Master’s Schiavo by Laura Lascarso
14
We’re in the living room, lying end to end on the couch. Sir is playing footsie with me, trying to distract me from my reading while he watches the Napoli vs. Torino soccer game on television. They must be on a half-time break because his foot is becoming more insistent.
“Sir?” I ask, bookmarking my page because I sense that he may require some attention.
“You don’t like soccer, princess?” Sir phrases his questions like this because he wants me to argue with him. Italians love to argue. It’s practically a national sport.
“I like their bodies. And I like it when they fall on the ground like they’re in the worst possible pain, then jump right back up when the whistle’s blown.”
“You like the theater?” Sir asks.
I nod. “Their acting could win awards. What do you like about it?”
“I like when they make goals, and the crowd goes ‘wooooo.’ I like when Napoli beats Roma because we are better. I’ll take you to a game sometime. You can see their acting up close. Would you like that?”
“Yes,” I say, almost shy.
“You must root for Napoli, though,” he warns. “There is no other.”
The game comes back on and I put my book away and try to focus on the appeal of the game. Sports, in general, are not an interest of mine, but if Sir wants to share his passion for soccer with me, then I will try to pay attention.
“I am thinking of getting a tattoo,” Sir says to me a little while later when the game is on commercial break.
“Of what?” I ask, not sure if I’d like any portion of my Sir’s beautiful skin marred by ink.
“Not what, but where,” he says waggling one eyebrow.
“Where would you get a tattoo, Sir?” I ask, indulging him.
“Right here.” He lifts his shirt to reveal that dark, silky trail of hair that leads to my happy place. “So you have something pretty to look at when you are sucking my dick.”
I grab a pillow and hit him in the face because he is just too ridiculous sometimes. He grabs me and pulls me on top of him and says, “What would you like a picture of, princess. The magnificent Evelina?”
“You’re going to tattoo your mother’s face right above your dick?” I tease.
“Not my mother, pervertito. My boat.”
“I’d rather you get a tattoo of your dick so I could look at it while I’m sucking it.”
Sir shoves my face into his armpit to make me smell him, and I take a nice deep inhale, which Sir appreciates. “You are obsessed with me,” he says, satisfied at last. When the game comes back, Sir continues to hold me so that I’m spread all over his glorious body and wrapped up in his arms.
Anthony returns from the post office a little while later and asks about the score. He tells me a letter has arrived from Master. I open it with eager fingers and begin to read it there on the couch, but the nature of Master’s letter is more appropriate for the bedroom. I ask for permission to be excused and Sir grants it, staring after me a little suspiciously.
In the bedroom, I pull back the duvet and sheets and lie down on the cool bedding wearing only my underwear. With it being so warm and at the end of summer, Sir and I don’t wear much around the property. Even Anthony is dressed down now, sometimes wearing only swim trunks and his gun holster. Sir insists that Anthony recreate from time to time as well. We suspect he may have a lover in town, because he often goes out at night when his shift is over and sometimes doesn’t return until the morning.
In the letter, Master recounts for me the first time he whipped me on his St. Andrew’s cross. I wasn’t bound to it but spread with my limbs and stomach pressed against the padded vinyl while holding onto the handles. We were a few months into the BDSM aspect of our relationship and Master was testing limits, his and mine. He’d only spanked me or flogged me up until that point, and he wanted to try something new.
The implement he used is called the Devil’s Tongue, aptly named because of its venomous bite. We were a few rounds into the impact portion of our scene when I just… broke. It was like something inside cracked wide open and all the pain and fear and anxiety I’d been holding onto came gushing out. I also pissed myself, but I sometimes do when Master whips me. I sobbed on the cross and the combination of my emotional release and the endorphins flooding my body sent me flying. It was a revelation too because I realized I might be able to leave heroin behind. It was also one of those rare occasions when my demons agreed.
Master had truly tamed me, and I felt such a deep appreciation for him, unlike any I’d ever felt before.
Your submission, Giovanni, was so beautiful, and it humbled me to see it…
Master narrates this to me in his letter, giving his perspective, which was his own realization of the depth of his feelings for me. Prior to that, he’d largely been holding back, using our lifestyle as a way to offer me discipline and structure, but in that moment and despite our age difference, he realized he wanted to make me his own. We talked about it the next day, what we were both feeling and what we wanted from our relationship, and that was when my slave training began in earnest.
I hear Master’s gravelly voice in my head as I roll around in his bedsheets, which still have traces of Sir and my fucking from this morning. When Master made the rule about not touching myself, I first cheated in the shower while he was at work, then tried to get away with it by rubbing my dick against the bedding and claiming it was an accident. Master caught onto that too, and punished me for a week that time. It was a necessary lesson to remind me that greed and lust are not the virtues of a schiavo.
Sir comes into the room while I’m slyly humping a pillow and says, “The letter is that good, huh?” I nod, red-faced and flush with desire. “Let me read it then.”
I hand it over because I don’t keep secrets from Master or Sir. Whatever they wish to know about me, they only have to ask, and as to what the two of them share, that is not this slave’s concern.
I watch Sir’s pupils widen as he reads Master’s provocative words. His fingers touch his mouth, another tell, and he licks his lips slowly before finally setting the letter aside.
“This is what you like?” he asks, and I can tell that he’s trying to be gentle, to understand. “This sort of treatment?”
“It’s more than just liking or even loving it, I need it,” I tell him honestly. People may assume my interest in BDSM is related to my trauma, but I don’t see it that way. If anything, the lifestyle allows me to escape my trauma and feel whole, because it's something my abusers haven’t been able to take away from me. I try to explain this to Sir.
“Master offers me the ability to explore and test my boundaries in a safe and consensual manner. Before Master, sex was mostly traumatic, but he’s shown me that it can be enjoyable, that I can take pride in my body and its abilities to bring pleasure to us both. Master has given me this gift and he reinforces it whenever he touches me.”
“And your Master needs it too?” Sir says, seeming to understand at last the depth of our commitment to each other, like finding your perfect complement and the piece that makes you whole.
“This slave is Master’s own medium, and on my body, he expresses his most sacred art.” Master has told me that before while admiring my bruises or wiping away the blood from the lashes of his whip, while propping my ankles in the stirrups and inspecting my anus with a gloved finger to make sure there aren’t any fissures or tears. Because Master is generally a stoic man, it took me a while to notice his tells of excitement and arousal, other than the obvious ones of course, but I’ve since learned what gets him off psychologically. He likes it when I cry, when I beg, and when I’m in pain. He likes to hurt me, then care for me afterward. He likes to invent scenarios that will test my limits and methodically deliver them with scientific precision. I believe he makes hypotheses and draws conclusions, and he may even share his findings with his friends. I know for a fact they’ve brainstormed scenes and then observed while Master executed them.
Sir is not a sadist, so there are some things he will never understand, but as to the other aspects of domination... I repeat to Sir the words Master has said to me, “My skin is a living canvas that Master remakes every time, nursing it to perfect health only to desecrate it again.”
Sir contemplates this and says, “I know the virtues of a slave, but are there virtues for a Master too?”
I sit up in the bed, delighted that he’s showing interest. “Master and slave share two virtues—patience and gratitude. A Master must be patient in training and correcting their slave and must show gratitude for their slave’s sacrifices. The other virtues of a Master are pride and dominance.” Of course, every Master is different and their techniques for training vary just as much, but all of my Master’s discipline and even my punishments, circle back to our virtues.
“Pride, like arrogance?” Sir asks.
“No, not like that. A Master must take pride in himself and his slave and their relationship. The Master is proud so that the slave may be humble. Humility is this slave’s virtue, and one cannot achieve true humility without my Master’s pride. But I am also proud to serve my Master, so in this way Master’s pride is my own. Like dominance and submission, pride and humility feed each other.”
The first time Master fucked me in front of a few of his most trusted friends was my lesson in humility. It was like losing my virginity, the virginity that was stolen from me. Master helped me to reclaim it, so that I might give it to him before witnesses as a kind of sacred rite. And after I demonstrated this virtue, Master collared me. It was magical. It was perfect.
“And this slave business…” Sir says. “Can you explain to me why you like being treated this way?”
I always feel a little overwhelmed when discussing the gifts Master has given me, and it also tends to touch on aspects of my past. “My mother was not a good person. She had demons, and they would whisper from her mouth to my ears, and eventually her demons became my own.” I pause there, and Sir only motions for me to continue. “The demons don’t have my best interest at heart, and they can get very loud, sometimes drowning out my own desires altogether. And they can take over sometimes.” Sir nods, probably recalling my episode right after Master left. “And I get confused about who to listen to and what to believe. With Master, I know I can trust him and that he wants what’s best for me, so when the demons start to act up, I listen for his voice. And I don’t have to be unsure or overwhelmed by decisions because Master has already decided for me. Master knows best.”
It sounds trite when I say it, but I absolutely believe it. Even when I’m being punished, I know that it comes from a place of love and devotion. Master makes the effort because he wants me to be better.
“And you also like serving him?” Sir asks.
“I’m at my best when serving my Master and you too, Sir,” I tell him because that’s also true. “I’m useful. My life has a purpose and direction. I don’t have to think too far ahead, only what Master needs or desires from me. And when Master is pleased with me, I’m proud of myself and I know that my life has meaning.”
“Your life has meaning with or without him, Giovanni,” Sir says. Master would say the same, and just as I do with him, I tilt my head and choose not to argue.
I think of Mary Magdalene, a repentant prostitute and promiscuous woman who became a beloved companion to Jesus. She was the one who anointed Jesus’s feet and made Peter jealous with the special attentions Jesus gave her. Mary is also said to have been possessed by demons that required regular exorcisms by Jesus’s hand. Did Jesus seek succor from Mary’s body as Master does from mine? Did Mary find her life’s meaning in serving him?
“Master is a great man,” I tell Sir. “Master nourishes me with his seed and takes care of my body and my mind. He also uses me for pleasure, as is his right. When you look at The Last Supper, do you consider the importance of the canvas on which Leonardo da Vinci painted it? Probably not, but the canvas is important all the same. This is the role of a schiavo.”
Sir cradles his chin with his thumb and forefinger and stares at me like I’m a riddle he simply cannot solve. Well, he’s not the only one.
We’re watchingsoccer again when another letter from Master arrives, and this time I’m actually paying attention to the game. Sir has educated me on Napoli’s starting lineup and their particular strengths (no weaknesses). I’ve picked my favorite players according to their looks and their ability to convince the referees there’s been a foul.
In addition to letters, Master and I have been sending care packages too. Master has sent me rare books and sheet music and postcards with art pieces he thinks I’ll appreciate. The last one was called The Brothers and it depicted three Italian-looking men, one older on a motorcycle, one middle-aged in profile, and the youngest, with soft features and a yearning gaze, standing off to the side. I suppose it reminded Master of our current arrangement, our little famiglia. In addition to my letters, I’ve sent Master a lock of my hair and a few photographs that I asked Anthony to have printed for me in town. Sir also recorded my piano playing and sent him that as well.
This time with his letter, Master has included a return envelope and instructions. I stand and strip out of my briefs and seal them in the envelope for Anthony to take back with him to the post office tomorrow.
“What are you doing?” Sir wants to know.
“Master wants something with my scent.”
“My brother is a genius,” Sir says and then, “I want your next pair. Get them good and dirty for me, princess.”
“Yes, Sir,” I say with a smile.
Sir doesn’t go back to watching the game but mutes the television and turns toward me. “You really want to go back to that, Giovanni?”
“Back to what?”
“Back to being his schiavo?”
Sir is mistaken. There’s no “going back” to anything. “I am his schiavo.”
“But don’t you want to, ah, pursue your dreams or something?”
There are many slaves in the lifestyle who have careers outside of their service to their Masters as well as thriving social lives, and they are fully supported in that way, but I have no desire to have a career. Master says it’s enough that I’m healthy and have good self-esteem. I’m safe with Master and I’m loved. What more could I want?
“My only dream is to serve Master. That is this slave’s sole purpose and desire.”
“There must be something else,” Sir says. “Your music or your studies. You’re very talented.”
“Thank you, Sir. I enjoy music but I practice so that I might please my Master and most of my academic pursuits relate back to becoming a more virtuous slave.”
“Isn’t there anything that’s just… for you?”
You are just for me,I think, but I don’t say it because it feels too big for me to manage on my own.
“Everything that I do is for my betterment in service to my Master.”
“Enough with the Master,” Sir snaps in a derisive tone. I’m bewildered by this sudden turn in our conversation. Sir is often mercurial but right now, he seems mad… at me?
“What’s wrong?” I ask tentatively and Sir explodes with a sudden passion.
“He is not here right now, I am, so right now you should be thinking of me. Only me.” His hands mimic the ire of his outburst, and I freeze as though I’ve been slapped. I’m silent after that, trying to hold back tears. Sir is broody as well. He goes back to watching the game while I hum with anxiety, trying to understand the exchange that just took place. Sir is not being fair. He met me as my Master’s schiavo, he took ownership of me temporarily. And he has certainly benefited from my virtues without complaint. I thought he accepted me just as I am, but now it seems he wants something else from me altogether. He’s making this slave feel unworthy and unappreciated.
Soon enough the tears come because I simply cannot help it. Sir shuts off the television, draws me onto his lap, and kisses my hair and my tear-stained cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Giovanni,” he whispers, his breath hot on my flushed face. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m just jealous of the bond that you share with your Master. I’m used to having things all to myself.”
I do not have the words to adequately express myself. For as articulate as I strive to be, sharing my feelings is never easy. Master knows this and understands my submission is one of the ways I demonstrate my love for him. I’ve attempted to do the same with Sir, but he is not my true Dominant. Still, I try my best to mollify him.
“Why are you jealous of Master?” I ask. “You’re important to me too. You’re my Sir.”
He shakes his head and says with a bitter disappointment, “Ah, Giovanni.”
I’mcautious around Sir for the next few days, trying to interpret his moods. He wants his dick serviced as enthusiastically as ever. He wants his fingers inside of me, and his tongue, he wants a tight, warm sleeve for his cock. He wants all of me, all the time, and even at mealtimes, he won’t let me go very far.
“Sir, this slave can’t help but notice your appetite over these past few days is rather insatiable.”
“Does that bother you, princess?” he asks with a look of concern.
“No, but I do wonder why you wish to exhaust me so.”
Sir stares at me with something like regret. “He didn’t tell you in his letter?” I shake my head. “I have some news for you, Giovanni. Your Master is coming home.”
I float through the rest of the day, giddy and uncertain. Could it be true? Master is coming home? Master calls me later that night to tell me the news, that he’ll be here in just three days. He apologizes for being gone for so long but that everything in New York is wrapped up, and he won’t need to leave me again for a very long time.
“I’m looking forward to seeing you, schiavo,” he says, a name he hasn’t called me since he left because he didn’t want to make the demands of a Master while I was serving Sir. “I’ve missed you terribly.”
“I’ve missed you too, Master,” I say with a tremulous joy that feels too precarious because I want… I want…
“We have a lot of catching up to do,” he says into the silence.
“Yes, we do. I’ll be ready for you when you get home.”
“Grazie, tesoro. I’ll see you soon.”
For years it has been only me and my Master. What will we do about Sir?