Domesticated 3

Marcus White had never known luxury. Not in the way it draped itself across penthouse walls, or whispering with silk and shining like sin. His earliest memories were of a different kind of wealth. It was the smell of mildew in narrow hallways, the sound of sirens slicing through the night, and the taste of powdered milk and cheap ramen. The wealth of survival and grit. He grew up on the South Side of Chicago, in a neighborhood that did not bother pretending. Everything was out in the open--guns, drugs, bruises on faces too young to understand how they had gotten there. His father was a ghost who came and went through prison bars like a revolving door. When he was home, he brought fists and fury. When he was gone, Marcus's mother found her comfort in crack pipes and cold men.

The only thing constant was the noise of arguing neighbors, broken windows, screaming, sirens...and silence. The kind that clung to Marcus after beatings, or after he found his name at the butt of a joke. "White boy with the dirty skin," kids would tease. "He ain't ever gonna be shit." Teachers would tell him he'd be locked up or dead before he hit eighteen, and he believed them, once. Something cracked in him. Maybe it was the night his mother sold her last piece of jewelry for a rock. Or when he lay on the floor, writhing in agony after his father beat him brutally for daring to stand up to him. Whichever night it was, Marcus stared at the ceiling of their one-bedroom apartment and made himself a promise. He would get out, and he would never be powerless again.

Marcus clawed his way up. Scholarships were baited hooks, and he took every single one he could catch. Books became weapons and armor. He kept his grades pristine and his mind razor-sharp. He didn't party. He didn't trust anyone enough to love; he had come to realize love was worthless. He graduated undergrad with honors, then again at the top of his class in business school, silencing every voice that had ever doubted him. By twenty-eight, Marcus was the youngest executive at a rising startup. He didn't just help it grow-- he rebranded it, multiplied it, and made it a well-known name. By thirty, he had his own apartment downtown and more offers than he could field. But only one really stood out.

Dominic Brando.

The name alone held weight; he was more myth than man. The CEO of Brando Acquisitions, the most feared and revered corporate takeover firm in the world. Dominic didn't just run companies. He devoured them. Rumors said he could smell weakness in a handshake. His offer was clear: triple Marcus's current salary, his own department, and access to Brando himself. Marcus accepted and took over projects that other seasoned employees could barely grasp, placing his stamp on the floor as the man to watch out for, the enemy coming for your livelihood, and for the favor of Mr. Brando.

Tonight, Marcus was invited to Dominic's penthouse for a "casual strategy session." He arrived early, dressed sharply. A tailored charcoal suit, dark shirt, no tie. The doorman knew his name. The elevator required a key. The ride was silent except for the low thrum of anticipation in his chest. The penthouse was a cathedral of wealth, with marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows that displayed the glittering city skyline like a trophy, and art he could tell cost more than his entire childhood block. A housekeeper let him in with a smile and a bow, disappearing down a hallway without a word. He was told to wait and sat on one of the leather sofas, adjusting his cufflinks out of habit. His eyes roamed the room, admiring sculptures, decanters of liquor, and imported rugs before something more intriguing caught his attention. He leaned forward in his seat to look at a beautiful woman--nude--seated perfectly still in a velvet chair near the far wall, softly breathing.

Her posture was immaculate. Hands flat on her thighs, legs slightly parted, eyes downcast. Marcus stood and slowly walked over to admire this creature up close. Her hair was dark and sleek, falling in gentle waves down her back. Her skin was perfect, not a blemish in sight. Her full breasts slowly rose and fell with each silent breath she took. But what stunned Marcus most wasn't her beauty. It was the collar around her neck. One made of expensive black leather with an elegant buckle.

She didn't speak or move. She looked like a sculpture--alive but waiting. Marcus stared as he felt something stir in him. A combination of lust, curiosity, and something...primal. He didn't realize Dominic had entered until the older man clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Marcus," Dominic greeted. His voice was silk wrapped around steel. His dark grey suit was tailored well over his masculine frame. His chestnut brown hair was neatly combed back, showing a small amount of grey that made him look more distinguished. "Glad you could make it. Drink?"

Marcus looked at him and offered a tight smile. "Yes, sir. Thank you." Dominic poured expensive scotch into crystal tumblers, handing one over. His eyes followed Marcus's toward the woman.

"You like her?" Dominic asked, voice smooth.

Marcus hesitated as he felt heat creep up his neck. "She's... different."

"She's mine," Dominic said. "Trained. Obedient. Perfect. You'll find there's a world beneath the one we work in, Marcus. Most men are afraid of it."

Marcus swallowed a sip of his drink, his eyes remaining on the beauty who remained seated in front of him. "And you?"

Dominic smirked. "I thrive in it." Without another word, he gestured toward his office. "Come. Let's talk business." Marcus followed, glancing back once more to where his curiosity remained. She hadn't moved an inch, not even when Dominic made his presence known. Her obedience was eerie... but alluring. He walked past Dominic, who held the door open as he casually undid the button of his suit jacket with his other hand. Marcus took a seat in the high-backed leather chair across from an obsidian desk that gleamed like oil. The office had a quiet, intimate atmosphere to it. A floor-to-ceiling bookshelf lined the opposite wall, which was filled with leather-bound volumes of business books and expensive artifacts. A fireplace glowed in the corner.

Dominic sipped his drink as he sat behind his desk, adjusting his posture. They talked numbers, targets, and power plays. The details blurred together, Marcus's mind still echoing with the image of the woman in the collar. When the meeting ended, Dominic walked him toward the door. But Marcus paused again, eyes lingering on the woman still seated as he'd left her.

"She hasn't moved," Marcus said quietly.

"She wouldn't dare," Dominic replied before sipping the last of the second pour of his drink.

Marcus studied her, drawn to her quiet submission. "She's...incredible."

Dominic turned toward her. "Come." Immediately, she dropped to her knees and crawled toward him. Each movement was fluid and graceful. Her curves swayed as she made her way to Dominic's feet. When she reached him, she knelt and bowed her head, resting back on her heels, her hands placed on her thighs. Dominic placed a hand under her chin and gently lifted her face. Her lips parted on a soft gasp, as if even his touch was a gift. "You see, Marcus," Dominic said, stroking her cheek, "control isn't about fear. It's about devotion. She craves my command." He tugged lightly at the collar, and she stared up at him, giving him a look that showed something deeper than obedience. It was a look of worship.

Dominic claimed her mouth in a dominant, slow, commanding kiss. She whimpered under him, her body trembling as she drank in everything Dominic offered her. He pulled back from their kiss and kept his eyes on hers as she panted under him. He stood straight and then said in a calm voice, "Return." She immediately crawled back to her chair, sat, and resumed her original pose. Her head bowed, thighs pressed together, and her hands placed on top.

Marcus said nothing for a moment. Then: "I'm impressed."

Dominic smiled. "Would you like one of your own?"

Marcus exhaled, the question hanging in the air like smoke. He stared at the woman--her body, her stillness, the quiet hum of submission surrounding her like perfume. But then he shook his head. "No. Not tonight."

Dominic nodded, unsurprised. "It always begins as curiosity," he said. "That's how it began for me." He walked towards the door, giving Marcus a final farewell before closing the door behind him. As Marcus rode the elevator down, the woman's image was seared into his mind. Collared, obedient, and lost in devotion. He stepped out of the building into the cool night air, the sounds and atmosphere of the city buzzing around him. Horns blared in the distance. Somewhere nearby, laughter spilled from a rooftop bar. But the world felt muffled like a song played underwater. Marcus moved toward his car, parked along the curb, and climbed into the driver's seat. The silence that followed felt loud.

He sat there for a moment, hands resting on the wheel, his eyes staring out at nothing. He finally let out an exhale before starting the engine. The hum of power beneath his hands grounded him, but only slightly. When he pulled into traffic and drove toward his high-rise apartment, the glow of neon signs and traffic lights blurred across his windshield. He couldn't think about business. He was thinking about her. The way she looked when she crawled. The way she didn't flinch when ordered. The way she returned to her chair without hesitation, like she wasn't even a person anymore, but a reflection of her Master's will. It should have disturbed him, but instead, it excited him.

He parked beneath his building and slowly walked up to his apartment. The keycard beeped. He opened the door, and darkness greeted him. His apartment was clean, modern, and sterile. Polished concrete floors. A single glass of whiskey was left on the counter from the night before. He stripped off his coat and suit jacket, draping them over a kitchen stool as he made his way to the bathroom. The mirror stared back at him as he washed his face, running cool water over skin that still tingled with tension. He wasn't sure if it was arousal, jealousy, or something deeper.

After brushing his teeth, he changed into loose gray sweatpants and a fitted black T-shirt. He turned off the lights, climbed into bed, and pulled the sheets up to his waist. But sleep didn't come. His mind spun, replaying her posture, the soft gasp when Dominic touched her, the way she obeyed with such reverence. He couldn't get it out of his mind, no matter how hard he tried.

He reached over, picked up his phone, and opened the browser.

Search: Pet ownership lifestyle BDSM

Dozens of articles, images, and forum threads appeared. He scrolled past the generic clickbait and found his way into darker corners--places where men talked openly about ownership, training, devotion. "The Pet is not a slave. She is a gift--trained to please, live for you, be molded by your hand." "A true pet finds her freedom in surrender." Marcus swallowed. His heart beat heavier in his chest. He clicked on a thread titled "Training a Pet: Where to Begin" and read about obedience protocols, body language control, collar rituals, punishments, and reward systems. He told himself it was just curiosity. A passing fascination. But when he finally drifted off to sleep, he dreamed of her.

************

Days passed.

Then a week.

Then two.

Marcus buried himself in work, sharpening proposals, strategizing hostile takeovers, and presenting like a machine. But every now and then, during moments of stillness, she would come back to him. He hadn't seen her again since that night, but he constantly thought of her. In meetings. In the shower. In bed. He told himself it was nothing. Just a curiosity that would soon fade into a distant memory.

After the third week, a meeting invite appeared on his work computer. No subject. Just: Dominic Brando. Noon. Executive Office. Marcus arrived precisely on time, and the receptionist gave a gentle smile before she said, "You can go in." The door to Dominic's office was ajar. Inside, Marcus saw Ryan Keller--a rising star in the acquisitions team--sitting stiffly across from Brando, bouncing his knee like a nervous tic. Dominic gestured for Marcus to enter. "Come in, Marcus. You'll want to hear this."

Marcus stepped inside and took the empty seat beside Ryan. He nodded respectfully toward Dominic. "Ryan," Brando began coldly, "was in charge of the Hayworth Technologies buyout."

Marcus's brows lifted slightly. Hayworth had been a prize target, a small but rich company dealing in proprietary software that was ripe for folding under the Brando umbrella. "They were ours," Dominic continued. "All we had to do was close with finesse. Show confidence. Instead, Ryan went in like a battering ram. Pushed for a full asset liquidation clause and spooked the board."

"They got skittish," Ryan tried. "The clause was a negotiation tactic--"

"No," Dominic said, cutting him off. "It was an amateur tactic. And it cost us the deal."

Ryan's throat bobbed. "I can fix it."

"You can't," Dominic replied smoothly. "Marcus will."

Ryan's eyes widened. "What?" Marcus remained silent; his expression unreadable.

"I'm giving the Hayworth project to Marcus," Dominic said. "He'll recover what you lost. And you, Ryan, will clean out your desk. You're finished here."

The room went still.

"But I--"

"That will be all," Dominic said.

Ryan's face turned pale as he stood. He didn't argue further and left the office with his pride in pieces. When the door shut, Dominic rose from behind his desk.

"That was brutal," Marcus said as he watched his boss take a small sip of coffee from his mug.

"It was necessary. Weakness spreads. You don't build empires with apologies." Dominic walked around his desk and placed a firm hand on Marcus's shoulder. "I chose you because you're sharper. Hungrier. You'll close Hayworth."

"I will."

"Good. Then come to the penthouse this afternoon. Six sharp. We'll go over the new strategy."

Marcus paused for a second before nodding. "Yes, sir." Dominic smiled. There was something in his eyes that told him he knew exactly what Marcus was thinking. "The Hayworth file will be available by the time you get back to your office. Get to work, Marcus." At that, Marcus stood and exited Dominic's office. He returned to his with the same calm, controlled stride he always wore. He shut the door quietly, then sat behind his desk. The Hayworth file blinked open on his screen just as promised. Spreadsheets and acquisition reports spread across dual monitors. He read the task, reviewed the numbers, and quickly surmised what had to be done to salvage the deal Ryan had nearly destroyed.

But his mind wasn't entirely on it. His work was efficient, and his mind was focused, but occasionally, his gaze drifted to the corner of his office window. Down below, he could see the executive parking level. At 3:12 p.m., Dominic Brando emerged from the building with his usual composure, his dark coat flowing behind him, and his driver opening the car door before he even slowed. Marcus watched the man slide inside and disappear. He sat back for a moment and stared at the skyline before he forced himself to keep working. Numbers. Names. Pressure points. The report took shape under his hands, precise and clean, exactly what Dominic would expect.

At 4:45, Marcus stopped working.

At 4:50, he packed his things and adjusted his tie in the mirror.

At 5:00 sharp, he was in his car.

The drive to Dominic's penthouse was smooth, the streets still glowing with pre-rush-hour traffic and late-day sunlight. He parked and greeted the doorman as he made his way into the building. As the elevator carried him up the tower, his pulse was steady, but his mind wasn't. He kept remembering the pet -- her mouth open in a soft gasp, the way her body had trembled on the desk like she'd been undone. When the elevator opened, he stepped into the penthouse foyer and was greeted again by the silent housekeeper. She gave a polite nod and gestured him in without a word.

Marcus entered and stood in the grand living room, waiting. His eyes darted to the velvet chair, only for his brows to furrow when he found the seat empty. He looked around, thinking maybe she was moved to a different part of the room. His eyes traced the marble flooring, the ambient lighting, and the massive windows. Soft jazz wrapped the penthouse like a fine cloak until a different noise caught Marcus's attention. The sound was faint and muffled. He took a few steps towards the hallway, and the sound became unmistakable. A soft whimper hidden behind the closed door of Dominic's office, feminine and shaky. It was followed by the low grunt of a man pushing into something that clearly wasn't business.

Marcus's breath caught. He stood still, ears straining to hear more. The sound wasn't violent. It was rough and intimate. Pure dominance in sound form. He heard another moan that was barely audible now. Then a sharp slap followed by a cry. Then finally silence. A minute passed. Then two.

Marcus straightened and returned to his original waiting spot just as Dominic appeared from the hallway. The man's hair was only slightly messy. His shirt was fully buttoned, but the collar sat open and relaxed. He moved with the same calculated poise as always, but Marcus could tell. He knew what had just happened. And Dominic knew that he knew. "Apologies," Dominic said, not even bothering to feign surprise. "I had some... tension to release before we dove into strategy." Marcus nodded once. "Understandable." Dominic smirked. "This way. We'll use my second office."

They walked past the main one with the door still slightly ajar. Curiosity got the better of Marcus and he paused at what he took sight of. Inside, the pet lay sprawled across the desk, her legs trembling, arms limp at her sides, and her breath still shallow. Her cheek rested on the polished surface. Her black slip was bunched around her hips. Her hair was a dark river spilling around her shoulders. A single velvet cuff still hung from one wrist, unattached but present. Beside her, the same housekeeper who greeted him earlier was silently wiping down the desk. There was no reaction, no judgement. Just routine.

He quickly looked away, letting out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding. Dominic didn't comment, but simply opened the door to his office and gestured for Marcus to enter. It was a slightly smaller space, more intimate, but no less opulent. Dark leather, polished walnut shelves lined with first editions, and a glass table with a single decanter set beneath warm, indirect lighting. Dominic moved to the table, lifted the decanter, and poured a generous measure of scotch.

"Drink?" he offered.

Marcus shook his head. "No, thank you."

Dominic raised an eyebrow, not offended, just merely curious. "Always focused. I like that. He took a sip and moved to sit in one of the low, leather chairs. Marcus followed, sinking into the opposite seat as Dominic set the glass on the table between them. "So," Dominic said, crossing one leg over the other. "Let's talk about how badly Ryan botched the Hayworth deal."

Marcus kept his posture relaxed, but inside, he was locked in. "He came in aggressively. Tried to strong-arm them with an all-assets clause and made it look like a hostile acquisition. Hayworth's board spooked. They're tech people, not suits. They don't respond to pressure--they respond to reassurance."

Dominic gave a slight nod, his expression unreadable.

"I've already reviewed the last two quarters of their board meeting minutes," Marcus continued. "They're worried about layoffs, legacy software integration, and brand integrity. I'll approach them as a partner, not a buyer. Keep the CEO intact for eighteen months, pitch it as an evolution, not a dismantling. If we do it right, they'll beg us to take control." There was a brief silence, then Dominic smiled. It was sharp. Approving. Predatory.