Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

C harlie

"Why aren't you taking me home? Where are we going?"

I thought the night was over when he carried me out of the Embassy in his arms. I assumed he was going to take me back to my apartment. But it isn't the grimy, rough streets of my neighborhood that I see flashing past the windows.

"I am taking you home," he says.

"I live in the opposite direction."

"Trust me, pet."

Do I trust him? He's fucked me absolutely senseless tonight. Two days in a row, my body has been made his. I don't think I have any choice but to trust him.

The car comes to a halt, and once again, he walks around to let me out. Sitting is slightly uncomfortable thanks to the cane marks, but I feel them even more when I move.

"Come with me," he says, taking me by the hand and leading me into a building with a man at the door in the middle of the night wearing a uniform. He gives Marcus a brief, professional nod. Security. This place has round the clock guards, not to mention the kind of frontage that usually accompanies fancy hotels.

This is a place I could never afford in a million years. The rent for these apartments has to be thousands of dollars a day. Is he taking me to his place? That would be wild. I would give so much to be inside Marcus Waterstone's personal residence.

We get into the elevator and go up a few dozen floors. No. This isn't where he lives. It's very nice here, but Marcus Waterstone doesn't live halfway up a building. There's just no way. Marcus would no more live in the middle of a shared building than he would live in my piss-stained apartment complex.

He opens a door for me and ushers me into an apartment. This place is huge. We're talking floor-to-ceiling windows, separate lounge and dining areas, and not one, but two bedrooms. It is furnished in a modern style that has a certain basic sterility to it. Everything you need is here, but there could be more.

"This is for you," he says, not mincing words, or making a big fuss out of this insane generosity.

"What do you mean? I can't afford to rent here."

"I mean, it's yours," he says. "It's not something you have to pay rent on. You own it." He emphasizes the point by handing me a sheaf of papers. When I look at them briefly, I see that it is a purchase agreement, and my name is on it.

I stare at him, my jaw hinging open, my mouth agape. I've heard of this kind of surprise before, but I have certainly never experienced it.

"What do you mean, it's mine? I can't afford property taxes on a place like this… The utilities alone…"

He smiles at me with that handsome indulgence I am starting to get far too used to.

"You don't have to worry about bills. I am putting you on a stipend. You will not have to concern yourself with what you can and cannot afford as long as you are my pet."

There's the catch. I get all of this if I make myself available to him for his twisted little games. He's buying me.

"I don't get it. We met yesterday. You broke into my apartment today. There's no way you bought this place while we were at the club, so you must have purchased it sometime today…"

"Yes. I did it directly after seeing you in your previous abode," he says.

"Is this what you do? Buy women you barely know real estate? No wonder you're such a popular man."

Marcus laughs, pleased at my response. "I don't do this for just anybody, Charlie," he says. "You got my attention, and now you have my help. I suggest you make the most of what is a privileged position."

"I could sell this, then?"

"I'd rather you didn't, but legally, sure. I do not know if you would find a buyer, however."

"Goddamn," I curse as I see how much he paid for this place. It's more than most people would earn if they lived a hundred lifetimes. There is a decadence to being around Marcus that wraps itself around you and makes you part of it. I am now in a world where I take a butt plug in my ass for the amusement of a billionaire and obtain property as a result.

"This is a lot for someone you don't know. I can't take this. Please, take my name off the deed. I don't deserve it. I haven't earned it."

"Accept the gift and say thank you, Charlie," Marcus chides me, reminding me of my manners.

"Oh my god, did I not say thank you?"

"Not yet," he says, his lips quirking a little with amusement.

"I didn't mean to be rude. I'm so sorry. I was just shocked, and…"

I realize I am still not saying thank you at this point. I am just stumbling over a series of explanations that don't do anything to give him what he wants.

"Thank you," I say. "You are incredibly generous."

"I am incredibly rich," he says, not bragging, but simply as a matter of fact. "To me, this apartment is pocket change."

"Oh. Well. Thank you anyway."

He must have been shocked by my place. He must think I was living in abject poverty. It is wild to come face-to-face with the inequality of billionaires versus everybody else. Marcus Waterstone quite literally does not live in the same world as the rest of us.

"I want to know you are living somewhere safe," he says, confirming my suspicions. "I've had your things moved here, such as they were. You should find your clothing in the appropriate places in the bedroom."

"Thank you. Can I get a puppy?"

His features expand into a smile. "Is that what you want?"

"Worst thing about renting is you can't really have a dog. But if I own this sweet pad, then I can get a puppy. Plus, most of the flooring here seems like it's tile or something, so it's not like it's going to be damaged by a dog."

"You don't have to ask me for a puppy," he says. "You don't have to ask me for anything you desire."

This is all happening so quickly. I would be insane not to worry about it. I know this isn't a financial burden on him, but it is a complete change in living circumstances for me. My old apartment was a mess, but it was my mess, and there are things in there that I really hope his movers missed. Like the paper draft of the article I am writing about him. I wrote some very, very uncomplimentary things in that article.

"This is really generous," I repeat. "But I don't think I can accept it. I haven't done anything to earn it."

"I didn't do anything to be born into a vast fortune," he says. "But here we are. Worry less about what you deserve, and more about what suffering you can alleviate."

He doesn't get it, and I know better than to throw this incredible gift in his face. I guess I'm just going to have to accept his largesse and try not to feel too spectacularly guilty as a result. I have a job to do where Marcus Waterstone is concerned, and I am going to keep doing it no matter what.

"What would have happened if I was bad tonight?" I ask the question with a little smirk. "Would I have gotten a less nice apartment?"

He chuckles. "The real question, is what would have happened if you'd been a perfect little pet tonight?"

"Wow! What?" My exclamation is genuine, as I realize he has an almost endless capacity to spoil me if he wants to.

"You'll find out one day," he smirks. "I am certain I can get you to behave yourself eventually, with the right training and reinforcement. For now, this is a much safer place for you to stay."

Much safer. Much nicer. Much bigger. Much everything-er.

He is spoiling me. That's one way to look at it. The other way to look at it would be to say he is controlling me. He quite literally has me where he wants me. He also has complete control of my life, and everything in it.

I'd be freaking out a lot more if this didn't all completely play into my plan. If I had known I could get Marcus Waterstone to effectively take me economic prisoner when I decided to write my expose, I'd have been unable to contain my excitement.

"I can't believe you're being so generous," I say, starry-eyed. Privately, I know that paying for an apartment like this is the equivalent of me giving an unhoused person a nickel. It means absolutely nothing to him. His wealth is so vast he could have hundreds, if not thousands of women stashed away in various apartments all over the world. In fact, the fact he just did this for me means that's actually quite likely. I should look into that. There may be other tenants of this very building living at Marcus Waterstone's pleasure.

"I'm being careful with the toy I intend to play with," he says.

I wonder if he wants to be appreciated, or if this is all just a game to him. I wonder how boring it must be to be the kind of rich he is. There are no real stakes in his life. Even if he loses almost everything, he would still have more than most people ever had.

"You look at me with so much curiosity. It makes me wonder what is going through your pretty head," he comments.

"Women don't usually look at you with curiosity?"

"Women usually look at me with self-interest," he says. "And desire, of course."

"Of course," I smile. He's very self-aware, and arrogant to—well, beyond a fault. But who is ever going to pull him up? Marcus is above every law that was ever enacted.

He's untouchable.

A little yawn escapes me at what is probably the absolute worst time for such a thing to happen. A billionaire tells me how hot women find him and I yawn? Nope. That's not going to do me any favors.

"You're tired," he says, stating the obvious.

The sun is rising. I was too distracted by him to notice the way the glimmer of light on the horizon had steadily been growing brighter and brighter. It's not until the sky turns a deep red and orange, silhouetting the skyline against it that I appreciate the incredible view from this place. I thought we were too low to see much, but there's a gap between buildings that creates a canyon-like vista.

I can see the sun emerging and reflecting off of thousands of panes of glass between here and the horizon. It is an incredible view, almost hallowed in some way.

"Charlie?"

"Hm?" I turn back to him, almost having forgotten he was there at all.

"Bedtime," he says more firmly.

"Oh. Sorry."

I'm apologizing because the ache in my ass is being reignited by his expression. I know better than to cross or question this man right now.

"The bedroom is through this door," he says. I wonder for a brief, crazy moment how he knows, but of course he does. He bought this place. I wonder if he came to look at it himself, or if he just looked at the floor plan. I wonder if he picked out the furniture…

I stop wondering about the answer to that question as he opens the bedroom door, ushering me into a room that contains not just a bed—but a bed inside a luxuriously and meticulously crafted crate. Big bars rise from the base of the bed and run all around it. There are doors at each side, and at the end of the bed. I'd call it easy access, but that's got to be a misnomer.

"I can't sleep in that."

"Of course you can. I like to know my pet is nice and safe in her crate at night."

"But what if I need to go to the bathroom?"

"You'll go before you get in, of course. Don't worry. You'll be let out in the morning."

"But… what? Let out?" I stare at him, horrified. "You can't lock me away in a crate and leave me here all night by myself."

"Of course I would never do that. That would be unsafe. There are cameras in this room, and there is a handler ready to come and get you out if you need to be taken out. Don't worry, Charlie. I'm not going to let any harm come to my pet."

"A handler? What handler?"

"You will likely never need to meet them, but I can promise you, they will be there for you if you do. I am not always available in a given moment to attend to my pet myself. If you need to be walked or toileted, I will have a professional handle that."

"I don't want anybody coming near me," I frown.

"A good pet has to be well-socialized," he replies. "I don't want you becoming entirely un-handleable by anybody else. I want a well-behaved pet."

Oh. Right. He's insane.

It's easy to forget that because so much of what he does is hot, but Marcus is completely unhinged. He is not kidding right now. Not even a little bit. He wants me to climb into this bed cage and sleep while completely locked away and vulnerable. He's not even going to be here with me. He's putting me away in some kind of kennel, and he's leaving me in the care of strangers I don't know and haven't met.

"Please, just let me sleep in the cage, but have the doors open? That's how you train puppies," I say. "You don't just put them in a cage and shut the door and leave. You let them get comfortable and confident first."

Marcus smiles at me, and I know that I made the right choice by buying into his little pet fantasy. I'm speaking his language right now, and he loves it.

"You make a good point, pet," he says. "I'll allow you to sleep with the doors open tonight. But, be aware that the chip you've got in you will transmit your location every few minutes. There is no running from me now."

"I understand," I say, even as I try not to freak the fuck out right to his face. I have made myself a captive to this billionaire. I am a toy for him now, nothing more than something to play with. There's no escape. There's nothing besides doing what he wants.

"I will need to go out and see friends and things, though," I say. "I can't be your kinky prisoner all the time. People need me for things."

"Hm," he says, as if that had not occurred to him. "Yes. I suppose people will need you for things. Don't worry, pet. I am not an unreasonable man."

He is absolutely a wildly unreasonable man, and that is unfortunately a large part of my attraction to him. Nobody has ever treated me this way before. Nobody had the capacity to. This experience is entirely unique.

"Shower and bed," he says. "Unless you want to sleep with my come drying on your tender skin."

"Can I shower myself, or is the shower one of those elevated tubs with a leash attachment?"

No sooner are the words out of my mouth than I regret them. A light sparks in his eye.

"That is an idea," he says. "That's a very good idea. A leash in the shower. You're quite creative aren't you, my pet. Be sure to keep sharing your little notions with me."

"I don't have anything here…"

"Check the drawers. You have everything here. All your clothes and personal effects were moved."

And gone through, I imagine. Did they find my notes? I hope not.

He's insane. Crazy in the way people who don't have to worry about anything in the world inevitably go crazy. But he's not so crazy he won't mind me having a whole secret agenda to undermine and expose him.

I open the drawers, finding my clothes folded neatly inside them. Laundered, too, judging by the smell of them. And then there's more, newer versions of my favorite underwear. Someone has not just moved my things. Someone has analyzed them and replaced some of them. Someone has chosen new attire in similar sizes.

My feelings swing between amazement, annoyance, and a very small amount of appreciation. This was a lot of effort, all made to keep me comfortable.

I look back at him as I pick some clothes to sleep in. He is watching me with an inscrutable expression. I wonder if he knows.

Does he know? God. I am absolutely swimming in guilt right now and cursing the fact that I put it down on paper. I thought I was being so smart by avoiding digital footprints. But I've left my notebook for either Marcus to have found, or the next tenant to find.

I have to get back to my old apartment as soon as possible and get that book.

The next morning, I get up early. I suppose technically I don't really sleep much at all. Instead, I just sort of lie there until it feels like whoever is supposed to be watching the cameras has probably lost interest.

I get dressed in the most casual clothing that's been brought over for me. It's exercise stuff—sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt, a ball cap pulled down low over my face. With any luck, I won't be recognized as the sex kitten in heels who was taken here.

I avoid the elevator and take the stairs. I figure it's less likely for there to be cameras there, and if there are, oh well. I can choose how fast I go down the stairs.

I'd have to stand in an elevator like a sitting duck. I mean… wait. I know what I mean.

I wish I could call someone, but Marcus never gave my phone back. I'm sure that's just an oversight. I'm sure he'll make certain I have it in the morning. Once he's had the chance to go through that too, I imagine.

This is a very dangerous game to be playing, there's no denying that. It's quite thrilling, sneaking out of a luxury apartment building while trying to get a scoop on a corrupt billionaire. I'm aware of that chip in my neck, and I know I'll be followed. But maybe I won't be followed right away. All I need is an hour or so.

They haven't had a chance to re-let my apartment yet. The door is open, and the place is empty. It's very unsettling to see the space I used to live in without anything in it. I've already sacrificed so much in following this story, and I've barely started.

Things are moving fast, and I've lost control. But that's okay. I don't need control. I just need to be able to go with the flow.

The place I hid the notebook hasn't been found. I breathe a huge sigh of relief as I pull it out.

Okay. Good. I've got what I came for, but now I am holding the incriminating evidence. I need to get rid of it as quickly as possible.

But where?

The next thing I know, I've kind of, sort of technically broken into a friend's place.

Sasha is an intellectual type with more books than anything else. She's also at grad school, which means she has papers absolutely everywhere. There's no better place to hide a notebook.

I look around her little place. It reminds me of what mine used to look like, when I had a place. I don't have one now. I'm effectively homeless, even though I have an apartment that Marcus is paying for. He could kick me out at a moment's notice. He probably will, now that I think about it.

As soon as he gets bored with me, I'm going to be out of a place to live. And that will suck because the place I had might not have been nice, but it was cheap. Finding another single bedroom apartment isn't going to be easy.

While I'm worrying, I'm also looking for a good place to stash my notes. The front door starts to open, and I panic, stuffing the journal underneath a bookshelf.

"Hey!" I call out, just so she doesn't get too much of a fright.

"Fuck! Goddamnit. What the fuck!?" Sasha comes in swearing, dropping her books all over the floor. "Charlie? What are you doing in here?"

"I'm sorry. I know this is weird." I rush to her and help her pick her stuff up. "I came in the fire escape. I remembered you saying that the window didn't latch properly. That's weirder, isn't it?"

"Yeah," she says. "It is a little weird. But I don't mind weird. I wouldn't be your friend if I did, would I?"

I knew Sasha was the best choice. She's open-minded and up for anything. She's the only one of my friends who probably genuinely wouldn't care that I broke into her house. I'm so glad I judged her accurately that way.

"What's wrong?" she asks, lifting her serious brown eyes to me. "You wouldn't have broken into my place if there wasn't something wrong."

"I met someone," I say. "And I've moved out of my place. It's a bit weird. I just needed to talk, and I lost my phone."

"Let's talk then."

"I can't talk," I say, remembering the fact that there's that tracking chip in my neck and odds are, someone's going to be coming for me.

"You broke into my place to tell me that you can't talk? What's going on?"

"Okay. I admit it. I'm on drugs."

"No, you're not," she says. "Your pupils look completely normal, you're wearing clean clothing, and you're not grinding or clenching your teeth, or doing anything other than being completely weird."

This is the problem with having a smart friend. She's hard to lie to.

"Okay, I'm not on drugs. I just… I slept with someone I probably shouldn't have, and now I'm trying to clear my head. But the second you started talking about talking, I realized I'm not actually up for talking."

"I get it," she says. "But I am worried about you. You've been strange lately. I wanted to talk to you anyway."

"Oh? About what?"

"Lately you've been talking about some disturbing things. The obsession with corrupt rich people. It's become a fixation, and it won't lead anywhere good. You should go back to school, finish your degree, and get a job."

I bite my lower lip. I wasn't going to tell her about Marcus Waterstone anyway, but now I'm extra doubly not going to do that. I know in the past I've probably sounded a little unhinged in some of my social media stories, but that's the point of having them, isn't it?

"What's the worst that will happen?"

"The worst that will happen is everybody will think you're obsessed and stop talking to you, and you'll never have any romantic experiences that last any longer than you starting to talk about your favorite subject. Everybody knows rich people are bad. It's not interesting. I'm saying this because I love you, and because people are starting to talk. Mandy is saying she might not have you in the bridal party."

That last piece of news really catches me off-guard. "I might not be at her wedding?"

"Not if you don't stop talking about capitalism every two seconds."

"I haven't mentioned capitalism this whole conversation."

"No. You haven't, and that's weird too. For you."

"Listen, I'm sorry. I know we need to catch up properly. I have so much to tell you. Some of it might even be interesting to you."

Sasha smirks. "I love you, Charlie, but you have to get your life together. We all wanted to be revolutionaries once upon a time, but that's not how the world works."

She's baiting me to go into an absolute fucking tirade about how the world works, and why it works that way. I avoid that conversational bear-trap though.

"If anybody comes looking for me, just tell them you didn't see me."

"Why would anybody come looking for you? What have you been doing, Charlie? Are the cops looking for you? We always said you'd end up in jail. I can't believe we were right."

"Who is we?"

"Me and the girls. You know. You were there. Maybe you were too drunk or high to remember. You're always on something, or doing something. It's time to grow out of that."

Sasha was cooler back before she decided to take herself seriously and go back to school to become… whatever it is she's becoming. She's convinced she knows what is best for everyone, including me.

"The police aren't looking for me, but I do have a bit of a stalker at the moment, so like I said, you haven't seen me if anybody asks, okay? I'm going to go back down the fire escape, if that's alright with you."

I can tell it is. Sasha can't wait for me to go so she can get on her phone and tell our scattered friend group what I am up to. We used to be close in college, but now half of us are in different cities, and others of us are married, and some even have kids. Gossip is the only thing that keeps the gang together.

"Okay, I'll see you again soon."

"Okay, Charlie. Be safe, please."

"I will be. Don't worry."

I proceed to drop onto the fire escape and fall off it. One moment I'm clinging to the rusty railing, the next the railing has given way. I'm tumbling through the air, trying to land on my feet the way a cat does.

So this is how I die. Stupidly, and right on the cusp of being the richest I've ever been. My body is panicking, but there's part of my brain dedicated just to berating me about how stupid I've been, even with the last bits of consciousness I'll ever experience.

"Oof!"

I am caught in a strong, capable pair of arms. I look up and into the eyes of Marcus Waterstone.

"Charlie!? Are you okay?" Sasha is leaning out her window.

"Fine!" I wave up at her. "I'm okay."

"You are not okay. You are in a tremendous amount of trouble. You snuck out of the house, and then went on a crime spree," Marcus growls down at me.

"I don't think I did."

"I thought you might be disobedient, but I didn't think I'd have to intervene to stop you from dying in a spectacularly stupid way. I'm going to assume that building has internal stairs."

"Why, are you going to buy it?"

His eyes narrow at me. "Now is not the time for cheek," he says. "You've been a very bad little pet, and you are going to suffer the consequences. You could have been a little lap dog, being spoiled and petted and given treats. But you've decided to act more like a scruffy mutt who runs off, gets into trouble, and has to be collected from the pound. Don't worry, Charlie. I know how to tame and train a pet. You won't be trouble for much longer."

He carries me off, away from Sasha's place. I know she's watching, and I know that everybody in our little friend group is going to know about this in about five minutes. It's not that she's a gossip, it's that expecting anybody to keep this series of events to themselves is practically inhuman.

"You can put me down."

"I absolutely cannot. You cannot be trusted out of my sight, let alone on your own two feet. If I were to put you down now, I'd expect you to crawl for me."

"Marcus!"

"Close," he says. "When you are in trouble, you call me ‘Master'. Understand?"

"Uhm…"

"Master," he repeats. "Say it. Now."

"Master," I mumble, feeling ashamed. The streets are not empty. I am sure someone probably has a video of me falling off the fucking fire escape, too.

He bundles me into a car that must have been waiting. As soon as he is in the back, he taps on the glass to indicate that we are leaving. Then he sits back, in the very middle of the car, and pulls me over his lap, whipping down my leggings to expose my ass in one movement.

"I was nice to you last night," he says. "I didn't lock you away like I should have. I let you sleep with your crate open. I won't be making that mistake again. You've earned yourself confinement when you cannot be actively supervised. I hope you're happy with yourself."

Before I can respond as to whether or not I am satisfied with the outcome of my behavior, his palm meets my ass in a harsh, stinging smack that makes me yowl.

"This is the beginning of what's going to happen to you," he says. "You could have gotten yourself killed today. If I had not been there—and you went out of your way to ensure that I wouldn't be. But I told you I'd be keeping track of you, didn't I."

"Ye… ow! "

I curse and squeal as he spanks me again. Hard.

"I don't know why you felt the need to test me immediately, and in such a dangerous way, but I can promise you that you will regret it."

He doesn't understand. And that's a good thing. He assumes I'm an unhinged idiot, and not that I just had something better to do. He doesn't think I was up to anything. He just thinks I wanted to rebel. He thinks I wanted to get myself in trouble.

"Ow!" I gasp again as the third hard slap lands. "I'm sorry, Master!"

It's not as hard to say that as I thought it would be. I figured I'd cringe internally and not be able to get that word out, but right now, I'd say anything to stop this spanking which feels incredibly humiliating—and in an entirely different way than being chipped and put in a cage feels humiliating.

The pet stuff is some kind of thing he's into, obviously. But this isn't anything he's into. He's spanking me like a spoiled brat because he disapproves of my behavior.

It's not sexual. It's not pretending to be sexual. It's just a straight up punishment, and it really hurts.

"You're not nearly as sorry as you are going to be," he promises me. "You were given much more than fair warning. You were given explicit orders. You have not taken me seriously, Charlie. That will prove to be a significant mistake."

He's mad. I can hear it in his voice, and I can feel it in the way he's holding me. Firmly, snugly. As if he doesn't want to let me go.

In addition to the pain, and the shame, I'm starting to notice other feelings. Feelings like, surprise. It has been a long time since anybody cared where I was or what I was doing. Sure, my friends worry about me from time to time, but even when I was a kid, nobody ever noticed when I disappeared.

There was one time, before I was even a teenager, that I left home for a week. I caught a bus and went to the nearest city to see if I could join the circus. Turned out circuses don't actually let you join them just because you want to. Anyway, I got back home, and my mother hadn't actually noticed I was missing.

To have it noticed that I was gone this quickly, and to have been found so swiftly is wild.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" He pauses with his hand resting on my hot, sore ass.

The first thing that comes to mind, and to my mouth, is something that doesn't sound like a good excuse at all. I say it anyway, because saying something feels better than saying nothing.

"I didn't know you really meant it."

He pulls me up. The limited amount of space in the back of the car means I end up on my knees on the seat next to him. My ass is still bare, and rests against the back of my calves.

"You thought a man like me says things he doesn't mean?"

"I think most people say things they don't mean," I say, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.

His cheek twitches. "That can be true. But in this case, when I'm talking, and I'm talking about you, you can assume I mean what I say."

"Of course. I'm sorry. I didn't actually disbelieve you. I just… I did something. I'm used to doing things."

"That's a caliber of excuse that will get you nowhere, though there's no excuse that would have worked. I'm sure you are used to doing things, as you put it. But my pet needs to do what she's allowed to do within the parameters I set."

"Can't you control someone else? Why me?"

My questions come from a very real place of confusion. I'm attractive enough, but I'm not make-a-billionaire-go-nuts-for-me-instantly hot. I know that. I can be realistic about my appearance. That means there's something else about me he's into. Maybe.

"You've caught my eye," he says. "It might not be easy to be mine, but I know it will be better for you than the life you were living before me. Lie back down over my lap."

I bite my lip nervously, as if I have a choice. "Are you going to spank me again?"

He smiles, his eyes dark with an intention to do all sorts of things to me.

"I might," he says. "If I did, you'd take it, wouldn't you, pet?"

Fuck. There's a part of me that wishes I had the nerve to open the door behind me and just reverse somersault right the hell out of this car. Marcus is predatory, and I am starting to think he is doing this precisely because I don't want it.

I bet he's surrounded by women who would give anything to be in this position. And that's why they're not in it. It's no fun keeping people captive if they want to be kept captive. You've got to get someone who hates it. Someone who fights back. Someone who gets themselves into trouble. Someone you can pin down over your knee and spank hard for as long as you like because she has nobody in her corner as far as you know.

He smooths his palm over my sore ass, rubbing me intimately, taking some of the sting away for a brief moment.

"I don't know what to make of you, Charlie," he muses. "I thought you were being a naughty pet, trying to get yourself in trouble, but you seem almost confused by your own actions—and you're certainly confused by mine, aren't you."

"I am definitely confused by yours," I agree.

There's a brief moment of silence in which I think he is trying to come to a decision of some kind. I stay quiet. Anything I say is just going to make things worse.

"I have taken the day off," he says. "I will be working from home, and you will be coming with me. I don't trust you on your own, and it is clear you are in need of some remedial training."

"What does that mean?"

He smacks my ass again, but not as hard. "It means you're in trouble."

He pulls my leggings back up for me, snugging all of my attire back into place. It's a belated gesture of modesty that I appreciate, nonetheless.

That seems to be the worst of it for the time being, but he doesn't let me up off his lap. He keeps me pinned there until we sweep into the underside of a building, down to a private parking lot. As we get out of the car, I feel his hand rub the back of my neck in a thoughtful sort of way. He is steering me toward the confines of a private elevator that will no doubt conduct us upward to one of his many homes.

I allow myself to be taken, staying quiet as we enter the elevator. I don't want him to think I am fighting him. I want him to think he has subdued me.

"I thought having you chipped would be enough, but I think you need a collar too," he says. "You're the kind of pet who can't be let off-leash."

I should be listening to his lecture, but I am distracted by the fact that I am about to go inside one of Marcus Waterstone's private residences. This is somewhere he lives. Somewhere he feels comfortable to work from. I bet this place is full of incriminating evidence.

I start to get excited. I'm not going to risk taking notes again, so I'm going to need to keep my wits about me and do my brain exercises to remember everything.

"What do you think of that, pet?"

"What do I think of what?"

He takes me by the chin and directs my gaze to his. I feel a bolt of connection as our eyes meet, and I realize that he may not know what I am up to, but he does know I am up to something.

"Where is your head at?"

"I don't know. This is all so strange, and… you have effectively kidnapped me, so…"

It's not hard to explain my apparent spaciness when you take the entire situation into account. If anything, I'm surprised at how focused I am.

That's because I'm on the cusp of exposing one of the planet's corrupt criminal billionaires. In days, weeks, and years to come, people will know my name.

Marcus snaps the fingers of his other hand, bringing my attention back to him.

"You keep going away," he notes, rather displeased. "I have you right here in my hand, but you keep escaping in your mind."

He doesn't like that. He wants my attention on him. I'm sure he's not used to being anything other than the absolute center of attention, or the universe, for that matter.

"Sorry," I whimper. "I'm scared."

That makes his expression soften a little. "You don't need to fear me, Charlie," he says, using my name in a rare instance. "I don't intend to let any harm come to you. In fact, I am rather taken with you. I don't usually get this possessive of my playthings."

"Oh? You have a lot of playthings?"

I try to keep my tone light, but I fail. I sound jealous, even to my own ears.

He smiles broadly as the elevator opens into a spacious living area. Just as I suspected, that elevator is just for him, and him alone.

He drops my chin and takes my hand instead, leading me into the interior. It's furnished in fifty shades of millennial gray, with a few bright art installations around the place. I know instantly that this is not his real abode. There's nothing properly personal about it. It looks like the efforts of a designer designing for a theoretical rich guy.

This is probably a place he entertains in, and its probably somewhere he's comfortable working from. But it's not a proper home.

"Beautiful place," I say. "Like all your places, I imagine. Though perhaps not the one you most recently bought."

"Yes. The one you went back to."

I try not to look shocked and guilty. Of course he knows I went back there. He has a tracker on me. I knew he'd know.

"I just wanted to see it one last time. It's… I don't know if you understand how fucking traumatic it is to lose your home and have it replaced with a bed in a cage."

"Oh, I can imagine," he says.

"I don't think you can. I think you're used to being in control so much that you can barely remember what it feels like to have anything less than complete control over others."

He does not reply to that.

"I need to get some work done," he says instead. "You can come and rest in my office until I have time to deal with you. Smith?"

A well-groomed, lanky gentleman in a day suit appears. "Yes, Mr. Waterstone?"

"Please put the pet bed in my office."

"Of course, Mr. Waterstone."

I want to die inside. There's something about somebody ordinary knowing what is happening to me that just makes it all so much worse. Though I suppose that Smith isn't all that normal if he works for Marcus. Nobody can stay normal in Marcus' orbit. We're all warped by his gravity one way or another.

When we reach the office, which is just the sort of place that a very rich man does business in a very rich sort of way, there is one thing very notably out of place.

Marcus asked for the pet bed to be put in the room. I assumed that it would be a large dog bed, part of some ritual humiliation for a bad pet. He's into that sort of thing, after all.

The pet bed is a dog bed, but not sized to a dog. It is a big, plush, soft expanse of bedding that is easily large enough to lie down in. It's quite literally a human person sized dog bed, tucked away behind his chair—and it actually looks kind of amazing.

"Get in, pet," he says. "But take your outer clothing off first. I don't want you tracking the filth of the city into your sleeping arrangement."

I'd say I'm not tired, but I am actually exhausted. I have barely slept, and even if I had, the strangeness of the situation would be tiring enough. It's hard adapting to this oddness.

I do as I am told.

When I sit, and then lie down in the bed, I find a yawn escaping me almost instantly.

Marcus' voice is pleasant and low. He's talking to people about something business related. I try to listen, but I find the words sort of blurring and blending into one another as my extreme comfiness and the after-effects of the spanking in the car leave me in an unspeakably cozy state with something of an endorphin high.

My eyelids are getting heavy. As much as I resist actually going to sleep at Marcus' feet, I don't think I am going to be able to stop myself. I am just too cozy, and I just feel too…

"Charlie!"

I wake up in the bed, cushioned on all sides by soft foam. It's like waking up in a cloud, if a cloud had surprisingly good back support. I squirm around for a bit, until I hear Marcus call me again. He's not in the office anymore. I wonder how I'm supposed to find him.

"Charlie! Come here!"

It sounds like I am in trouble, which seems impossible. How do you get into trouble while fast asleep?

I follow the sound of his voice to one of the lounging spaces, where he is sitting in his chair behind his desk. A very large television is playing the news. I haven't watched the news in years, since I was a kid. It's almost like finding someone tapping out hieroglyphics on a tablet.

"Hm?"

"Look at this," he says.

I look at the news, where a pleasant person wearing very nice makeup and a broad, pristine smile is defining reality for the masses.

"Billionaire Marcus Waterstone saved the life of a fortunate young lady today after a fire escape gave way. He happened to be passing by, and caught her in his arms."

What follows is a reel on repeat of me falling off the fire escape like a ragdoll and being subsequently snatched from gravity's brutal grip by Marcus.

"The young lady's identity is unknown, but we imagine she's very grateful this evening."

Marcus looks at me. I don't look at him, but I can feel his gaze on me, deeply unimpressed.

"This is nothing," I say. "Literally nobody except you and one other guy watches the news anymore. Don't worry about it."

"People don't watch the news anymore, do they," he agrees. "So I suppose we'd be better off checking the media they do consume. Social media."

"Yeah. Check…"

I trail off as I realize that his phone is in his hand and is already playing the same video on a loop in a reel.

"Guess you already did, huh."

He is frowning. "This has two million views," he says. "Two million people have already seen your misbehavior…"

My butt is starting to sweat, which is saying a lot because I've padded out here in bare feet and underwear. I'm suddenly aware that I'm standing in a billionaire's penthouse with no pants and bedhead, trying to talk my way out of whatever super kinky punishment he's going to come up with for this.

"That's nothing. That's barely viral. You don't have to worry about it until the remixes start…"

He thumbs the screen, one video down. I see myself fall again, but this time, there's a hard cut to a woman landing on a couch who gets up and starts talking about selling second-hand cars.

"Oh. They've started."

He scrolls again. This time music has been added.

"Looking for a man in finance, six-five, blue eyes…"

"What is happening?" Marcus sounds rather concerned. I know it's a rhetorical question, but I can't help but answer in that proud way you just have to when you think about how fucking cool things like social media can be.

"The Internet is happening."

He stands up and turns to me. The effect of Marcus Waterstone rising to his feet is similar to a bear towering over me. He's very tall, and he's very dangerous.

I take a step back, wondering what he's going to do next. Punishment seems likely, but I am starting to think I can't take much more of that. At least not of the kind he seems to prefer. My ass is still tender, and…

"I've managed to spend a lifetime without becoming a public spectacle, and you've managed to change that entirely in the course of twenty-four hours." He gives me a sexy, disapproving look.

"Don't worry. This is going to blow over in a few days. That's the brilliant thing about the Internet. Nobody's going to remember this or care about it in like, a week."

"You could be right on that score," he says. "You had better be right about it, or I am going to spank you so hard, you won't sit for a year."

"Didn't you already do that?"

His expression softens as he laughs. "Charlie, I have barely touched you. Don't think for a second that today's disobedience has been atoned for during that little car ride. You are going to be receiving some much needed training."

"I am?"

"You are. This instant, actually. Badly behaved pets don't get to stand on their feet. Hands and knees for you. Now."

The act of having to sink down in front of this already massive behemoth of a man makes raw shame run through me. He doesn't just want to discipline me. He wants to make me small.

I crouch on the floor in front of him.

He walks around me, inserts a finger in the waistband of my underwear, and draws them down. Almost simultaneously, he unsnaps my bra through my undershirt.

"Take it off," he says. "All of it. The sorts of little animals that run wild in the streets don't wear clothing, do they?"

Fuck.

Taking my clothes off while not standing up is another challenge that puts me in a humiliating position. There's no graceful way to do it. I just have to squirm and wriggle around on the floor until not a single scrap of fabric remains to protect my modesty.

"Now that you've had a little bit of sleep, I think we can attend to some of the issues raised today."

He sounds almost like he's in a boardroom, which is ridiculous because this could not be less of a formal setting now. I am trying to work out how to sit in a way that preserves a little bit of what remains of my sense of dignity. I end up kneeling with my arms wrapped around my upper chest.

"Hands down," he says. "If you do not like feeling exposed, all the better. You have exposed the both of us today, haven't you, pet?"

"Yes," I admit.

"This is going to have consequences for me, and I intend to ensure that there are plenty of consequences for you too. Follow me. Hands and knees."

He leads me through the massive penthouse. If we were in my little abode, I could follow him anywhere in a matter of a few crawling steps, but in this place, I am forced to follow him for what feels like miles.

I am very aware of how exposed I am, especially from behind. I do not know if I am being observed. I know that Smith is somewhere in the place, presumably he doesn't get put away in a closet when he's not in use. If anybody were to come through any door now, they would be treated to the sight of my exposed ass and…

Marcus is sadistic and cruel.

All the way to the bedroom.

There, he picks up a leather paddle. He turns to face me, holding it in both hands. His expression is somewhat inscrutable. He is displeased with me, but he is not unhappy about what he is about to do. I think he is going to enjoy it.

"Come here," he says, pointing to the floor in front of him.

I sidle up to his feet, but that is not what he wants.

"More. Through," he says. "Beneath my legs."

I do as I am told, feeling every bit the animal as I crawl a few more inches forward. This puts me directly beneath him, both physically and mentally. I am being thoroughly dominated and utterly shamed as he stands over me.

The sound the paddle makes as it lands that first infernal swat is like a gunshot going off. I gasp and try to bolt forward, but he snaps his legs closed.

"Uh-uh, pet," he drawls. "You won't escape that easily. This is what you get for causing a scene and damn near killing yourself in the process. You put yourself in danger, and I will never tolerate that."

His lecturing is intense and stern. He means every word. I can feel the sting of his disappointment almost as intensely as I feel the effects of the paddle.

"Do you understand, Charlie? Do you know that you matter to me? That I will not allow harm to come to you? Do you fathom the fact that everything I have done since I met you has been an effort to keep you safe? An effort you seem to delight in defying?"

"I'm sorry," I whimper. "I'm not used to anybody caring. I didn't think…"

"No," he lectures. "You didn't think at all, did you. You followed whatever reckless impulses came to mind, and you disregarded the consequences. Well, you won't disregard this, I can promise you that."

He stands over me, my waist trapped between his powerful legs as he spanks me with that paddle over and over.

Whap! Whap! Whap!

It lands relentlessly, building up an intense heat and sting. He is absolutely ruthless and remorseless as he punishes me thoroughly, spanking the crown of my cheeks, the top, the sides, the bottom, and even my thighs as well. No part of me escapes the repeated attentions of that damn paddle, which must have been forged somewhere in hell to be able to heat my ass this intensely.

Tears stream down my face as the combination of shame and pain becomes too much to bear.

Finally, he stops, though it doesn't really matter because now my ass feels like it is spanking itself, my muscles sort of pulsing with the heat and the ache that damn paddle has left in its wake.

"You're feeling sorry for yourself, aren't you?"

"Yes," I admit softly.

"Have you learned your lesson?"

"Yes!" I answer more emphatically this time. I don't want him thinking he has to do anything else to me to make his point.

"Good," he says. "I can see this was an effective punishment."

He picks me up, one arm under my body, the other between my legs, and tosses me on the bed as if I weigh nothing. I land face down with a little squeak of surprise as he follows me down onto the comforter.

"You're also absolutely saturated with desire," he purrs, demonstrating his point by running the pads of his fingers along the length of my slit.

I can feel the intensity of my excitement and the way my lips want to part because of how much desire lies between them.

"You like this, don't you. You like being controlled and punished. You like how it feels to be kept like this." He doesn't wait for my assent this time. He doesn't wait for a damn thing. He pins me down, spreads my legs with his, and his cock plunges inside me, one long stroke going as deep as I can humanly take him.

It doesn't hurt. It feels fucking incredible.

I am being rutted like a bitch in heat.

He pounds me with rough stroke after rough stroke, the bed giving way beneath us, denying my clit the firmer sensation I'd need to come, but giving me enough pleasure to accept this fucking. His hips are pressed hard against my sore ass, but I know better than to complain about that. I rut and I grind, pushing my hand beneath myself, desperate for that little extra bit of sensation that might make me come.

"Don't you ever run away from me again," he growls in my ear. "I will always come for you, pet. I will track you down. I will capture you, and I will bring you back to be punished."

I fucking love his punishment. I fucking love being treated this way. It is the most primal and intensely hot experience I've ever had. It is so beyond anything I ever thought would happen to me.

My fingers rub at my clit desperately. I am so wet that there's not as much friction as I want. I have to squirm my hips even more, driving both of us wild. Marcus is trying to hold back. I can tell by the way he is growling and attempting to keep me in place, one hand on the back of my neck, the other on my hip. But he can't stop me.

I come on his cock, my pussy gripping his thick rod with so much desperation I hear him grunt and growl as he loses the battle with self-control.

"Fuck…" he curses. "I didn't give you permission to commmmee…"

It's very hard to lecture me for orgasming without permission when he is filling my cunt with so much come, I can already feel it. He stops bothering to even try to talk and lets his vocalizations devolve into rough animal sounds as he thrusts himself as deep as he can go, not attempting to pull free or avoid getting semen inside my bare, unprotected pussy.

In the aftermath of our rutting, Marcus doesn't bother to move. We lie together, my smaller, curvier body pinned beneath his. His hips are hard against my ass, his cock still inside me. I can barely move, and it is only because of his gentlemanly habit of holding himself up on his forearms that I can breathe. I feel as claimed and as owned as it is possible to feel.

"I regret nothing." I whisper the words under my breath, knowing it will go badly for me if he hears them.

"God. Pet. Give it a rest," he groans.

I let out a little giggle. I know I'm being naughty, but I am feeling a post-orgasmic lightness and relief, not to mention the after-effects of having been punished and forgiven.

Marcus rolls us over onto our sides and holds me close as we both drop off for a post-coital nap. I snuggle back, feeling the long, hard, muscular lines of his body against mine. He is the most dangerous creature in the world, but I am the safest I have ever felt.