Master’s Schiavo by Laura Lascarso
16
The ancient Greeks have eight different words for love and each one means something slightly different: Eros, sexual passion; Philia, deep friendship; Ludus, playful love; Mania, obsessive love; Agape, charitable love; Pragma, longstanding love; Storge, familial love; and Philautia, love of thy self
I scour Master’s study to find all of the books that I can relating to these loves, and I interrogate my own feelings for Master and for Sir. I examine how my love for Master has changed over time, from a kind of familial love to an obsessive love that sometimes borders on mania. I think about Sir and his playful love that blooms into sexual passion when he touches me.
I read journal studies that reduce love to a simple exchange of endorphins meant to foster reproduction, and I read the Romantic poets’ take on the subject. I talk to Master about my findings and recite for him some of my favorite poems. Master listens to my musings with that same soft, knowing smile until I demand that he too, explain himself.
“It’s a beautiful thing to see, Giovanni,” he says.
“What’s that, Master?”
“You’re mooning, tesoro.”
This frustrates me because it seems a strange reaction from Master to slave, and what does it mean that Master isn’t more upset? Doesn’t he love me, desire me, want to keep me all to himself?
“Why aren’t you jealous, Master? Why aren’t you feeling possessive of this slave, who is your property?”
He puts a steadying hand on my arm, and my anxiety immediately starts to dissipate. “If it were anyone else, I would, but my brother and I share a father. We share property and a business. I love my brother, I trust my brother, and I know that your heart is big enough to hold us both.”
Master is sometimes romantic, in his own way.
After that conversation, I read more about the love a parent has for a child and how when another child comes along, their love for the first one isn’t diminished, it simply grows. Being an only child, I’m not sure that I trust it. I also didn’t have the best example in mothers. But my father, what I remember of him, loved me, as did my grandfather. Still, the question remains: is Master’s love for me reduced by sharing me with Sir? Is what we have less special if I’m giving myself to another man?
In between my mooning, following Master’s rules, and sticking to our routines, Master suggests that I might like to get a job.
“Is Master no longer satisfied with what this slave contributes to the household?” I ask, getting my dander up.
“Giovanni,” Master says with a frown. “Why do you assume the worst of me? I only suggested it as a way for you to meet people and make friends.”
“Anthony is my friend.” I glance over to find he looks as surprised as me. “Have you been talking to Rebekah?” I know we have client confidentiality and Rebekah would never share the things I tell her with Master, but the timing is just uncanny.
“Rebekah suggested it too?” he asks. “Then you know it must be a good idea.”
Master doesn’t pressure me any more than that, merely suggests that while on our regular strolls around town, I might want to peruse my options and see if anything interests me.
It seems I’m not the only one who doesn’t want to leave the nest, as Anthony—diversified as his roles have become—will now be staying on indefinitely. His tasks range from driving Master and me places to managing the household and the people Master brings in to clean and care for the property. I think Anthony has fallen in love with the island and perhaps one of its inhabitants, a pretty Italian woman with big eyes and a bright smile that I once saw him canoodling with in town.
It’s going on three weeks when Sir finally returns. We’re at the beach even though it’s starting to get colder when Sir approaches from his own property farther down the shore. He’s like a sexy mirage slowly coming into focus with his thick hair blowing in the wind and his shirt unbuttoned to his navel. I wade out of the water where I’ve been swimming and kneel at Master’s side like a dutiful slave. I don’t know the proper protocol now for greeting Sir, so I’ll wait to take Master’s lead.
The brothers embrace and Master tells him he looks well, which he does, tanned and rested and without the brooding, angry disposition that he had three weeks ago. “Giovanni,” Master says. “How do you greet your Sir?”
I’m shy now, in the days and weeks we’ve been apart, but when Sir opens his arms, I stand up and sort of, fall into them. He smells like saltwater and sweat and faintly of the diesel fumes from his boat and the grease that sometimes stains his fingers from working on the engine. He nests his nose deep in my hair, and says, “Hello, princess, I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too, Sir.” I am shaky as a foal in his arms, but Sir holds me steady.
It’sover dinner that Master says to me, “Silvio and I have been talking about a lot of things lately, most of which are not the concern of this slave. But one of the ways in which we thought we might be able to mend fences is for Sir to demonstrate his willingness to understand our dynamic by participating in another scene.”
Master’s retraining has been grueling, and most of the time we’ve spent in the playroom has been focused on reminding me of my virtues. The possibility of flying with both Master and Sir is as exciting as it is nerve-wracking. But Sir was not very charitable toward this slave the last time I saw him.
“Has Sir’s opinion on this slave’s worth suddenly changed?” I ask tartly, and I catch Master smirking.
“I’d like to learn,” Sir says, looking at me intently. “If you’ll let me, princess.”
“This slave resents being referred to as a ‘brainwashed fuck doll,’” I say, wishing to address it directly. For better or worse, I tend to remember every slight against me.
“I don’t think that, Giovanni. I let my jealousy get the better of me,” Sir says in a rare demonstration of vulnerability. “I’m sorry for my behavior and that I hurt your feelings.”
Master watches me react to Sir’s words. I’d like to play coy, but my desire is simply too transparent. “Giovanni?” Master asks.
“This slave only wishes to serve,” I tell them with a demure dip of my head and to make it crystal-clear, “to serve both my Master and my Sir.”
“Same rules and limits apply?” Master asks and we both agree. I’m dismissed shortly thereafter to prepare myself, and it takes extra concentration for me to focus, because I’m vibrating with anticipation and my cock simply will not behave. I pointedly avoid touching or even looking at it. Master better not cage me.
Once I’m properly positioned on my pillow in the dungeon, the men enter and, much like before, peruse Master’s offerings in muffled tones. It seems they are discussing what to do with me, and if ever there was a time that I wished I had supersonic hearing, this is it.
Master offers me his hand first and then Sir strokes my head. The significance is so much more this time because it feels like an olive branch being extended. Sir knows, as he should have always known, that I am a person, not just a body to be fucked and discarded, and knowing this, he wishes to make use of me all the same.
Master tells me we’ll be using the cross tonight and asks me to get in position. This could be for the purpose of teasing me or it could be to whip me. The cross is reclined slightly so that I don’t really have to hold on—but it’s nice to have something to grip when the impact becomes nearly unbearable. Master starts in the usual way by groping and massaging me, and while he does it, he explains his method to Sir.
“This is how I become familiar with my sub’s body. I see where he’s holding tension, whether he’s nervous, afraid, or…” he flicks the head of my cock, “excited. This warms the slave or submissive up as well. Through touch, you tell them that their Dominant is taking over. With a very new sub or in a new D/s relationship, this might be all that you do.”
Patience is Master’s virtue, but it is not always mine, especially not tonight.
Master demonstrates the flogger next, tenderizing my flesh with a steady rain of lashes on my back, thighs, and buttocks until I can feel my pulse throbbing just under my skin. I encourage him with my moans and whimpers of gratitude.
“Not all subs like pain,” Master says, “but for those who do, they tend to really like it. We call this type of masochist a pain slut, which Giovanni is, though I seldom call him that because he finds it demeaning.”
This is true. I would let Master call me whatever he wanted, but he avoids degrading language as a courtesy.
“What do pain sluts like, Giovanni?” Master asks. I have no idea what others like, but I know what I like.
“They like to be whipped,” I tell him.
“That’s right. Until they are bleeding or crying or both. See, Giovanni has a high threshold for pain and when he goes into subspace, he’s very hard to reach. I also like inflicting pain, which makes for a difficult situation when we’re both excited. The intent is to hurt but not harm, a fine line that a good sadist must straddle.”
Master has whipped me until I’ve bled before, and though I think he felt bad about it later, it was the closest I’ve ever felt to God.
But I get the sense that he doesn’t want to scare Sir, so Master transitions to the leather strop, a simple tool and one of my favorites. Less scary than the bullwhip and less painful than the cane. Master strikes me a few times to warm me up, then increases the pressure to send me drifting. Not flying this time, but a kind of heady rush that makes me feel slightly elevated from what is happening. His rhythmic voice in relaying his technique to Sir is a steady backdrop to the punctuated blows he’s inflicting. My back and buttocks continue to be licked and bitten by the leather until they are singing. Master then squeezes my muscles where he’s worked me over, putting his own bruising fingerprints on my skin.
“This will look beautiful tomorrow,” Master says. “Won’t it, schiavo?”
“Yes, Master.” I think of the folder of pictures Master keeps in his big mahogany desk, taken after some of our more intense scenes. Master likes to look at them while I suck him off or reminisce about them with me, the way in which some married couples speak about their honeymoon.
Sir asks some questions about what Master gets out of this experience, which Master answers, echoing my own explanation of his particular brand of sadism, then Master adjusts the cross so that I’m bent in half. I widen my stance as an invitation to make use of my hole. Master doesn’t stretch me with anything but his lubed cock, hot and heavy inside me. He wants to make sure that even as I drift, I might still feel his penetration.
“There we are,” Master says with a slow sigh of appreciation once he’s fully seated, like falling into bed after a long day of toil. This is what I want to be for my Master and my Sir, a sanctuary for them to retreat from the pressures of being men, a safe place where they know they will be worshipped and adored as gods.
“Is he all right?” Sir asks because I’m still in that floaty place and not really responding. Master smacks my tender ass, and I groan out my pleasure.
“You learn over time what’s normal for your sub,” Master says, spreading my ass cheeks, probably so that he can watch his cock drill deeper inside me. “Giovanni is loose right now because he’s in his happy place. I could stuff an eggplant inside of him and he wouldn’t complain. This is also why you must be careful not to take advantage, because a sub is most vulnerable at this stage, and they don’t always have the wherewithal to safeword.”
Their talk fades away while Master seeks his pleasure, making use of my hole until he finishes inside me with a hefty grunt. I haven’t come yet, as I’ve tried to avoid rubbing my dick against the vinyl. Master has caught onto what I’m doing.
“He’s waiting for you,” Master says and tugs roughly on my stiff cock. “He wants to come while you breed him.”
“I like that,” Sir says. “This can be my rule, no?”
“You can make rules with your own sub. Giovanni follows his Master’s rules.”
A stab of jealousy assaults me at the idea of Sir taking a sub, but it is soon burned away by the sensation of Sir mounting me. I’ve become accustomed to his girth, but it still takes a few deep breaths and Master’s firm hand pressing between my shoulder blades to orient me.
“Color?” Master asks because he doesn’t know what’s normal now between Sir and me.
“Green.”
“Relax, tesoro,” Master reminds, and this is the encouragement I need to fully submit to Sir.
I drift again, feeling like an animal that’s been skinned and is lying only in its flesh. Sir takes his sweet time as always, making me whimper and groan as I wordlessly beg him to pick up the pace and fuck me like he means it. Finally, he does, collecting his righteous due with every bruising stroke. He yanks me back toward him by my hair so he can penetrate me deeper, lifting me onto the balls of my feet to hollow me out completely.
“You like this, Giovanni?” Sir asks in between the wet slap of his groin against my ass cheeks.
“Yesshh,” I slur only to realize I am also drooling.
“Then show me. Come for me, princess. You first.”
Sir grabs my cock and twists his palm over the head of it rapidly like it’s a doorknob he’s frantically trying to open. I shudder and clench around him as the pleasure ricochets through me in body-slamming waves. I’m caught in a riptide, being carried away by it, and I must simply wait for the ecstasy to release me before I’m able to stand again. When my breath and my sanity return, Sir is bent over me, his weight resting heavily on my back while he pants into my ear, “Bellissimo, Giovanni. Grazie.”
“Prego, Signore.”