Master’s Schiavo by Laura Lascarso
18
This slave is spoiled rotten. Between Master’s firm hand and Sir’s loving touch, I wonder if I’ve died and gone to Heaven. I am proud of Sir’s efforts at learning domination and Master’s ability to translate his deep well of understanding of the lifestyle to his younger brother.
We have several more scenes, and a few more punishments. I’m angelic, but I’m no angel, especially with the way I like to tease Sir and test his virtues. Sir begins to adopt what I call a Dom voice with me, and I shiver and nearly wet my pants whenever I hear it. I suspect he knows this too and uses it to his advantage, but even without the voice, I’d give Sir whatever he wanted.
Master continues to design and choreograph our sessions, demonstrating the breadth of his knowledge and expertise, and Sir begins to take a more active role. For cuddling afterward, that is Sir’s arena almost exclusively. My favorite scenes are when they share me or when I must please them both, alternating or at once. With Sir as part of our dynamic and our household, he’s free to make use of me whenever he desires, which means the kissy noise is back, and I spend a lot of time on my knees. Like Anthony once did, Master marvels at my appetite for dick.
It’s a strange phenomenon to be shared like this, passed from arm to arm, cock to cock, servicing one man and then the other. And brothers, no less. I feel like Persephone, torn from Demeter’s bosom to be subjugated under Hades’ passions, only to return to her mother and find herself both desecrated and self-aware.
Most nights I fall asleep in Sir’s arms and wake up with Master. I become so comfortable taking orders from both men, that I occasionally mix up their titles. I’m in such a blissful state of mind that even Anthony is growing on me.
One afternoon while we’re lounging in the steam room after a swim, Master blindfolds me and he and Sir take turns, passing me back and forth until I’m cum-drunk and can hardly stand. They are relentless in their passions, and I take back what I said about Atlantis. I’d like to spend an eternity in Master’s steam room, getting plugged on both ends. I wouldn’t even need my limbs or my eyes, just a mouth and hole to be used for their pleasure. As the Gods fed on ambrosia, I will feed on Fortuna cum.
“Don’t you ever get a vacation?” Anthony says to me as I emerge from the cave on wobbly knees with cum dripping from both my mouth and my anus. Master and Sir dismissed me to wash for dinner and so they might have one of their Dom-to-Dom debriefs.
“Anthony.” I shake my head and lay a hand on his shoulder. “Why would anyone want a vacation from this?”
“You can hardly stand after taking all that dick,” he says.
“Yes,” I nod, illuminated from the inside. This slave is covetous indeed.
One morningI wake to find myself still in Sir’s arms. It’s alarming at first because no matter what we’ve gotten up to the night before, I always wake up to Master. I search his suite of rooms, but he’s not on the chaise or in his study either.
“Master?” I call through the large corridors, feeling like a lost lamb.
“In the kitchen, Giovanni.”
I enter the kitchen to find Master preparing breakfast. “That’s my job.” I don’t like to break from routine, and I want to be useful around the house for more than just sex.
“I thought I’d let you sleep in. Your Sir used you hard last night.”
Sir, intrepid Sir, designed a series of compression postures for me to perform, ones that tested my flexibility, strength, and endurance. He said he got the idea from watching me do my Sun Salutations. Then, with my limbs and muscles trembling with fatigue, he put me in the swing and fucked me deep and slow in Sir’s own special way.
There is a certain rigidity in the set of Master’s shoulders, so I ask, “Is there something you’d like to tell this slave? Some correction you’d like to make?” Master rarely gets jealous, but I would understand if he did.
“We’ll discuss it at breakfast. Can you please go wake your Sir?”
Sir is a deep sleeper, but he is still only a man, and it isn’t long before I’m able to drag him, stumbling and smiling, out of the bedroom and plant him in his seat at the other head of the table. Master pulls out my chair for me and I join them there.
It takes Sir a little while to wake up, usually after his first espresso, but when he finally does, Master says, “I have some news.”
I place my utensils on the table and give him my full attention.
“I was able to find someone to help you finish your training,” Master says to Sir. “In Milan.”
Milan?Milan is… at least nine hours away by ferry and train. Or a plane ride at the very least. Sir glances over at me, looking guilty. This is the first I’m hearing about it. Is this what they’ve been discussing in their Dom-to-Dom debriefs?
“Finish?” I ask meekly.
“Sir has kinks that extend beyond our limits, Giovanni. Specifically, bondage. He needs to train with an expert to, shall we say, learn the ropes.”
Master is trying to make light of the situation but it’s not helping. In fact, he’s making it worse. I glare at Sir, feeling hurt and betrayed and a little bit guilty too because it’s my fault he can’t learn bondage with Master.
“I could try,” I tell them.
“Giovanni,” Master says in a placating tone, “I appreciate your willingness to serve, but Sir would not benefit from a skittish sub, and I’m also not willing to compromise your mental health for the sake of a demonstration.”
“But…” I glance between them, caught in a sudden panic at the prospect that Sir will leave again. It is not this slave’s virtue to make demands, but I just can’t help it. “I don’t want Sir to go.”
“I’ll come back,” Sir says, trying to appease me, but Master cuts him off.
“This slave must remember their place is to serve and be grateful for what is given to him. My goal, and yours too, Giovanni, should be to make Sir the best Dominant he can be. This is not a reflection on you or myself, simply a matter of course. I understand your feelings of attachment, but Silvio has the chance to train with a shibari Master. Would you deny him this opportunity?”
“Yes,” I grumble. Absolutely. This slave is not feeling very charitable.
“Excuse me?” Master says.
“I would deny him,” I say defiantly, knowing there will be consequences but not caring in the least. “I don’t want him to go, and I don’t care about his training. I want him to stay here with me.” I nearly say, he’s mine, but I stop myself.
“Princess—” Sir begins but Master halts him with a raised hand.
“Giovanni, go to your box until I come for you.”
“I don’t want to be alone,” I snarl at him.
“Then stand in the corner and reflect on what you’ve just said to me in front of your Sir. We’ll talk in private after breakfast.”
I get up with attitude and shove my chair back from the table without bothering to tuck it under. I want to break something, smash all the dishes, but this is not the demons. This is all me.
Only once I’ve been fuming in the corner for several minutes do I realize just how selfish I’m being, how greedy and lustful. I try to manifest Epictetus’ teachings to accept and embrace the temporality of all things. I’ve had a perfect couple of months with two men who, if not love me, truly cherish me, and I’m acting like a spoiled brat.
All I can say is that Master’s last lesson to Sir is how to properly humble a slave.
Sir is awayin Milan and Master and I fall back into our familiar routines. It’s reassuring to me after such a tumultuous season. I earn a few more privileges—a smart phone that allows me to communicate with Sir via text as well as send pictures. Master says I’m not permitted to call him because he needs to focus on his training. He also says my obsession with sending Sir the most perfect picture of myself is both adorable and very vain, but he doesn’t make any attempts to curb my conceit.
I suppose that I do moon a little. I’ve been playing a lot of Brahms on the piano, which is something of a tell. To help me deal with the separation, Master suggests again that I get a job, and I agree to poke around in earnest. We wind up in a stationary shop that’s owned by a man older than my Master, and when I tell Master my intentions to apply for work, he teases me that I must have a grandpa fetish. That might be true, as I’ve always gravitated toward older men because I appreciate the sense of calm and stability they provide.
I’ve never had a job before, and I don’t do very well in my interview, but Signor Maggio agrees to hire me anyway. Unfortunately, I turn out to be pretty terrible at it. I get shy whenever customers come in and easily overwhelmed by their questions. I’m much better at stocking shelves and organizing inventory. Signor Maggio is patient with me, though. And when Master suggests that I bring in my cello and play for the customers when I need a timeout, Signor Maggio agrees. Then, at least when I’m not “working,” I’m still providing a service.
My playing is so well-received that Signor Maggio sometimes stations me outside to lure in customers, and the café next door seems to appreciate my music as well, and the owner invites me to play on Friday and Saturday nights. When they learn I play piano too, a dance studio asks me to accompany some of the dancers during their recital performances. And one of the Catholic churches asks me to play piano for Sunday mass, which I do for free because I really don’t need the money.
And that’s how I become something of the island troubadour, which suits me far better than customer service. Signor Maggio even looks a little relieved when I tell him I can’t work for the store anymore because of all my regular gigs.
It’s only after I resign from the stationary-selling business that it occurs to me to ask Master, “Did you pay Signor Maggio to employ me?”
Master smiles benevolently and says, “While I may have subsidized your employment in the beginning, I don’t anymore.”
Maybe I should be mad about it, but I chalk it up to being one of the many ways in which Master takes care of me.
And the nice thing about being the town troubadour is that Master can attend most of my performances, which I know he enjoys. It’s not to supervise me but because I ask him to be there. I play with more confidence when I know he’s listening, and he delights too in the praise people give me. I am a reflection of my Master’s virtues.
I make a couple of friends, all elderly. I like old people, so sue me. But now that I’m in with the church ladies, I get all sorts of pound cakes and ricotta pies. They also think Master is my uncle. Anthony started the rumor, probably the most intelligent thing he’s ever done, and I call Master by his first name in public. Master pays his staff well to be discreet, so it might be a while before they realize any different. In any case, I’ve had to tell my church lady friends that I’m considering priesthood in order to mitigate their many invitations to meet their granddaughters.
When I tell Master this, he just laughs and laughs.
For my birthday, Master takes me to visit Pompeii, and when I prompt him about the many pieces of erotic art that were discovered within the ruins and have since been restored, he suggests we go to Naples Secret Museum, which has been opened and shuttered over the years depending on the prevailing “morality” of the time. It’s where they keep the good stuff, and I highly recommend a visit. Here you will find a marble sculpture of the well-hung satyr named Pan ass-fucking a goat that rivals Bernini’s statues, a fresco of a nymph shoving her entire fist into a satyr’s mouth, countless depictions of the god Priapus, known for the colossal size of his cock, and an entire room of dicks mounted on the walls. There’s also a collection of tiny terracotta men with obscenely huge pricks that pour oil from their slits, the purpose for what I can only assume is ass-fucking. There’s so much blatant homoeroticism on display that I marvel at how sexual intimacy between males was once so revered by a culture that they carved it in marble and stone. So much of it was lost or destroyed because of shifting attitudes and toxic masculinity, and it makes me sad.
I share this with Master and he says, “You are an old soul, Giovanni. Practically ancient.”
“Would you have taken me as your eromenos?” I ask, referring to the Greek custom of pederasty, where a man mentored an older adolescent boy in both philosophy and sexuality as he transitioned into manhood.
“At the proper age of consent, yes,” Master says, always so careful to draw that distinction.
“Would you have lavished me with gifts and courted me in the way of freeborn men?” I ask, harkening back to my knowledge of the practice.
“Don’t I do that every day?” Master teases. “I would have pursued you ruthlessly and claimed you in front of my countrymen as I did at your collaring ceremony.”
“Like the beautiful Ganymede, abducted by the gods to serve as Zeus's cup-bearer in Olympus.”
“We both know you’d be doing much more than pouring my cup, as I’m sure Zeus made good use of his cup-bearer as well.”
Give it to Master to make me squirm and blush in a room full of dicks.
I take a picture of a bronze fountain of a boy kneeling with his thighs spread and chest thrust forward, head tilted back spurting water from his mouth. It reminds me of our trysts in the steam room. I send it to Sir without any explanation, and he replies with, don’t be cruel, princess.
The sexual high is dizzying, and Master and I are not back in our hotel room for even two minutes before he’s fucking my mouth and then my ass with vigor. As I’m bent over the bed, licking my cum from his fingers like a cat, I say to him, “Master, what happened to your virtue of patience?”
Master laughs with the heartiness of a man half his age and spanks me for good measure.
Oh, and I get that red convertible too.
Master’s birthdayis only a few days later. He’s a Scorpio too you see, which accounts for some of our obsessive tendencies toward each other and our mutual pursuit of sexual pleasure, not to mention the circling we do on occasion, pincers at the ready waiting to see if the other will strike. It’s also why Master must be so strict with me because Scorpios can smell weakness a mile away and exploit it to our advantage.
I’ve planned something special for Master. I got the idea a few weeks ago when I was helping clean out the church attic for a charity drive, and I found an antique and extremely ornate frame. I got someone on the island to restore it for me and stain it in gold. I enlisted Anthony to go shopping for the necessary produce and then staged the scene in Master’s dungeon where I was able to manipulate the lighting just so.
When Master enters for his birthday surprise, I’m standing behind the suspended gold frame, draped loosely in white fabric so that my shoulder is bare while holding a basket of ripe, luscious fruits. My lips are painted pink with gloss and parted slightly to emulate the model in Master’s favorite Caravaggio painting, Boy with a Basket of Fruit.
Master is delighted, I can tell. He demands Anthony bring him his camera and after he’s taken several photographs, dismisses him almost immediately. He observes me from a few angles. Only my eyes shift to follow his movement as I try to properly capture the sexual yearning of Caravaggio’s boy.
“This is magnificent, Giovanni,” Master says.
“Would you like to sample my bounty, Master?” I ask, trying to stay in character.
Master plucks a grape from its bundle and chews it slowly. He selects another for me and places it carefully in my mouth. I make sure to lick his fingers as he’s feeding me. The fruit pops, and its sweetness pours down my throat.
“Where are you from, young man?” Master asks.
“I’m a simple country peasant new to the city. A street vendor suggested I might be able to sell my wares to a distinguished older gentleman. A Master who might wish to offer me his patronage in exchange for my services.”
“Patronage,” Master murmurs with a salacious smile.
“I hope he’ll be gentle with me, though. You see, I’m not very learned in the ways of men.”
Master shakes his head slowly, hardly able to contain his delight. He loves this sort of taunting. “You have overwhelmed me, Giovanni. I don’t know what I’d like to do to you first.”
“What did you want to do to the boy in the painting?” I’m sure that a man with Master’s sexual appetite must have fantasized about it before.
“So many things,” Master murmurs.
I expect that he’ll take me there in his dungeon and dominate me using some implement that will make me wail and cry (since it is his birthday), but instead he leads me back to his bedroom and lays me on his pristine bed with the basket of fruit nearby. He slowly unwraps the white drape I’ve used to cover myself until I’m lying naked before him like a bride on her wedding night.
“Who knew country boys could be so beautiful and soft?” Master says as his hand skates lightly along the side of my ribs and drifts over my stomach.
“I wasn’t much for farming,” I admit. “More the lute-playing type.”
Master smiles, enjoying our little game. “And you say you’ve never had a man’s touch before?”
“No, Master. I’ve been waiting for a strong, mature man to show me what my body can do. Someone with a firm hand.”
Master plays with one of my nipple rings, as he often does when he’s contemplating my subjugation. “Well, beautiful boy, I’m not sure you chose the right man as your patron.”
“Why’s that?”
He reaches into the basket and picks up a ripe round nectarine, a blushing pink color. “You see this piece of fruit?” I nod, hypnotized already by his deep Dominant voice. Master crushes it in his fist until the juice runs down his wrist and splashes onto the valley of my stomach. His thumb dips into my navel and collects the liquid, then paints my lips with it. I lap at his fingers greedily, getting every last sticky drop.
“This is what I want to do to your lovely, virginal body,” Master says. When he opens his fist, the nectarine is mangled and bruised, its pink skin torn to reveal the plush golden fruit underneath. “I want to ruin you, young man, inside and out, and I expect it will take me a very long time to get it just right.”
“Yes,” I nod, already getting that delicious squirmy feeling that is both fear and arousal at what he intends to do.
Master’s smile is depraved as he looks me over. “Well, happy fucking birthday to me.”
Hours later after Master has used only the implements God gave him—hands, teeth, and nails—he sits me between his legs at the edge of the bed so that I may gaze into his mirrors and see his version of Boy with a Basket of Fruit.
“What do you think, Giovanni?” he asks. There are scratches everywhere except for my face and bruises already beginning to bloom across my ribs and chest from Master digging into them with his strong fingertips. They form a Rorschach pattern that will be even more vibrant tomorrow. My lower lip is torn where Master bit me, and my genitals are similarly red and swollen from his pinches and slaps to match the ripeness of the fruit in my basket, my punishment for tempting a man with such dark passions. “Have I sufficiently cured you of your curiosity about a man’s touch?”
I touch the tender constellation of bruises, then reach between my legs to feel where my abused hole still gapes, dripping his seed.
“No one will ever hurt me the way you do,” I say with some regret as I catch his eye in the mirror. “Will they, Master?”
He kisses my neck and my shoulder, staring at me with the bottomless hunger of an addict, at once so familiar and so comforting. “I don’t know, tesoro. All I know is that what we have is very, very special. And very potent.”
Master’s hand drifts again to my neck where he gently squeezes.
“Do you ever fantasize about killing me?” Master has killed several people and I can only hope that, like the scum my mother forced upon me, they all deserved it. I seldom think about it, my Master’s capacity for murder, except in rare moments like these.
“I love you too much to ever harm you like that,” Master says, loosening his hold on my throat and kissing the side of my head. “And if you ever did that to yourself, Giovanni, I would never forgive you. You would break my heart and hurt me like no one else ever has. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Tell me the words, schiavo. I wish to hear them.”
“This body is a temple that belongs to my Master, meant for his pleasure, to be defiled and violated only by him. It is this slave’s sacred obligation to take good care of themselves because they are Master’s most precious possession.”
“That’s right, tesoro, only I’m allowed to hurt you.”
Even more than his gifts and acts of devotion, this is how I know my Master truly loves me.