Master’s Schiavo by Laura Lascarso

1

As I prepare the penthouse for my Master’s return, I ponder the expanse of my devotion to him, a wellspring so deep and so wide that its magnitude sometimes astonishes me. One that is replenished daily through our domestic dealings, his gentle caresses as well as his bruising touches, in every rule he establishes and lovingly enforces, and in my own service and submission to him. I long for the sense of rightness only he can provide and the blessed silencing of the demons in my mind. If only I could drown myself in this obsession, I surely would.

I was raised by my paternal grandfather, the don of the Aponte family business. My Master, Valentin Fortuna, was his capo. Grandfather wisely identified his potential for leadership and promoted him from within the ranks. My father was the designated heir and poised to take over the family when he was fatally shot in a negotiation gone wrong. I was seven years old at the time. My mother turned to drugs soon after, leaving me in the care of unsavory characters or neglecting me altogether.

When he got word of how we’d been living, my grandfather stepped in and installed me in his country manor in New Jersey where I was socialized by tutors and household staff and my grandfather’s company on the weekends. Though it could be lonely at times, I was safe and comfortable. My grandfather spared no expense on my education—piano and cello lessons, Italian and French tutors, as well as academics paid to educate and debate me on philosophy, politics, and art. My Master visited too on occasion and would always offer an encouraging word, inquire about my studies, or compliment my playing when I performed for him. My grandfather provided me with endless opportunities to stimulate my senses and my mind, and all was well until a few years later when my mother, who was by then an impoverished drug addict, thought to kidnap me and use me to extort money from my grandfather.

She and her boyfriend hid me in a condemned apartment in the Bronx, making threats and demanding a ransom. My Master was the one who finally rescued me from that filthy hellhole where I’d been kept like an animal for months. I’d been so scared and so weak, so strung out on the heroin they’d given me to keep me quiet, to keep me tame.

I only talk about that time with my therapist and very rarely, with Master, but the lingering result for me was a drug addiction and PTSD from the abuses I endured.

After I was recovered, my mother overdosed for the last time. Her boyfriend’s body was found in a dumpster, his throat slashed. Absent were his cock and balls. It was a fitting disposal for such human garbage. Both deeds had been carried out according to my grandfather’s orders and executed, I suspect, by my Master’s own hands.

Though she was beautiful, or at least had been beautiful, my mother was also selfish, petulant, spiteful, and disloyal. She didn’t know gratitude, something it has taken me a long time to learn, and for all those reasons and more, I didn’t mourn her death, I only wished my grandfather had acted sooner.

Master has worked hard to break me of my bad habits, but my mother’s poisonous words sometimes wrap themselves around my tongue. Her demons pollute my mind. When a dark mood takes hold, I can hardly control my impulses, and it seems as though my hands are truly the devil’s own.

Master helps me with that too.

My grandfather was a firm but fair man, and I loved him dearly. Shortly after my rescue, he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, an aggressive type that had already metastasized by the time it was discovered. He left the family business in my Master’s capable hands and retired to live out his remaining few years in New Jersey under the care of a trained medical staff. I read to him and played for him and cried at his bedside, and when the nurses weren’t looking, I crushed his pain pills and snorted them. They weren’t nearly as good as the heroin I craved, but they were better than nothing.

We buried my grandfather just after I turned seventeen. All the New York families turned out for his funeral, a testament to my grandfather’s reputation and his reign. I’d never seen so many tailored three-piece suits and somber Italian men. Master held my hand throughout the memorial mass, a small comfort. As for me, I was high as a kite during the entire ceremony but masked it as grief. I think I was too dead inside to feel anything at all.

Master knew I wasn’t ready or interested in being the boss of the family, so he took over operations with the expectation that I would assume the responsibility one day. He bought my way into a university and checked on me regularly. I cherished our friendship, and though he tried to act as a mentor and guide, my addiction had burrowed deep inside of me, along with the shame of my trauma and grief over losing my grandfather. It wasn’t long before the demons took hold, and I succumbed.

Master came for me a second time after I’d blacked out at a party on Fifth Avenue and had been raped by numerous men, including some of my “friends.” Once I’d sobered up, Master said to me, “You can be a slave to this drug, Matthew, or you can stay here and belong to me. The difference is that I’ll take care of you and provide for you in a way this poison never will.”

The nature of my belonging has evolved over time. But it was an easy choice to make then and being in my Master’s steadfast care these past three years has only solidified that decision. I have come to treasure the stable life he provides, the structure I can count on, the menial chores he assigns that keep me busy throughout the day, the gifts he bestows upon me, and our stimulating conversations. I crave his presence and his discipline as I once craved drugs. The high that only he can provide is a natural one with farther-reaching effects. The drop is something I can manage. And though I’m a wealthy man thanks to my inheritance and have the freedom to leave at any time, I don’t think I ever will. The world has not been kind to me, and I don’t have the strength to resist its temptations. I’ve come to accept my own weaknesses for pleasure, for escape. Whether I was born this way or whether it’s a product of my trauma hardly matters because the result is the same. Master knows what I need better than me. My only fear is that he’ll leave me or that death will part us, as I have lived in its grim shadow my entire life.

Master has taught me so many things in our time together—patience, humility, subservience, gratitude… I reflect on these virtues as I make a quick circuit of the apartment, straightening cushions, folding blankets, and tidying away shoes. Except for the gifts he gives me, everything in the apartment belongs to him. That’s why I cannot break things during a tantrum. Because these things are not mine to break. I shelve the books I’d been reading during my designated time for scholarly pursuits, bookmarking one story in particular Master might like me to read to him later, if I have the energy. Tonight I’m being rewarded for my good behavior; Master has promised me already.

“Smells delicious,” I say to Rico who’s stirring a pot of sauce in the kitchen. “Gravy,” as we Italians like to call it. Rico is my security detail when I go out, and he stays with me during the daytime while Master is at work. I cannot be left unsupervised, not yet. Too much time alone gives the demons an opportunity to take over.

Rico doesn’t know that I’m the heir to the Aponte fortune. Very few people do. My grandfather kept me away from the family business growing up, and for those who might have known me then, they haven’t seen me since his funeral when I was blond and wearing sunglasses to hide the fact that I was strung out on drugs. Instead, they believe I died from a fatal drug overdose, a tragic end, so much like my mother. And when Matthew Gianni Aponte III passed away, Giovanni Ricci was born. A new identity, a clean slate. When wiseguys visit or when we go out, they see me only as a glittering ornament, Master’s schiavo, or slave. It’s a title that I relish. Master is clever, to hide me in plain sight.

The situation works out well for Rico too. Part babysitter, part companion, Rico is an Aponte family man who wanted a safer position within the organization. He has two kids and a pretty wife he didn’t want to widow at a young age. He enjoys our time together, I think. I try to be good company for him.

“What are you making?” I ask. His duties occasionally extend to cooking for Master and me.

“Spaghetti Bolognese.” He uses a spoon to taste the sauce, then holds out another one for me to sample.

“A little more sugar,” I advise. “Master has a sensitive stomach.”

Rico nods and adds a pinch more. I take my leave to freshen up in the bathroom. Master likes me bare everywhere, soft and smooth to the touch, entirely exposed to his ravenous gaze. Let me describe what it feels like to be looked at by my Master. It starts with a wash of heat that engulfs me from head to toe, followed by a low vibration that escalates until I’m trembling all over. My mind cannot form quips or barbs, can hardly form sentences when I am the sole focus of his desire. The hunger in his eyes reminds me so much of my drug craving, a single-minded obsession to possess, to consume, to dominate. It flatters me that I inspire such a passion in a man, in this man, who has saved my life twice already. The tyrannical god of my tiny existence, I spend my days thinking about how to better serve him and my nights under his commanding, yet careful hands. I live for his praise. I would rather die than not have him. This is not an exaggeration.

I have a professional esthetician who comes to the apartment once a month to wax me and perform other beauty treatments. Even still, I like to make sure my skin is moisturized and supple to the touch. I wear a cap when I swim so that my hair doesn’t stink like chlorine, and I wash myself thoroughly to get rid of the chemical tang of pool water. Master loves the way I smell, says that sometimes hours later, he can still taste me on his fingers and his tongue, that I am delicious.

I clean myself inside and out and prepare my hole, first with a moisturizing lotion and then with lube. We have to be careful with this area because of the scar tissue around my anus. Master tells me the ridges feel good against his smooth cock, but I often wish that I could be untainted for him. Virginal every time. Master says that sort of talk is deprecating and that I’m perfect just as I am, but I know how my injuries must look.

Next, I assess myself in the mirrors in Master’s bedroom that offer me a 360° view. When I first came to live with him, I was thin and unwell—the drugs always taking precedence over such things as eating and exercise—but I’ve gained a bit of muscle in the past couple of years. A nutritionist plans my diet according to my daily activities and caloric intake, and Master limits my sugar and carbs. A personal trainer meets with me at the building’s gym twice a week for strength training, and I swim most mornings to clear my mind. Master weighs me every couple of weeks to make sure I’m at a good weight, since I sometimes have a habit of skipping meals. I’ve never been healthier than in his care.

There’s a knock on the door and Rico’s low voice, “Your Master is ten minutes away.”

Rico refers to him as that when it’s just us. He knows how important it is for me to know my place and stay within the boundaries Master has set. The knowledge that my Master is so near sends a jolt of excitement through me, a low thrum that buoys me through the last of my preparations. I insert my butt plug, gold-plated stainless steel and shaped like a spherical spade with a flat, smooth base. Master had it engraved for me with “schiavo,” which makes it my favorite. He has other plugs, dildos, and vibrators, but Master likes to use those on me himself. Sometimes all he does is stretch me, filling me up completely without letting me come. Master has taught me the art of delayed gratification. God, how I adore him.

I remove my silk robe in the bedroom and walk naked to the living area to kneel on an oversized velvet pillow by the door, head bowed, hands laid open on my thighs as an offering. I am my Master’s own Vestal Virgin, presenting myself as a supplicant to his holy rites. Everything in this apartment is opulent because my Master likes nice things, but I am by far his most extravagant possession.

While I wait, Rico tidies up the kitchen. His shift is over when Master arrives. There’s another member of the family’s security detail who takes over then, but he’s positioned outside. This waiting is sweet torture for me. In a way, I am perpetually waiting for my Master, because it is only when I’m with him that I feel truly alive. But in these moments when my head is buzzing and my every nerve is fine-tuned to his arrival, I must concentrate even more narrowly on the act of simply breathing and remind myself that patience is this slave’s virtue.

The front door clicks open, and a wave of dizziness overcomes me, followed by the rush of nerves and adrenaline at my Master’s return. Even when he’s across the room, it’s as though I can sense his breath on the back of my neck and feel the deep timbre of his voice in my bones. For now, I inhale the rich aroma of his cologne mixed with sweat, a masculine musk. I imagine the phantom scent of his skin after he fucks me and the pungent odor of his groin smeared with cum. I’ll lick him clean tonight if he lets me.

He clears his throat, testing me. I know the rules, and even though I desperately want to glimpse his handsome face, I’m not going to falter now. Not when I’m so close. I keep my eyes lowered, my posture relaxed but unmoving. He likes to see me like this; he knows what a struggle it is to keep my body still. He trained me on precisely how he wants me to greet him, and he appreciates these small sacrifices I make. I know because he tells me.

His expensive Italian leather shoes come to a stop right in front of me. I would lick the heels of his Louboutin’s if it would please him.

“Giovanni,” he says and offers me one hand. I kiss each knuckle, slowly and with reverence, including the gold signet ring engraved with an “A” that once belonged to my grandfather and now signifies his own head position in the family. I turn over his hand and use his palm to cup my face. This is how I show my gratitude and demonstrate my obedience.

“Smells good in here,” Master says to Rico, testing me further, his hand not leaving my cheek.

“Spaghetti Bolognese, Boss,” Rico says. “Still needs to simmer. Noodles will only take a minute, whenever you’re ready.”

“Thank you, Rico. How has my boy been behaving today?”

“Real good,” Rico says, sounding proud. “Followed his schedule to a T. He must know a reward is coming.”

I am sometimes awful and very badly behaved. The demons, you see. But every day is a new opportunity to please my Master. He doesn’t hold grudges. He punishes me and then all is forgiven. Even with my Catholic upbringing, I have never known the solace of absolution before him.

There’s an exchange about business, which I tune out, followed by their parting words. I concentrate on my Master’s callused thumb stroking my cheek, then my lips, dipping inside so that I might worship the pad of his thumb, cherishing the knowledge that I am desired, I am loved. Even after Rico leaves, Master makes me wait. With the sharp toe of his shoe, he nudges my cock and balls where they lay against the pillow as an offering. He won’t hurt me here, like this, but the tremor of fear sends a rash of goosebumps across my bare chest, causing my pierced nipples to tighten. I keep my eyes lowered, spine straight.

“Very nice, Gio,” he says softly. He tips my chin so that I might finally gaze into his deep, brown eyes. My Master has the piety of a saint, like Jesus’s most beloved apostle John. If I were an artist, I would lovingly recapture every plane and angle. Every wrinkle that lines his face represents wisdom, stability, trust.

“I’ve missed you, schiavo,” he says at last. His name for me is the softest caress said with a deep affection

“I’ve missed you, Master.” My throat is tight, my voice a breathy rasp, as if these are the first words I've ever spoken, saving all my utterances for him.

“Andiamo, splendore,” he says and I follow him into the bedroom. We have a routine, and it’s more for me than it is for him. I begin by removing his suit jacket and hanging it in the spacious walk-in closet. I loosen his tie next. Today he’s wearing the silk Gucci one that I gave him, black with gold accents that remind me of the flecks of amber in his eyes. I drape it on a tie rack, pausing to lift onto my toes and showcase my ass.

“You’re teasing me, Giovanni,” Master warns, but he likes it. He removes his leather holster himself and hangs it on a hook in the closet. As for the gun, he discharges the magazine and stores them both in his safe. “Tell me what you did today.”

He knows my schedule already because he helped me create it, but this is how we become reacquainted after our hours spent apart. Master never makes sexual demands upon entering the apartment, though it is entirely within his rights to make use of his slave however he sees fit. Even so, he knows that my trust is something he must continually seek and be granted.

While unfastening the mother-of-pearl buttons on his nice dress shirt, I tell him that I started my morning with a swim (always in the building’s heated pool), then relaxed in the sauna with Rico while he told me about the beef braciola his wife cooked for him the night before. He’d spoken about the meal with a kind of reverence, as if describing a sex act or a sacred rite.

“I haven’t had braciola in a while,” Master says thoughtfully. “I should get her recipe and make it for you sometime. What’d you do after your swim?”

I tell him that I practiced one of Chopin’s Nocturnes on the piano for an hour or so, that it’s almost ready to be added to my repertoire. Then I had lunch. After, I read from one of my many texts on classical studies, which was my undeclared major at NYU when my drug habit became unsustainable, but I still find mythology and religious lore fascinating, as well as the works of philosophers and poets in antiquity. There are endless mythos and cultures to explore, but Greco-Roman studies remain my favorite. I’m always looking for earlier iterations of the myths, obscure translations of the original texts, and academic papers on what the scribe’s true intent may have been. I’m obsessed with human nature in all its glory and grotesqueness.

“What did you learn?” Master asks as I remove his belt, roll it up, and place it in the top drawer of his wardrobe. He’s shirtless now, and I admire his broad chest, his thick pelt threaded with silver. I love to run my hands through his body hair. His hirsute physique is a testament to his virility and manhood, a fitting contrast to my hairless one. I am a boy, and he is a man, something I remind myself whenever the urge to rebel rises within me. The only disadvantage to our age difference is that I may outlive him, but even if that’s so, I’ll go soon after. I want to be buried with my Master like the servants entombed with their pharaohs of Ancient Egypt, so that I might serve him in my next life.

I’d never tell him that, though. He’d get mad at me.

“Today I read a psychological analysis of Daphne and Apollo,” I tell him, “and the writer said something that resonated with me, we see the world not as it is, but as we are.”

“What do you think that means?” Master asks, while his fingers graze my smooth jaw, another contrast to his own which is now spiked with bristles. Even though I shave his face every morning, his shadow reappears by mid-afternoon, but I like knowing my hands were the first to touch him upon waking.

“The writer used it to illustrate the point that everything in life is a kind of theater. The words that we say, the actions we take, the people we associate with, that these are all informed by our moral character, or lack thereof, and more oftentimes, it’s the image we wish to portray, rather than who we really are.”

“Remind me of this myth,” Master says. I’ve told him all of them before, and I’m sure he knows this one too, but he likes to indulge me, so I recount the story of Apollo and Daphne, how Apollo was boasting to Cupid of his recent victory in slaying the monster Python. Cupid, incensed by his arrogance and wishing to humble him, shoots Apollo with an erotic arrow, and Daphne, a nymph who had sworn off all physical attention from men, is struck by an arrow of repulsion. A chase ensues, or more like a hunt, and rather than be caught by the lusting Apollo, Daphne begs her father to turn her into a tree, to protect her virtue and save her from the degradation of man. And he does.

“I have seen this scene depicted in Bernini’s sculpture in Galleria Borghese in Roma,” Master says. “Quite illuminating.”

The unspoken promise is that he’ll take me to see it when I can prove myself trustworthy. He likes to spoil me in that way.

“There’s something else about the story’s analysis that I find interesting,” I tell him. “Even after Daphne is transformed into a tree, Apollo touches her still. She shivers and recoils from him beneath the bark, but Apollo shows no remorse or compassion for her plight. Instead, he declares that the laurel tree will now be his tree and uses the branches for a crown. In this way Apollo completely erases Daphne as a person or even a memory, supplanting her existence entirely with his own ego.”

“How does that make you feel, Gio?” Master asks with a light touch to my bare hip.

I contemplate his question while he waits for an answer. Patience is a virtue of both the Master and the slave.

“I would not want to be dominated by a boisterous, arrogant, unworthy man.”

Master catches my chin in the cradle of his fingers, strokes his thumb along my lower lip, causing it to open involuntarily. “How do I fair under your scrutiny?”

A shiver rolls through me at his touch. When he looks at me like this, he sees past my once ruined body, past my weaknesses, my sins, and my trauma, and directly into my soul. “You are worthy, Master. You’re the only person I want to see me.”

This seems to satisfy him, and we proceed into the shower, large enough to accommodate us both. I rub Master’s stiff shoulders, massaging them as I lather him up with bar soap, then work my way down the tight bands of muscle along his back to the base of his spine. I wash his buttocks, his limbs, strong torso, his balls, and his thick, uncut cock, a testament to his Roman Catholic upbringing and Italian birth. Master is a true immigrant and self-made man.

I rinse him with warm water, then position him so that he can stand underneath the spray while I shampoo his salt-and-pepper hair, making sure to massage his neck and scalp where he holds tension. When he’s fully rinsed, I go down on my knees in front of him and nurse his cock into arousal. I use only my mouth to coax his tumid cockhead from its tight sheath. It plumps like ripe fruit and nourishes my hungry mouth. I know what Master likes and how he likes it. I can read his moods and his body language like a beloved book and anticipate his needs before he even knows them himself. I could make him come like this—if he’ll allow it.

But I am teasing him too much, showing too much initiative. Master grips the back of my head with both hands, fingers hooked like talons digging into my scalp. He presses my face against his warm, wet groin, so that his cockhead breeches the back of my throat. I gag from the suddenness of it, then relax my muscles so that my sensitive tissues can milk him properly. Seconds pass where I’m trapped there, unable to breathe, and I know this is only the beginning. I need these reminders, for Master to tell me who is in control, who is always in control.

The edges of my vision start to blur when Master finally pulls back, still cradling my head in his powerful grip. He checks to make sure I’m breathing. I breathe only for him.

“We’ll use the mask tonight,”Master says.

We’re in the playroom, his dungeon. I’m about to retrieve the mask when Master says, “Fermati, Giovanni. Let me look at you first.”

I stop and pivot toward him, vibrating all over.

“Palms out,” Master says, assessing me from head to foot. A flush of shame overcomes me, though it’s a little less so each time. There are scars on my arms from injecting drugs and several cuts, now healed over, that are the result of my captivity or self-inflicted. The demons sometimes make me do bad things. But there are no new ones today. It’s been a good few weeks.

“Very nice,” Master says in appreciation. He reaches for my ass, starting at the top of my crack and sliding his hand downward, parting my cheeks and using his middle finger to prod at the base of my plug, maneuvering it expertly with just one fingertip. I moan from the pressure it exerts against my prostate. “I’m going to work you hard tonight,” he warns.

“Yes, Master,” I croon.

“You’ve been very good lately, so I want you to know this is a reward, not a punishment.”

“Your attention is never a punishment,” I tell him, which isn’t altogether true. There are some punishments Master doles out that are not pleasant, like squatting with my back against the wall or caging my cock while he milks me repeatedly, or if I’m being very bad and might be a danger to myself, putting me in the box for a timeout. But I know I’ve done nothing to deserve a punishment. I’ve been very, very good.

“You’re my schiavo now,” Master says as we begin our scene. “Your only desire is to please me. All of your pain and all of your pleasure belongs to me.”

Master knows how deeply enmeshed the two are for me, as well as the shame over how my body has been abused in the past, by myself and others. I consciously give him control so that I no longer have to hold on so tightly. So that I can be free.

“This slave wishes only to serve,” I say rotely, which signifies my consent to proceed.

“Vieni.”

He fits me with the mask, which is a soft, calf leather. It covers my entire face, including my ears and eyes, but has an opening for my nostrils and my mouth. The back of it is open at my nape, so that Master can still grip me by my hair. By eliminating some of my senses, my attention is more focused on whatever implements Master chooses to use on me. In this way, the mask helps me get into the proper headspace. Master raises my arms to where there’s a metal ring suspended from the ceiling and I know already to hold on. He places a foam block between my ankles to act as a spreader. Master won’t restrain me, though I sometimes wish he would. I’ve begged for it in the past only to be assaulted by a panic attack. He says that we may try it again later, but for now, I must simply restrain myself. He then covers my nipple rings with secure bandages, which means there will be impact to my front as well.

Master places his hands on my back, my ass, my abdomen. Firm touches that remind me I am only flesh and blood and bone, that my body belongs to him. “You’re going to be sore tomorrow,” Master says with a hint of delight.

“This slave welcomes the pain.”

He fondles me roughly, tugging at my balls and yanking my stiff cock so that it slaps my stomach. He manipulates the plug, tugging it to stretch me to its widest point, then shoving it back inside to torment me.

“Please, Master.” This is the closest I will come to begging. My grandfather’s pride prevents me from groveling too much.

“Va bene.”

Master uses the flogger first, a leather whip with several lashing tongues. It’s too light for my tastes, but he wants to warm me up first, and I know that this initial flush of heat will only make what comes next even better.

“Pain level, schiavo?” he says because I’ve been quiet too long.

“Three.”

“I’m changing instruments.”

“Yes, Master.”

As I wait, I feel as if I’m balancing over a great chasm, and it is up to my Master whether I continue to perch at the ledge of it or dive into the depths below. I grip the metal ring above me so that I might rise to the balls of my feet, and I know from the first hit, this is truly a reward. Master is using his leather strop, the same one I use to sharpen his shaving razor. Eighteen inches long and two inches wide with a stiff, leather end, this is one of my favorite implements.

I whine needily after the first blow. It’s a delicious sensation, a stinging lash with a burn that lingers. At the end where the leather is thicker feels like a hard slap against my skin. Master knows how to wield it with precision. He strikes my back, my buttocks, and my upper thighs, then moves around to my front, avoiding my groin and lower rib cage but striking my pecs and quads. Because of the mask, I don’t know exactly where he’ll hit me next, which amplifies the rush of adrenaline and subsequent release. I will be black and blue tomorrow, my entire body aching and sore, but for now, I am singing.

“Thank you, Master,” I shout, my throat burning from crying out in pain and ecstasy. Master doesn’t mind my enthusiasm, encourages it even, in these exorcisms and in our everyday fucking. He knows how my abusers silenced me, and though he sometimes restricts my speech, he never tells me to be quiet. Master says nothing back, but I can hear his grunts of exertion. I imagine his chest hair glistening with sweat and his dick getting hard inside his loose trousers, leaving a wet spot on the linen that I will smell tomorrow and perhaps lick before washing. I like to watch the effect I have on him, but I like to fly more.

“You accept your suffering with such grace, schiavo,” Master says, circling my body like a hungry dog while tearing me apart with his biting leather. “Your submission pleases your Master greatly.”

The influx of adrenaline and endorphins takes over and my spirit leaves my body. I no longer feel the pain or the impact of the strop, only the high. I am light and joyful, dizzy with sensation. Master is here with me, but only as a glowing orb of warmth that embraces me, an omniscient observer to my ecstasy, watching over my body while my soul ascends. I am safe; I am loved. This euphoric feeling is the nearest I can get to the rush of heroin.

I drift through the rest of our scene as if suspended on clouds and when I start to drop back down, we’re on Master’s dungeon bed. The mask is gone and Master’s fingers are knotted in my long hair pressing my face against the cool vinyl, the other hand steering my hip. His strong cock is stroking inside of me like a well-oiled piston with a concentrated focus that tells me he’s been using me for a while already. I moan my desire and he slows his thrusts, wanting me to be fully present as he drives deeper, harder, the physical invasion so similar to its psychological counterpart. And I want this man, only this man, to violate me. I enjoy being fucked in a way that borders on violence. To have my agency stripped of me, to be forced to come, this is my Master’s gift to me.

When Master touches me at last, my orgasm hits me like a wall of sensation, and I ejaculate all over his fingers and the pad underneath me. Master continues to ride me, and his grip remains firm despite the bruises he’s given me already. He’ll be gentle later but not now in the throes of passion. My prostate is over-sensitive, but Master won’t release me until he’s had his fill. In the past, I’ve orgasmed again from this prolonged stimulation, but tonight my body is already spent.

Master finishes at last, gripping me to him with both hands, and I imagine his posture, back arched, chin tilted upward as he roars like an apex predator. He winds my hair around his fist and yanks me backward so that he can get a fraction deeper, thrusts a few more times to remind me of his dominance. Or perhaps it is some primal breeding instinct to secure his seed inside me. Sometimes I wish I was a woman so that I could grow a child for him, but I’d probably resent having to share his attention. And besides, Master likes dominating and fucking men, so I’ll be content with the gifts I’ve been given.

“Gio,” he says, collapsing on top of me. He slips out of me and then his fingers are there pushing his cum back inside. My hole clenches at his digits greedily. He knows that I sometimes mourn the loss of him and tries to help ease these feelings of abandonment. When I need settling or if I’m feeling especially insecure, Master makes me sit on his cock and read to him. For now, Master retrieves the plug where it’s lying on the mattress and replaces it, stuffing me full of his cum.

“How do you feel, tesoro?”

“Wonderful. Thank you, Master.”

“Clean up. I need a moment.”

I lick Master’s fingers first, whatever is left of my spend, and then I dutifully collect my spilled cum from the vinyl because boys are not permitted to leave messes behind. When Master is satisfied that I’ve gotten it all, he invites me to lay with him in his post-coital daze; his strong arms wrap around me in a possessive embrace. My muscles start to stiffen, the residual burn and ache from his blows settling in. I cannot wait to see the bruises in the morning, how they’ll bloom across my skin like a field of poppies. Master will take pictures as a keepsake and perhaps also to show his Dominant friends. Rico will try to avoid looking at them because he’s polite and discreet, as always.

When my sweat has dried and my pleasure has faded to a pleasant hum, Master removes the plug and cleans my crack with a washcloth. He lays a cool damp towel on my back and buttocks to soothe the worst of the sting, then he applies arnica on my welts to make them heal faster, a bittersweet prospect.

After tidying up his implements and reordering his dungeon, Master brings me to the bedroom and props me up with pillows like his pampered prince so that I can eat my dinner in bed. He asks for my consent to leave because the separation, especially after a scene, is hard for me, and I grant it. As he’s turning to leave, he plucks something off the floor and says to me, “What’s this?”

Did I leave a book by the bed? Did he find a clean sock that I missed while folding laundry? I glance over with curiosity and Master opens his hand.

It’s a single diamond earring, glittering and perfect. Classy, sophisticated. “Is that for me?” I ask demurely, knowing that it is.

“For you, tesoro.”

I tilt my head so that Master can affix it to my one pierced ear. It’ll go nicely with my nipple rings and my gold collar and cock cage I wear when we have company. Master has bought me a lot of jewelry in our time together. He’d probably buy me more if I was better behaved. He likes to dress me in expensive clothing when we go out, and he likes to see me naked in his penthouse wearing nothing but the glittering baubles and trinkets he’s given me.

“Do you like it?” he asks, stroking my sensitive lobe with his fingertip.

“I love it. I love you, Master.”

“I love you, Giovanni, and I always have. You make me so happy. You are my entire world.”

I bask in the halo of his praise. And in the tumult of my mind, with my demons now sated, I know for certain that with Master as the god who rules me, my life is worth living and the pain of existing worth enduring.