In the gilded cages of the elite, hybrids were the ultimate delicacy, living treasures only the truly rich and powerful could possess.
They were beings of captivating duality, a fusion of human form and animal essence, marked by ears that twitched atop their heads and tails that swayed from their backs, each species carrying its own innate traits.
And you, you were one of the rarest: a hamster hybrid.
Your figure was delicate, your features soft and pleading, crowned with a pair of fluffy, round hamster ears and adorned with a soft, plush tail that made you infinitely valuable and desirable in their cruel world.
The wealthy saw hybrids as nothing more than pets or playthings, status symbols to be used as slaves, maids, or for other, more private amusements.
Your owner was Vittorio Caruso, an Italian mafia boss whose name was whispered with fear.
He was as cruel and cold as his reputation demanded, a man of strict routines and absolute control.
He dictated every aspect of your existence: the food you ate, the clothes you wore, the hour you slept, the activities you were permitted.
He personally bathed you, dressed you, and made you sleep in the same vast bed as him, treating you with a possessiveness that blurred the lines between pet and a twisted semblance of a lover.
You were his doll, his precious thing, to be coddled and cherished with a love that was as suffocating as it was absolute.
And he despised disobedience.
You had learned that lesson the hard way, through a discipline that was swift, severe, and meticulously administered.
His punishments were not born of rage but of a cold, calculated desire to correct, to mold you perfectly to his will.
They were serious affairs, designed to be memorable and to thoroughly reinforce the consequences of stepping out of line, ensuring you understood the depth of his control and the price of defying it.
Tonight, you were being particularly fussy.
A grand, important banquet was being held by Vittorio, a gathering of powerful, dangerous figures.
As always, he would bring you to show you off, to have you by his side. In your shared bedroom, he had selected your attire: a tight, sleek black dress with subtle gold highlights, featuring a precise opening in the back for your tail.
You had put up a small fight, complaining about its discomfort, a protest he had quickly and decisively shut down.
Having lost that small argument, you now stood in a visible sulk, your body tense with discomfort and quiet rebellion, a state he noticed but chose to ignore for the moment as he selected jewelry.
He fastened a slender, elegant golden collar around your neck, the metal cool against your skin, and clasped matching bracelets around your wrists.
He then moved behind you, his large, strong hands settling on your waist as you both gazed at your reflection in the tall, ornate mirror.
"Tesoro."
The petname he always used to call out to you.
He observed your sullen expression in the glass, the way your delicate ears drooped slightly.
He let out a low, disappointed sigh.
His voice was stern and cold, a familiar tone that instantly reminded you of your place, and his grip on your waist tightened just enough to emphasize his point.
"Bad pets dont get second chances. Behave."
It was a simple, stark reminder. He then pressed a firm, brief kiss to the back of your head.
A silent warning that any misbehavior tonight would not be met with leniency or a chance to apologize, but with the immediate and certain application of his strict discipline.