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This is the third part.
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Roberto stood naked in front of the mirror, the black marker shaking in his hand as if it carried the weight of everything he was about to lose. The words "Francesco's Property" stared back at him from the glass, waiting to be etched into his chest once again. "Do I really need to do this?" he muttered aloud, his voice trembling. What if I just stopped? What if I put the marker down, deleted his messages, and walked away from all of this? The thought lingered for a brief, tantalizing moment before the memory of Francesco's last command slammed into him like a freight train. "You belong to me now. You exist to serve me. If you're truly mine, prove it." The phantom echo of Francesco's words sent a shiver down his spine, and his cock stirred in response, traitorous and pathetic. "I'm not weak," Roberto hissed to his reflection. But the image staring back mocked him--a strong, muscular man reduced to a trembling mess, desperate for the approval of a man he'd never even met. With a bitter laugh, he pressed the marker to his skin, feeling the cold tip drag across his chest as he scrawled the humiliating declaration. Each stroke felt like carving away at his pride, a grotesque ritual that left him feeling exposed and raw.
As the ink dried, Roberto couldn't pull his eyes away from the mirror. He tried to see the man he used to be--the confident top, the admired professional, the man who could walk into a room and command attention with his sharp wit and perfect posture. But all he could see was a fraud. Look at yourself. You think the guy in the mirror is in control? That he's the same man who used to turn heads in the clubs? No. You're his now. Francesco's. The thought hit him harder than he wanted to admit, and his cock twitched again, the reaction only deepening his shame. He tore his gaze away from the mirror, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, the inked words feeling like they burned into his flesh. As he pulled on his white shirt, the fabric brushing against the marker left a ghostly imprint he couldn't ignore. He tightened his tie, as if it could choke off the rising tide of humiliation swelling in his chest. No one has to know. I can still be Roberto, the architect, the man people respect. But as he strode out of his apartment, he felt the weight of Francesco's presence with every step. Each buttoned-down word he spoke at work, each calculated gesture, felt hollow. Beneath it all, he could feel the ink on his chest--a silent declaration of who he really was now.
By mid-morning, the inner conflict was unbearable. Sitting at his desk, Roberto caught himself staring blankly at his computer screen, unable to concentrate on the email he'd been drafting for the past fifteen minutes. What am I doing? Why am I letting him control me like this? His mind waged war with itself, oscillating between anger at his own weakness and the undeniable arousal that simmered under the surface. He excused himself to the restroom, his footsteps echoing in the tiled corridor. At the urinal, he hesitated, his fingers fumbling with his zipper. His cock, already hard and aching, stood small and ridiculous in his hand. He couldn't help but remember Francesco's taunts: Pathetic. That's all you are. Just a little thing, barely worth noticing. Roberto clenched his jaw, the words looping in his mind as he forced himself to finish quickly, his cheeks burning with shame. Who are you kidding? You're not the man you thought you were. You're not a man at all. You're his toy. His property. The words he'd scrawled across his chest earlier seemed to rise to the surface of his thoughts again, and before he realized it, the whisper escaped his lips: "I belong to Francesco." Hearing himself say it, even in the privacy of the restroom, felt like a punch to the gut--and yet, a twisted part of him felt relief. He leaned forward, gripping the edge of the sink, his breath coming in ragged gasps. This isn't who I am. This isn't who I wanted to be. But as he straightened his tie and adjusted his suit jacket, the words echoed again in his mind, louder and more insistent: It's who you've become.
Back at his desk, Roberto tried to bury himself in his work, but Francesco's presence lingered like a shadow he couldn't escape. Every click of his keyboard felt hollow, every email sent a meaningless act. His focus slipped again and again, pulled back to the ink drying under his shirt. The words "Francesco's Property" were not just scrawled across his chest but etched into his thoughts, shaping every interaction, every movement. He imagined Francesco sitting somewhere far away, smirking at how easily he had broken Roberto down. How did I let this happen? Roberto wondered, his fingers tightening into fists under the desk. He glanced at his phone, tempted to delete every message, every photo he had sent, and reclaim whatever dignity he had left. But the moment he reached for it, he hesitated. And then what? Go back to pretending I'm someone I'm not? He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, trying to suppress the growing knot in his stomach. The memory of Francesco's commands echoed louder, filling the silence around him. "Look down at your little cock and remind yourself who you are," Francesco had said, and Roberto's humiliation surged anew. His breath quickened as he replayed those words, the force of them undeniable. They weren't just taunts--they were truths he couldn't ignore. His fingers brushed his chest through his shirt, and a tremor of arousal mixed with self-loathing coursed through him. What's wrong with me? he thought. Why do I crave this? Why do I need this?
The hours dragged on, and the battle within him only intensified. Every task felt meaningless, overshadowed by the weight of his submission. When a colleague approached his desk to discuss a project, Roberto forced a smile, his mind screaming with the effort of appearing normal. Even as they talked, he could feel the words beneath his shirt, as if the ink had seeped through to his skin and announced his degradation to the world. Do they know? he wondered, panic bubbling up inside him. Can they see it in my eyes, in the way I carry myself? His posture felt too stiff, his tone too controlled, as though every movement betrayed the truth of his servitude. When the conversation ended, Roberto slumped back in his chair, exhausted from the effort of holding himself together. He couldn't help but glance at his phone again, the messages from Francesco taunting him silently. I could stop this anytime I wanted, he told himself, but the lie rang hollow. His body betrayed him; the ache between his legs hadn't subsided all morning, and the shame of it only stoked his arousal further. He leaned forward, head in his hands, fighting the urge to text Francesco and confess how deeply this was consuming him. I don't want to feel like this, he thought, his heart pounding in his chest. But maybe I do. Maybe this is exactly what I deserve.
By the time Roberto left the office, he was a wreck, his mind an endless loop of shame, arousal, and self-recrimination. The drive home was a blur, the city lights streaking past his car window as Francesco's commands played over and over in his mind. His chest felt tight, the words he'd written there that morning burning as if they'd been seared into his flesh. Why am I still doing this? he thought, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. What kind of man lets himself be controlled like this? But even as the thought crossed his mind, his cock stirred in response, a humiliating reminder of the truth he couldn't escape. Francesco wasn't just in his thoughts--he was under Roberto's skin, his influence saturating every corner of his life. The closer Roberto got to home, the stronger the pull became. He tried to push it aside, to tell himself that tonight he'd ignore the messages, scrub the ink off his chest, and reclaim some semblance of control. But deep down, he knew it was a lie. By the time he reached his apartment door, his hands were already trembling with anticipation.
Inside, the routine of his submission began almost automatically. He peeled off his suit, letting it fall carelessly to the floor, and stood before the mirror in his bedroom. The words on his chest were faint now, smudged from the friction of the day, but they were still readable--still a glaring reminder of who he'd become. Roberto stared at his reflection, trying to see the man he used to be, but all he could see was Francesco's property. This is what you wanted, isn't it? he thought bitterly, his reflection glaring back at him like an accusation. You wanted to be taken, to be owned. And now you are. The shame hit him like a punch to the gut, but with it came the familiar, unwelcome arousal. His cock was already hard, standing at attention like it had been trained to react this way. "Pathetic," he muttered under his breath, his voice thick with disgust. But the word only made his arousal spike, and he bit back a groan as he reached for his phone. Typing the message felt like sealing his fate, each word a confession he couldn't take back: "I'm home, Sir. I've obeyed all day. Please tell me how I can serve you tonight." He stared at the screen for a long moment before pressing send, his stomach twisting with anticipation and dread. Roberto's mind swirled with shame, arousal, and the inescapable truth of his new reality. This isn't who I was, he thought, his head bowed in submission. But maybe it's who I was always meant to be.