implication was not subtle. The women in the line were there to shoot and they were there to get used. On demand. Between rooms. Under the map.
She wanted in so badly it made her sick and wet at the same time.
Another rip on the soundtrack. She caressed the assault rifle again, slow, filthy, like the gun could feel it, and her cunt fluttered in a tight helpless pulse. The heat in the onesie was a cheap buzz she could still blame on sweat if she needed a story. She did not need a story as much as she had on day six. The militiamen did it. The violence did it. The flags and the talk of private ownership and the way the voice said organized units were what stood up when city hall went into a meeting and left a street to burn. Law-abiding. Responsible. The unspoken condition sat in her lap with the rifle and she let it sit. Her old arguments were still in there. They just couldn’t get purchase on a clit that hard.
She had to lock her wrist against her thigh to keep from putting a hand under the table. One rub. She could have finished in the dark chair the way she had during the third tape, except this time she would not have hidden it and she did not trust her mouth to stay quiet. She wanted to be the girl under the map. She wanted a vest and a rifle and a man telling her which block was next while he used her. She wanted the gravel line. She wanted to belong to the thing she had spent years calling a threat.
The end card held.
QUALIFY. CARRY. BELONG.
A woman on her knees under a papered wall of streets, mouth wet, rifle leaning on her shoulder like a second spine. Then the lights.
Shame hit Shiloh first, a hot nasty wash, the leftover of every panel and every donor dinner and every time she had said militia like it was a slur. It lasted about as long as it took her pussy to remind her she was still dripping. The tape had not let her come. It had left her swollen and mean and empty, clit aching, nipples two tight insults under the damp black fabric. Guilt didn’t have a chance against that.
Lang was already at the switch. She looked at him the way she had looked at him across the classroom table on the day he had fucked her, except she wasn’t yelling now. She let her knees loosen. She let him see her mouth. “You got somewhere to be after this?” she said, and heard how thin the cover was. “Or is the chief instructor off the clock?”
He actually laughed. Not unkind. Worse than unkind. Like she’d told a joke he’d already heard from a better body. “That was a one-time thing, Kaplan.” He nodded at the rifle, at the onesie, at the dusty rose she’d put on for a man who was not going to take her to the table. “I’ve got other pussy on call. You’re a student. You don’t get to book the man who runs the Ridge because a movie got your cunt wet. Get your rifle. Barracks. Eat something. Thirteen hundred we’re back on the dirt and you’re going to keep those bursts short without making that face.”
She sat there long enough for the dismissal to finish landing. Then she slung the assault rifle across her back, felt the strap claim her breast again, and walked out on the heels with her chin up because she was not going to ask twice.
The barracks were full. Of course they were. Midday light through the fence window, women on bunks and at the mirror, someone laughing in the shower, the whole low building smelling like soap and hair product and range sweat. Kenzie was at the far end doing her mouth. Somebody else had a vest open on a blanket. There was no stall with a lock and a guarantee. There was no quiet.
Shiloh set the rifle where she always set it, climbed onto the end bunk in the onesie and the heels she had not bothered to kick off, and pulled the thin blanket up like that would do anything. She squeezed her thighs together, hard, chasing the leftover of the tape, the rip of full auto, the blonde on her knees, Nash’s network, Lang’s no. Her clit dragged against the wet seam and gave her a cheap spark that would not catch. She squeezed again. Again. The orgasm sat right there and refused to come for a woman who could not get a hand on it and could not get a man to finish what the screen had started.
She stared at the slats of the bunk above her and kept squeezing, frustrated and soaked and still seeing the end card every time she blinked.
Four days later there was no voice in the headset except her own breathing.
The mocked-up building was the same cheap plywood bones. Gray latex water stains. Doorways cut a little too narrow. Printed dummies posted where a rundown house would put bodies. Lang was somewhere in the control room with the rest of them. The mini-cams were black beads in the corners. She knew the feed. She had been the girl on it for three weeks. Today she gave the men something worth watching.
She looked like she had been built for the cameras. Dark hair sleeked off that sharp jaw, dusty rose mouth blotted to a wet smear, liner cut tight, lashes thick, blush sitting high on the bone so her face read as ready even before she smiled. The onesie was a second skin. Range sweat made the black fabric cling to her nipples until they showed as two hard points under the Gun Bunny neckline. The high-cut hips left the undersides of her ass bare above the heels. The vest rode tight over it, straps framing her tits instead of hiding them. The assault rifle hung in her hands like it belonged there. She knew it did.
She went through the first door already shooting.
The dummy on the fake couch had a fade and a hoodie and empty printed hands. She stitched the chest oval in a short controlled burst and felt the rifle try to climb and put it back down with her shoulders and her hips, a little roll that made her tits jump in the vest. She did it on purpose. Someone on the other end of those beads was going to replay that. She wanted them to. The kick shivered through her pussy and she kept it there, a hot banked thing, and used it to tighten the next burst instead of spending it.
Hallway. Kitchen doorway. A brown-printed work shirt and a phone instead of a gun. She did not pause. She dumped the oval, walked the muzzle off the drywall, and let her ass twitch with the chatter like the recoil had a right to move her. Unarmed was a story for people who still thought a building like this got a jury. She had stopped thinking that. If it came into the sight it died. The thrill of it ran straight down into her cunt and made her slicker, meaner, cleaner. She could feel how good she looked taking the doorway on those heels, vest bouncing, mouth wet, rifle speaking in short ugly sentences.
The first clip ran dry on a dummy she’d cut down in a fake bathroom. She dropped it, seated a fresh box of live rounds with a click that still made her clit jump, yanked the handle, and was moving before the empty had stopped rattling. Live bullets. A full well. She stroked her thumb along the receiver as she walked, a filthy little reassurance, and put three tight bursts through two more printed chests in the next room without letting the orgasm that wanted to ride those bursts get its way.
She was ruthless about it. A smaller dummy low by a dresser. A woman-shaped one with both hands up. A pair behind a mattress, one inked with a pistol and one not. She slaughtered all of them. No second thought. No check for a good guy. The onesie was soaked at the seam and her nipples scraped the damp panel every time the vest shifted, and she used that fire the way Lang had used his hands on her stance. Tighter groups. Shorter chatter. Muzzle where she put it. She gave the cameras the extra shake on a longer burst, tits jolting, ass flexing as she rode the kick, because the men watching were the men she wanted to belong to and she wanted them hard while they graded her.
Combat was a rush. That was the word for it even in a plywood house with paper bodies. Heart up. Ears ringing. The smell of the shots stacked in the little rooms. Each dummy going from a problem to a ruined chest felt like a kill, and she wanted the real version with a clarity that would have horrified the woman who had walked through the gate. Live targets. Blood spray. Undesirables cut down and purged so the blocks stayed livable for the people who followed rules and paid taxes and kept their rifles. Real Americans. Defended by real men and by women like her, made up and armed and on their knees when the briefing was over. She wanted that future so badly she could taste it with the dust.
Second clip change in the last hallway, greedy and sure. Fresh rounds socketed. She shivered once, let it turn into a better mount, and finished the house on a kneeling burst through a dummy that had been waiting at the exit like a last argument. Paper blew. The course tone sounded in the headset, flat and official.
She stayed down. Panting. Thighs shaking. Pussy clenched around nothing, right on the lip of coming from the last rip and the picture of blood she did not have yet. She mastered it because she was not going to walk outside dripping down her heel if she could help it. When she could stand, she stood. Rifle up. Chin up. She stepped into the sun looking like the end card from the sixth tape.
Lang was there. Nash was there. Vaughn was there. The three of them had the squint of men who had been watching a private channel.
“That’s a pass,” Lang said. He did not dress it up. “Qualification’s done. Course is done. Don’t make me say it twice.”
Nash’s smile was the livestream smile with the leash off. “There she is. Told you she’d come around.” His eyes went down her body without any pretense of manners, vest and nipples and the wet shine at the high cut of the onesie, then back up to her mouth. “Congratulations, Kaplan. You look like you earned it.”
“She looks like she was built for the work,” Vaughn said, milder, just as frank. He took his time on her legs and the rifle and the dusty rose. “Good groups. Better show. That’s a combination I pay for.”
The praise landed in her knees. She basked in it, shame flickering and losing, and let them look. Powerful men. Armed men. The man who owned the dare and the man who had paid for the walls and the man who had run her for twenty-one days. She wanted their interest more than she had ever wanted a donor’s check.
“We’re not doing this in a gravel lot,” Nash said. “Private cabin’s up the ridge road. Lunch. A real celebration. You’re coming.”
“Yes,” she said, too fast, and didn’t bother to hide it.
They walked. She kept the assault rifle on her. Nash and Vaughn took the path like it was a boardroom. Lang did not follow. “Network’s hungry,” Nash said, easy, like weather. “I need volume. Rifles they can actually run, not range toys. Your packages, Reid. The same run kit she’s been wearing on that receiver. I want thousands of those carbines leaving here looking like they mean it.”
Vaughn made a sound that was almost a laugh. “I can build the crates. Vests, helmets, comms, night optics, extra clips, the medical slings, the whole fucking Christmas list. Getting a lot of rifles out the door past the nanny-state paperwork is the boring part. Liberals wrote a maze so a man can’t arm a neighborhood without a permission slip. We’ll go around it. We always go around it.”
He didn’t lay out a scheme. He didn’t have to. He sounded pleased with himself, like a man who already had a warehouse and a lawyer and a habit of winning.
Shiloh listened and saw it. Formations in the dark. New rifles chattering the way hers had just chattered. Men in the gear Vaughn was listing, holding blocks the official column would have abandoned. Her cunt went wet all over again, a fresh slick heat that made the onesie cling. She hoped they did get around that bullshit. She hoped they did it in time, before the anti-gun people in rooms like her old rooms talked a country into being helpless. The thought would have been a scandal on a panel. On the ridge road it felt like common sense.