Page 33 of The Boss' Pet

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.”

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