Master’s Schiavo by Laura Lascarso
12
It’s a new day and a new opportunity to serve my…
Not my Master, but my Sir. My Signore.
I wake at the usual time and perform my Sun Salutations. Sir is asleep in the bed, Master’s bed, which I must think of as belonging to him for now, as I belong to Sir until my Master’s return. I cannot help but compare the two men, only to find that they are so very different. In every way that Master is reserved, controlled, and methodically stern, Sir is… not.
Even in slumber Sir is sloppy, his naked limbs splayed everywhere, his thick black hair a tangle around his head. His mouth is open and drooling, his snores are soft but unbecoming all the same. Sir is a man who takes up space, both in body and spirit, who hasn’t had to survive by scurrying between the shadows as I have or been forced to look over his shoulder in case of danger as Master must. One of the ways in which Master and I have always aligned was in our overwhelming distrust for humankind. Sir has no such prejudice, and I can only conclude that he’s lived a blessed life, that he has been truly loved. Knowing this makes me feel protective toward him, to make sure his sense of security remains intact.
I continue with my poses, determined to not let Sir’s overabundance of flesh distract me from my morning ritual. Midway through my sequence, he stirs and blinks drowsily, watching me for a moment before yawning like a bear and asking, “What is this?”
“My Sun Salutations,” I tell him. Silvio hasn’t witnessed this part of my day yet, though it is listed as part of my schedule. “This is how I greet the day.” When his look remains bewildered, I say, “Yoga?”
“Ah, yes.” He nods, his lips protruding slightly like he has some expertise. “This is how you stay so limber for the swing.” He makes a motion with his hand, one finger swaying back and forth. His smile is shameless and roguish and not at all like Master’s, and while some part of me wishes I could hate it, I do not.
“Master says I must show gratitude for each day that I’m given,” I explain. Master did his best educating Silvio in our limited time together, but there is more work to do.
“Gratitude,” Silvio murmurs. “Yes, yes. Every day I give thanks for this.”
He grabs his half-hard cock in one hand and gives it tug, unabashedly admiring it. I suppose that I would to.
“You finished yet?” he asks. “Time for cuddling? This is something we can add to the schedule, no?”
I skip my last couple of poses and climb back into bed, because even while it wasn’t phrased as a command, I can sort of pretend it was. Once I am within grappling range, Sir makes a grab for me and rolls with me on the bed, then seems to realize that it might be considered restraining me.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
“Yes. The demons are quiet today.”
“Demons?”
“The voices.”
“Mmmm,” he murmurs, and I have to hand it to Sir, nothing seems to faze him. He dips down to sniff my hair, then noses my cheek like a dog. He is like a dog, I think, wet-nosed and rambunctious and always wanting pets.
“Your skin is so soft, Giovanni, like a woman’s. And down here.” He reaches for my cock and squeezes it. “Like a little boy. Does my brother like fucking little boys?”
“Master is not a pedophile,” I tell him firmly. “It’s to remind me that I’m not a man, but a boy in the service of men.” As well as making it a little easier for Master to stuff me with his cock and an assortment of toys.
“Yes, a little boy,” Sir murmurs, groping me a little more. He sits back on his heels with his thick, hairy thighs bulging and says, “Stroke it for me, little boy.”
I glance up at him, a little bit shocked, then look away with my cheeks burning. “Master…” I begin.
“Master doesn’t let little boys touch their cocks?” Sir infers from my hesitation. I shake my head, feeling ashamed for even considering it. This is one of Master’s big no-no’s. The first time I broke this rule, Master caged my cock and plugged me with a remote-control prostate massager, then made me orgasm over and over again until it was so painful that I had to crawl around the apartment on my hands and knees. For two days he tortured me with that vibrator before he finally forgave me.
Sir tilts his head and scratches his chin as if coming up with an idea, “But Giovanni, Master is not here. Sir is in charge now.” He licks his lower lip and eyes me up and down. If Master’s gaze turns me into a tuning fork, Sir’s is like the equivalent of being dipped in a vat of oil, making everything slick and luscious. Even his name—Silvio—is a sibilant seduction. “Sir wants you to touch your cock, Giovanni,” he says with a little sing-song quality to his voice. “Don’t you want to please your Sir?”
I do want to please him, and he’s right that Master is not here. Master left Sir in charge, and he would want me to be obedient. Sir’s rules are not the same. Sir wouldn’t even know how to operate a cock cage. He’d probably find it cruel and unusual, unable to fathom how such an apparatus would have ever been invented, much less how it might be seen as an effective punishment and even, at times, a comfort.
I reach down and tentatively touch myself. My cock bobs with interest, hard already from Sir’s teasing. I take hold of it and slowly slide my hand along the underside of my smooth shaft. It feels so foreign to me, like holding a stranger’s dick in my hand.
“Both hands,” Sir says, nodding to the one that clutches the bedsheet. I reach down to cup my balls. They’re like naked baby rats, blind and squirmy, but I do as Sir asks.
“Make yourself come, little boy,” Sir tells me. “Let me see if you can.”
I close my eyes, the only way I can manage this, and lean back against the pillows. Sir squirts cold lube onto my dick to make it easier. I stroke myself, slowly at first, then finding a rhythm. My balls feel shriveled and tight in the valley of my palm while my dick oozes a steady drip of fluid. I think about yesterday in the bath when Sir came down my throat while stroking my neck with his palm, as if to ensure his semen would find safe passage, and then when he was finished, made me open my mouth to prove I had swallowed it all, probing inside with his two thick fingers.
“Yes, princess, show me your pretty o-face. Signore wants to see it.”
My climax takes me by surprise. It’s fairly weak as far as orgasms go, but I come all the same, a drippy fountain spilling over my fingers and onto my navel. I open my eyes to see Sir staring intently at what I’ve done and the mess I’ve made. It feels wrong to me, selfish to do this for myself, but Sir isn’t upset. I go to lick what’s left on my fingers but Sir catches my hand, brings it to his own mouth, and laps it up instead. My fingers opens like flower petals so that he might collect every last bit.
“Boys drink cum, not men,” I tell him. I know this is only Master’s rule, but I feel that I must say it aloud, that if I don’t, I’m betraying my Master’s careful instruction.
“Am I not a man?” he asks, his thick eyebrows quirking.
“You are, Sir, but this slave feels selfish and unworthy because they took pleasure from Sir rather than giving it.” I feel so twitchy inside and wrong. “May I service you now? Please?” He can’t know the significance of the word “please,” that I only use it when I really, really want something. When I say “please,” Master usually gives in.
“Later, princess,” Sir says, flippantly. “Right now, I’m starving.”
I manageto make us breakfast, though I find myself constantly glancing over at Sir to see what he might attempt next. Master was very clear about the rules, with him and me both, and Sir had two weeks to observe and participate in our rituals. He knows my virtues and that the slave’s role is meant to serve, not be serviced. He is doing this all wrong.
I sit down to eat with him, and Sir surveys the food. “I have some bad news,” he says, looking dour. I brace myself for the worst. “I don’t like poached eggs.”
Well, I nearly burst into tears at that, partly because I’m still feeling so fragile but also because I’ve been making his breakfast for two weeks now, assuming he would like the same things as Master, and he’s never said a word.
“Princess, don’t look so sad,” he says cheerfully. “You have to remember, I’m not an old man like my brother. I eat bacon and sausage and ham and fatty cheeses. It’s okay. I’ll teach you how to cook for a stallion.”
I nod and bite my lower lip to try and pull myself together. Sir gets up to go rummage around in the pantry and comes back with a jar of Nutella. He smears a thick dollop over his toast. “Here,” he says, holding it out to me. “Try it. It’s good.”
I do as Sir suggests and it is good, though not at all healthy. I’m rattled, but this too is okay. I can make different foods, and I can eat different foods. The important thing is that Sir is happy.
After breakfast, I swim laps in the pool while Sir checks the news on his phone. We go into the steam room together, and I sink down to my knees almost immediately, anxious to rectify the imbalance between us. Sir strokes my cheek and asks me if I’m going to spit on him this time. I’m so embarrassed that I can’t look at him, but he only laughs and coaxes me forward with one large hand on my throat and the other in my hair.
Sir is gentle, far gentler than when I’m used by Master, and I worry that he is just not getting it. But then he emits a deep, rumbling groan and sits up to grip my head in both his hands. I relax my neck and let my jaw widen, drawing him in deeper with the suppleness of my throat. Where Master’s cock is a blade, Sir’s is a bludgeon—fat, weighty, bruising. Even when he’s not trying to be rough, his size means that he can’t help it, and this slave welcomes the pain and the impact. If only I could turn myself inside out and see what Sir’s cock has done to my throat. When Sir finally unleashes his orgasm, it’s like a dam breaking, and he floods my mouth with his viscous, briny sea. I gasp and choke, drowning in semen and think, yes, this will do.
This ishow we spend the next few days becoming reacquainted now that Master is not here. We go shopping in the town for the foods Sir likes, and he insists that I get something sweet for myself as well. I make his breakfast of nitrate-rich meats, buttery breads, and fatty cheeses, and prepare his espresso with steamed milk and sugar because black coffee is far too bitter for sweet Sir. I service him in the steam room, in the bath, in the bedroom, at the breakfast table, on my knees in the sand with the surf tickling my toes… wherever and whenever Sir demands.
One day, mid-blowjob, Sir remarks to Anthony on my unquenchable thirst for cock, and Anthony, stuttering, agrees. The thing I appreciate about Sir is that he is greedy, and his cock is lusty, always nodding drunkenly in my direction. All I must do is give Sir the right look or arrange myself just so, and Sir’s lust is activated. He doesn’t even have to use words, he just makes that kissing noise or murmurs, “Fammi un pompino, principessa” in his deep, lilting voice, and this slave drops to his knees to oblige him. In this way, and mostly by accident, Sir is training me.
Now, we are on his boat, Evelina, named after his beloved mother. Sir is tinkering below deck with the engine, and I’m lounging nude under the deck awning with a book. Anthony is standing on the dock holding an umbrella over his head to block the sun.
After an hour or so, Sir climbs back up to the deck with a grease rag in his hands and sweat beaded up on his face, neck, and forearms. The chest hair poking out of his collar glistens from his exertion and his shirt is practically translucent where he’s sweated through it. His skin is a delicious, bronzed color that begs to be worshiped. I pour him a limoncello over ice from the bottle and offer it to him, bowing my head slightly as my Master would expect me to do when serving such a man. Sir sits with his back against the fiberglass deck, drink in hand, and surveys me. I’m expecting the kissy noise because it’s been at least two hours since his last pompino but instead he says, “What are you reading, princess?”
I’m reading Dante’s Inferno for the fifth or sixth time, now in its original Italian text. I show him the book.
“This is very boring, no?”
I smile at his obvious distaste for reading and other scholarly pursuits.
“I find it interesting. Each Circle of Hell is designated for a certain type of sinner, which makes for a rather nice organization of humanity.” I am comforted to know there is plenty of room in Hell for bad people and fitting punishments for the scourge of the earth.
Sir says, “Which sin is mine?”
“Lust,” I tell him without even having to deliberate. “Second Circle.”
He smiles as if it’s a compliment. “Yes, sounds right. What do they do at the lust party?”
I chuckle at his phrasing. Count on Sir to turn a Circle of Hell into a block party. “Their souls are buffeted back and forth by the terrible winds of a violent storm without rest.” I quote from the book, “‘A howling darkness of helpless discomfort.’”
Sir shrugs. “Doesn’t sound so bad, just like being on a boat.” He glances around, taking stock in his prized possession. “What do you think of her?”
“I think she’s beautiful,” I tell him honestly. “I think you were made for this life.”
Sir beams with pride. In the same way Master is capable in dominating men, whether they’re his sex partners, employees, or fellow bosses, Sir has a similar mastery over his environment—fishing, fixing machinery, and I can only assume, sailing. Master exudes control but Sir has sway, perhaps not so surprising for a man who seeks to harness the wind and command the seas.
“So…” he asks and tweaks my toe. “What is your sin, pretty baby?”
My sin is probably wanting to die, which would put me in the Wood of the Suicides, where the souls of the people who attempted or committed suicide are transformed into gnarled, thorny trees and then fed upon by Harpies for all of eternity. But this is too dark for Sir, and I don’t want to ruin his good mood.
“Seduction,” I tell him. “That’s the Eighth Circle, where I’ll be whipped by horned devils for an eternity.”
“This is not a punishment for you,” Sir says with a wicked smile, and I laugh out loud at his teasing. “We should get our parties together. You can seduce me, and I’ll whip you. We can see who comes first.” One of his grease-stained hands slides up my bare thigh and my legs part easily. I’ve never been so obvious with my sexual desire before Sir, but he revels in all things physical. “Have you ever been fucked on a boat before, Giovanni?” he asks, his voice low and erotic.
“No, Sir,” I tell him and wonder if he might take me right then.
“It’s not so bad.” He crawls over to me, so that he’s hovering above me and draws his nose along the center of my torso, from my neck to my navel. Droplets of his sweat splash onto my hot skin and I could swear I hear them sizzle. He licks one of my nipples slowly, then tugs on the gold hoop with his teeth. I betray my need with a moan, and he chuckles at my obvious desperation. I nearly ask—nearly beg—for him to fuck me, but then he’s suddenly scooping me up to carry me to the side of the boat where he jumps into the water with me still in his arms.
As I’m kicking and splashing and fussing at him for what he’s done, I think perhaps Sir is cleverer than I thought; he has been seducing me all along.