Master’s Schiavo by Laura Lascarso

15

I’m not given much time to prepare. I’ve become a little lax without a regular esthetician, so I ask Anthony to get me a couple of waxing kits from the drugstore and spend the next day removing my body hair until I’m pink and shiny as a newborn. Sir watches me sullenly and tells me a real man wouldn’t be threatened by another man’s body hair.

I gently remind him, “Sir, I’m not a man, but a boy.”

He scoffs at that and makes a forget-about-it gesture.

I clean the sheets and air out the house and make sure all of Master’s favorite foods are stocked in the refrigerator and pantry. I tidy up too since I’ve gotten a little bit lazy with Sir always sprawled over the furniture and leaving his things about. Luckily, there’s a paid housecleaner who comes in every two weeks to help with that.

I also make sure Master’s dungeon furniture is dusted and his leather implements are oiled since this room is off-limits to staff. Sir follows me in here too, asking questions about the various equipment, what it feels like and why I crave it.

I explain how the release is the closest I can get to the rush of heroin. Heroin is like a comforting hug that feels safe and warm, even if that’s not the case in reality. Subspace is a light, floaty sensation that can, at times, feel like flying. Both allow me to leave the physical realm and escape into the ether, which might be at the root of my cravings.

“The pain feels good in a psychological way too,” I say to Sir. “Every time Master disciplines me, I'm reminded of how important I am to him. Every time he punishes me for a transgression, I'm given a clean slate and a chance to start over, to be pure. A kind of baptism, I suppose.”

Sir lingers on the rope, which is not so surprising because it’s familiar to him from sailing. I’ve seen him tie intricate knots and thought about it myself, the deftness of his fingers and the pleasure he seems to derive in securing his possessions. People come to BDSM for all sorts of reasons, and many have nothing to do with trauma. And for as messy as he is on land, Sir does indeed run a tight ship.

“What about the rope appeals to you, Sir?”

“The trust,” he says and snaps a length of it between his strong hands. “The amount of faith your partner must have in you to allow themselves to be tied up and helpless.”

A shiver of arousal travels up my spine. “You should explore it more.”

Sir laughs and shakes his head, but I can tell he’s curious.

On the eve of Master’s return, Sir asks me to stay the night with him on his boat. He says he doesn’t want to ruin the clean sheets I’ve laid out for Master’s return, but I suspect he wants to fuck me on the magnificent Evelina once more before Master reclaims me.

Sir takes me apart slowly that night, sucking my cock and eating out my hole until I am a wanton, needy mess. Sir bruises my ass and hips and leaves hickeys all over my neck and chest, marking me as his property. I don’t worry too much about it, at least not in the moment when I’m begging him to get inside me, fuck me harder, take me to the height of bliss and drop me into a well of pleasure. He does this and more, fucking into me so deep and slow that when I finally come, I shed a couple tears too.

Later when he’s running his hands through my hair and kissing my neck softly, he says, “I think you should sail away with me, Giovanni.”

The thought is so romantic, but Sir must know that it will never happen. “I’ll never leave my Master.”

Sir sighs like this is the first time in his life he’s ever been denied something he wants. Knowing Sir, maybe it is.

I scrubmyself thoroughly the next morning, inside and out. Master will be here in just a few hours and I want to be presentable to his discerning eye.

I’m sitting naked on my pillow with my knees spread wide and my palms facing upward while Sir lounges on the couch with the television on, though I don’t think he’s paying much attention to it. I hear Master’s sharp heels clicking across the cobblestone courtyard and straighten my spine just before the door swings open. In my mind, I jump for joy but in reality, my body simply quivers with nervous anticipation.

I say a prayer of gratitude, that Master has come back to me, that he’s unharmed, and hopefully, he’s here to stay.

He is testing me, though. He thanks Anthony for the ride and dismisses him to take his luggage to his room. He greets Sir with a slap on the back and an enthusiastic hug. He asks for a drink and the two of them linger at the bar. They catch up on the business. Master enquires about the health of Sir’s mother. They talk about the property and Sir’s boat… All the while, I sit and wait. Master is truly testing my patience.

Finally, he makes his way over to me. Sir is there with him, both men towering above me, their scents filling my nostrils and their voices reverberating in my bones.

“How did my schiavo behave in my absence?” Master asks.

“Perfect,” Sir says, a little bit gloomy.

“It appears you made good use of him,” Master says, likely noticing my fresh hickeys and bruises.

“He was enthusiastic in serving me,” Sir says a little bit arrogantly. “You’ve trained him well.”

“Hmmm,” Master says, and I fear I may expire right then from the suspense. “You should come by tomorrow afternoon for drinks, Silvio. I’d like to talk more then. Would you like to say goodbye to Giovanni?”

Sir squats down next to me and cups the back of my head with his hand. “Goodnight, princess.” These are the same words he says to me every night before falling asleep with the ease of a man who has no demons. He brushes his lips softly against my temple, stands, and then he is gone.

Only after Sir departs and we’re alone, does Master offer me his hand. I worship every knuckle with the reverence I’ve been banking in his absence. His smell is comfortingly familiar; his presence is as strong and stable as it’s ever been. When he finally cups my cheek, and I lift my head to gaze upon him, I beam with joy and relief because he’s here with me and he’s safe.

“I’ve missed you, schiavo,” Master says.

“I’ve missed you, Master.”

Master istired from his travels, but he allows me to undress him in the bedroom and bathe him in the shower. While the warm spray of water falls on me like the gentlest rain, I tend to his manhood with the love and devotion of his most humble servant. Master holds me to him afterward with my cheek pressed against his groin and strokes my hair. In bed, Master tells me again that he loves me and that he looks forward to catching up in the morning.

True to his word, Master asks me what I did in his absence at breakfast. I start with my “episode,” which I relayed to him already in one of our phone conversations, as well as how Sir calmed me down. I tell him about sailing Evelina and dancing at a nightclub and becoming a Napoli soccer fan.

“I believe Silvio sent me a picture of you from said nightclub,” Master says, watching me closely for any reaction.

“What did you think?” I try to be as careful with Master’s emotions as he is with mine. Neither of us seek to make the other jealous if we can avoid it, as the fallout is seldom worth it.

“It made me wish I was the one there with you in that dirty bathroom stall.”

“It was a broom closet,” I tell him, “but it was filthy.”

“Yes, it was,” Master says with a slow but deliberate nod. “Did you like being shoved up against the door and fucked like a whore?”

“He didn’t…” But also, yes.

“He only made it look like it then. But the cum on your back was real?”

“Yes, it was.” I hold my breath.

“And you liked it?”

Though I’m reluctant to be completely truthful, lying to Master would be much worse. “I did.”

“Silvio does like to push my buttons.” I’m silent while Master studies me for a measure, then says, “And your hair.” Master approved it already, but seeing it is altogether different.

“Sir—I mean Silvio—suggested it.” I touch the top where it’s longer and a bit wavy. “What do you think?”

“I love it, Giovanni. You are my golden boy.”

It seems the moment has passed. Master is subdued, but he insists I finish my breakfast. I ask him about the family business, only as it relates to our current safety, because I notice he still wears the Aponte family ring.

“I decided to sell it off in pieces. I couldn’t trust things would be adequately run in my absence, and I didn’t want your grandfather’s name tarnished. The family business is no more, Giovanni, which means this ring belongs to you.” He begins to remove it and I halt him with a frantic, no. Master pauses and looks at me questioningly.

“Grandfather would want you to have it. And I do too.”

Master smiles and nods humbly. “It would be my honor.”

After my morning bowel movement, Master brings me into the playroom for my exam. When I first came to live with him, I had a lot of injuries that needed medical attention. Dr. Greyson came by regularly to check up on me. I was also re-traumatized and wouldn’t allow anyone to touch me except Master, so he learned through proxy how to examine me. He did this regularly my first year with him, including drug tests, and he still conducts these exams every few months or after a particularly strenuous scene. Master enjoys it because he likes having dominion over my body. Sometimes it leads to sex, but I never know when that will happen; Master likes to keep me guessing.

I climb onto his examining table and place my feet in the stirrups, then slide all the way to the end of the table so that my ass cheeks hang off the edge. Master lubes a metal speculum and inserts it into my rectum. Slowly, he presses the grip so that the cold metal expands, which is uncomfortable but not too painful. He inspects my tissues with his gloved finger and rubs the tip over my prostate.

“Has Silvio been milking you?” he asks. I glance away, and now I do feel guilty. “Giovanni?”

“No.”

“He’s been using you that much?” Master asks with a wrinkled brow.

“Silvio encourages me to… touch myself.” I burn with shame at the admission because this is a violation of one of Master’s cardinal rules.

“I see,” he says, and though he tries to hide his disappointment, I still feel it in the pit of my stomach.

“I’m sorry, Master. I didn’t—”

He holds up one hand to silence me, pulls off the glove, and deposits it into the trash, but he doesn’t remove the speculum. He lays a hand on my thigh and says, “I wasn’t here to enforce the rules, and you had to follow Sir’s lead, but I’m here now, Giovanni, and I think it would be best for me to give you a refresher on your virtues. What do you think?”

I nod with eagerness. “Yes, that is exactly what I need.” I don’t have to feel any guilt or remorse over what happened with Sir because Master will help me rectify my mistakes.

“Okay then. Let us begin.”

He starts by giving me an enema, which is not something I liked in the beginning but have come to appreciate over time. It’s similar to confession in a way, being purged entirely of one’s sins and impurities and feeling lighter and closer to God afterward.

I lie on my back, still on the examining table, while Master inserts the tubing into my rectum. He affixes the saline bag to the other end and sets a timer. I must hold the water inside me until the timer goes off. There’s a pan underneath me to collect the mess. My rectal cavity is painfully distended and the cramping toward the end is nearly unbearable, but Master shows no mercy (he never does) and instead, presses on my abdomen and counts down to make sure I don’t cheat. The relief I feel in letting go is diminished only a little by the noise of me evacuating my bowels, but this is how Master reacquaints himself with my body’s most intimate expressions, as its care and maintenance is his responsibility too.

“Very good,” Master says in appreciation. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, Master. Thank you for your care.”

After the enema, Master brings out Hugo, the damnable prostate massager that never fails to reduce me to tears. He cages my cock and milks me until fluid dribbles out of the cage in a steady stream, but he keeps the vibrator going for much longer, until my abs are tight from clenching and tears drip from the corners of my eyes. Between the exam, the enema, and now this, everything down there feels so raw and exposed. Master adjusts the massager so that he may add one lubed finger to sweep around the inside rim to penetrate me further.

“Look at me, Giovanni,” he says because I’m wincing in my attempts to bear it. My eyes fly open to find his steady gaze probing me, testing my commitment, aroused by my discomfort and the vulnerability of my situation.

“Do you have anything you’d like to say to me?” he asks, testing to see if I’ll safeword out of it.

“No, Master.”

“Very well.”

He continues his merciless treatment without pause, forcing me to orgasm again and again until my balls are shriveled prunes and my gland throbs like an open wound. “Please, Master, this slave cannot handle any more right now.”

“Who has the authority over when you orgasm?”

“You do, Master. Always. This slave has learned their lesson. Please.”

“I’m glad to see you haven’t forgotten how to beg,” Master says with approval. He removes his finger and the prostate massager and wipes away my tears with the pad of his thumb.

“Thank you,” I murmur, relieved that part is over.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Master says darkly. He returns with a plug that’s long with a narrow base and a large, circular handle that is not at all discreet. It’s my least favorite because it offers no pleasure to my prostate and it’s hard to walk normally with it in, but Master says I won’t be doing much walking today, that I will demonstrate my virtues on my knees. He buckles a leather harness around my torso and attaches a leash to the back of it to act as a lead. I will crawl behind Master whenever possible. Master also fits me with a ring gag, which will allow him to make use of my mouth while preventing me from speaking. I have a safesign if I need it, but the gag is freeing in its own way—less responsibility and no pressure to interact with others. This is how Master ensures I’m in the correct headspace for retraining.

I begin drooling almost immediately. Master notices and smiles with a perverse satisfaction. Well, he is a sadist.

“You look lovely like that, Giovanni,” Master says when I’m on my hands and knees in front of him. The plug makes it impossible to sit down, so I must hover in an awkward position to alleviate the pressure on my knees. “Like a slave who is very, very sorry.”

I nod because all the implements Master has chosen are to remind me of the sacrifices I must make to get back into his good graces. Satisfied at last by my subjugation, Master takes me down to the beach to our usual spot. Now that Master is home, Anthony is something of an armed house helper or butler, and he brings the tent and cooler since Sir is meeting Master for drinks. Master is making use of my mouth when Sir arrives, and I know right away from Sir’s tone of voice that there will be a problem.

“Am I interrupting something?” Sir growls.

“Not yet,” Master says without breaking his stride in his bruising thrusts. I wish that I could properly explain to Sir the importance of a slave’s retraining. I got lazy in Master’s absence and I indulged. Now, I’m being corrected and put in my proper place.

“I can come back after you’re done,” Sir spits with venom. Despite all my attempts to educate him, and Master’s too, Sir cannot fathom it.

“Have a seat, Silvio,” Master says, and I hear Sir fall messily into the chair behind me. In this moment, he is very much the petulant younger brother. He’s not acting like a man, but I try to forgive him for it. Master finishes with my mouth, and I swallow as much of his ejaculate as I can, but the gag prevents me from getting all of it, so some of his cum dribbles down my chin. Master doesn’t wipe it off, and I’m not allowed to either. This is to remind me of my humility, that I am indeed his property, and my responsibility is to serve him above all else. And besides that, he likes it, in the same way Sir liked seeing me cum-splattered in a dingy broom closet. Men love to mark their territory, to stab their flags into virgin soil, to name countries, cities, and monuments after themselves. Men are all different in some ways, but they are also very much alike.

When I turn, I see the disgust in Sir’s eyes. He finds me repulsive like this—gagged, caged, and harnessed. He despises my servitude, and it hurts me in a way I’ve never been hurt by him before. More than just humility, I feel ashamed, but I must remember that Master has enough pride for the both of us.

“You are tired of little boys?” Sir snarls. “You have moved onto fucking dogs now?” This is not puppy play, but a reminder of my status, which is beneath my Master.

“I’m retraining my slave, Silvio. I’m reestablishing my dominance because frankly, he’s gotten into some bad habits.” I’m doubly shamed by Master’s disappointment in me. I wish I had my mask on too so that I could hide.

Sir scoffs and says, “You mean he got used to being treated like a person?”

“Giovanni must know his place. The implements you see are to help remind him of his virtues.”

“Virtues, yes,” Sir says with a scowl. “The virtues of being a brainwashed fuck doll.”

I’m shocked at Silvio’s disrespect to Master and me both. He’s denying my own agency in choosing this lifestyle and assuming I don’t know my own mind. Calling me… brainwashed?

“Do not speak this way in front of my schiavo,” Master warns coldly. He calls for Anthony and hands him my leash. “Take Giovanni down to the shore. My brother and I need to talk in private.”

I assume Master intends to correct Sir’s behavior without me present. He’s careful about what my psyche can endure, and name-calling is especially distressing to me.

It’s slow-going crawling through the soft sand on my hands and knees and the plug makes it doubly awkward, but I manage. Kneeling uncomfortably at the water’s edge I watch the men argue. Sir gestures wildly and tugs at his hair, such a passionate man. Master maintains his impeccably cool demeanor, though I can tell he’s displeased too. Their argument goes on for a while, and just when I think they might come to blows, Master says something that seems to take the fight out of Sir entirely. Now Sir seems to be questioning Master and listening more intently. The men glance over at me as if I might be eavesdropping on their conversation, but all I can hear are the waves crashing and the surf murmuring seductively as it tugs at my limbs. Anthony sort of shuffles around and looks at me like he wants to say something but then doesn’t. It would be pointless with the gag anyway. Silver linings, I suppose.

After another twenty minutes or so, Sir stands up to leave, glancing at me once more with a pitying look before stalking off. Master calls for Anthony to return me to his keep. Once back, Master removes the gag and wipes my cum-crusted chin with a damp cloth, which by now has collected particles of sand as well. I’m glad for the relief because my jaw was starting to ache, and my mouth is gritty with sand. The gag isn’t meant for long-term use, which makes me think Master was doing it to prove a point to Sir, more so than me.

“Sir looked upset,” I say to Master after he makes me rinse my mouth out and drink a full bottle of water.

“Yes, he was. He doesn’t agree with the way I handle my schiavo.”

“I’ve tried to explain it to him.”

“I’m sure that you have, tesoro, even though that’s not your job.”

“Are you angry at me?” None of the things Master has done to me are new or even out of the ordinary, but I can’t help but feel he’s taking my misconduct a little too personal.

“Why would I be angry with you?” Master asks, his eyebrows dipping in concern.

“Because I didn’t follow the rules, because when Sir touched me, I liked it. And because I didn’t think about you every minute of every day.”

I feel so bad then because even if I didn’t technically do anything wrong, it still feels like I did. Master pulls me into his arms and holds me tight. “You did nothing wrong, Giovanni,” Master assures me. “It is your Master who stayed away for too long. You did exactly as I asked, and I’m so very proud of you. I’ve come back to find you healthy and happy, and that’s all that I wanted. Your Sir has a lot to learn about our lifestyle and I will address that with him directly. Now, what have I told you before about the talk between men?”

“That it is not this slave’s concern.”

“That’s right. Let me handle your Sir, and you worry about pleasing your Master. That is the only thing I ask of this slave right now.”

This is not my problem to fix. Master knows what to do and he’ll take care of it, like always.

I talkto Rebekah about it later that week. I’ve been keeping up with my weekly therapy appointments since leaving New York. Like Master, she’s been supportive in my explorations with Sir. She says she understands my need for safety and security, and while the reasons I’ve wanted to limit my interactions with society and especially strangers these past few years are valid, she thinks that broadening my social circle is a step in the right direction. She even mentioned that it might be time for me to make some friends. That word, “friend” leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, but I try to let it go.

“Rico is my friend,” I tell her. His number is now programmed into my phone. We’ve spoken on occasion, and I’ve talked to his wife Gabriela a few times too. They’re back in New York and have opened an Italian restaurant that I suspect Master helped finance. Master rewards loyalty in his employees, and I’m happy that Rico’s chosen a less risky profession. Master says the food is delicious, especially the beef braciola, and he’ll take me there next time we visit New York.

“What about Anthony?” she asks.

I groan, then feel a little bad about it. Luckily, he’s not hovering at the moment. “I’m trying really hard to like Anthony, but he says the dumbest shit sometimes.” Rebekah chuckles at that and I ask her, “Can I count Sir as my friend?”

“I’d like your friends to be people you are not sexually intimate with. People who can offer you an outside perspective on things, related or unrelated to your lifestyle.”

After this exchange, which is something of a warmup, I get into the crux of my problems.

“Sir and Master are fighting,” I tell her. I explain to her the tension between the men and their attitude toward each other, which has been frosty as of late. Master has not offered my services to Sir, which is just as well since Sir hardly looks at me when we’re in each other’s company. It upsets me because Sir was more than happy to fuck me when we first met, before he even knew me, so what does it mean that he doesn’t want to fuck me now? That once he learned I have thoughts and feelings like anyone else, I’m suddenly a person where I wasn’t one before?

I tell Rebekah this and that it reminds me of the Fifth Avenue party that one of my “friends” was hosting when I blacked out and they passed me around as a dare. All of a sudden because I wasn’t in control, because I couldn’t say no, I was no longer a person. Whatever Master and I do together—no matter how degrading it may appear to others—it is always with my consent.

“It sounds like this shifting dynamic between you and Sir is bringing up a lot of residual feelings you may have about that time in your life, and the ways in which your trust and your body were violated.”

One of the things I appreciate about Rebekah is her ability to speak clinically about such matters, because I don’t want to go into a panic spiral or a demon tantrum every time the subject comes up.

“I feel betrayed by Sir, and I feel like I’ve caused a rift between Master and his brother. Master says it’s not my fault, but I can’t help but feel guilty.”

“Tell me, Giovanni, what is it that you feel guilty about? And try to be specific.”

I tell her some of the reasons for my guilt, breaking Master’s rules, the tarnishing of my virtues, and the pleasure I took from a man who was not my Master. The fact that Sir doesn’t get why I would submit to Master in the way that I do. The remorse I feel because I can’t seem to make him understand.

“You care about what your Sir thinks of you,” Rebekah says.

“Yes.”

“You want him to like you, as a person and as a lover?”

The last word makes me a little uncomfortable, but I respond affirmatively.

“Tell me, Giovanni, and try to be really honest with yourself, have you developed feelings for your Sir?”

I close my eyes and imagine Atlas with the weight of the world on his shoulders. I feel similar because this is at the root of my guilt and shame. “I’m feeling conflicted, Rebekah. I’m used only serving only my Master, but I’ve become… accustomed to Sir’s way of doing things and I don’t want to lose him… as a friend.” Regardless of how Rebekah defines “friend,” it feels much safer than “lover.”

“You need to share these feelings with your Master. He needs to know the depth of your emotions for your Sir. Knowing that will help him formulate a plan.”

“What if Master leaves me because of it?” I don’t think Master would do that to me, but one can never be completely sure.

“Consider all of the ways you serve your Master, all the ways in which you are devoted to him, and all of the sacrifices you make, large and small, every day to make him happy. Knowing that, do you really think he would leave you for being honest about your feelings?

“Probably not,” I say, somewhat reluctantly. This is also why I really hate talking to Rebekah. Because she’s almost always right. I tell her this too and she chuckles.

“I know talking about your feelings is uncomfortable and sometimes scary, but I believe you can do it. I believe in you, Giovanni,” she says.

“All right, Rebekah, this slave knows when he’s being flattered into doing something he doesn’t want to do.”

“That’s because this slave is one smart cookie.”

Sir is goingto visit his mother in Naples for a couple of weeks. Master informs me of this one morning over breakfast. I ask if he will come back.

“Of course, he’ll come back, Giovanni. This is his home.”

Master watches me with his calculating stare, waiting for me to say something else or accidentally reveal myself, but I don’t. It’s true that I’m scared of what he might do, but not in the way you might think. Master won’t hurt me non-consensually, but he might reject me or love me less, and either of those would be far worse.

We go for a swim in the ocean and then take a stroll into town for some fresh bread and produce for tonight’s dinner. We pass by the gelateria and I tell Master about the stracciatella ice cream Sir made me try. Master asks if I’d like to get some now, and I do.

While I’m eating my cone under the shade of the awning where Sir and I used to sit, I think about the rituals and routines we established during our time together. While Master was gone, Sir was in my presence nearly all the time, even if we were both just sharing space. He was a great source of comfort as well as entertainment, and though he has a lot to learn about the lifestyle, I’d like to think he has the capacity to understand.

And then I think about his early morning cuddles and the kissy noises he makes and all his teasing remarks and stupid catch phrases, and while I know he’ll come back and this is indeed his home, I just can’t help but miss him.

“Giovanni, what’s wrong?” Master asks. My ice cream is melting, and my eyes are wet with tears.

“This slave is not demonstrating gratitude.”

“In what way, tesoro?”

In all ways, I think.

“I’m grateful that you’ve come back to me, and I cherish our rituals and routines. I feel better just knowing you’re nearby and that you’ll enforce our rules, but I miss Silvio, and I feel bad that he’s hurting, and I don’t know what’s wrong with me because I’ve never felt this… this torn before.”

Master takes my hand, offers me a soft, knowing smile, and says, “There’s nothing wrong with you, Giovanni. You have simply fallen in love.”