Master’s Schiavo by Laura Lascarso
19
I’m in position on my velvet pillow, awaiting Master’s attentions, when the hand that cups my face begins to tremor.
“Master.” I look up at him with concern. “What’s wrong?”
He studies his trembling hand as if it has betrayed him and says, “must be my adrenaline.”
That’s understandable. I often tremble before and during scenes. Even so, the moment is a little unsettling because I’m so used to Master being steady in all things.
“Have you been to the doctor lately?” I ask him the next morning over breakfast.
“I saw Dr. Greyson before I left New York and had my yearly bloodwork done.”
“And?”
“My blood pressure and cholesterol looked good, and my heart is surely benefiting from your strict diet.”
The last bit is said teasingly, as Master sometimes complains about my habit of steering him away from buttery pastas and red meat to fish and grilled chicken and steamed vegetables. Even still, I review his medications more closely to make sure there are no additions or subtractions. I’ve gotten so comfortable doling out the pills according to their color and shape that I haven’t paid much attention lately to what Master is taking, I’m reassured to learn they’re all the same medications as before.
A week or so later, Master stumbles while getting out of the shower.
“Master?” I shout, alarmed at what could have been a nasty fall on the unforgiving marble.
“I’m fine, Giovanni,” he says and waves away my concern. “It’s just low blood sugar.”
I make him sit in his recliner and drink an entire glass of orange juice.
“Feeling better?” I ask when he finishes.
“I feel perfect, tesoro. Thank you for your care.”
We’rein Master’s study one afternoon when Sir finally returns. I’m reading Homer’s Iliad and comparing it to the works of Aeschylus, Aeschines, Pindar, and Plato, all of whom allude or outright name the same-sex relationship between Achilles and Patroclus. I’m trying to determine who was the erastes, the lover and protector, and who was the eromenos, the beloved, as the scribes give very conflicting views. It is likely a mystery that will never be solved, but the enjoyment for me is in the research more so than the solution.
Because of my reverie, it takes me a moment to realize Sir is here, standing before me, and the change in him is… remarkable. For a few seconds, I’m simply stunned by his presence, my eyes poring over him like he’s a magnificent marble statue made real. He’s as beautiful as ever, of course, but he has… command. It’s something in his stance and the set of his shoulders, the sense of calm authority he exudes. Sir has always been arrogant, but looking at him now, I think to myself, Sir has mastered pride.
“Hello, princess,” Sir says to me before greeting his own brother and fellow Dominant, which is rude on so many levels, but Sir has never been one for adhering to protocol.
I stand shakily and glance toward Master who only waves his hand in consent. I walk toward Sir and can’t help but drop to my knees and bow before him, prostrating myself before a newly minted Dominant.
My magnificent Sir, the greedy part of my mind whispers, but I put that thought away for now.
“Let me see that pretty face, Giovanni,” Sir says. I raise myself up and he pets my head, taking care to brush the hair off my forehead. Even this gesture seems to exude authority, no longer hesitant or unsure. Sir’s confidence is… thrilling.
“Come up here,” Sir commands and when I offer him my hand, he lifts me to my feet and wraps me in a big, bear hug. “We’ll have to figure out a better greeting,” he says, his warm breath tickling my ear and his strong, masculine scent flooding my nostrils. “Something special just for me, yes?”
“Yes, Sir,” I practically sing.
Master makes his way over, and Sir seems reluctant to let me go. The two men greet each other heartily and I back away to show my respect, but as soon as they’re finished, Sir grabs for me again and together, we go out to the veranda so the men can catch up.
I serve Master and Sir drinks by the pool while Master interrogates Sir on his training. The weather is cooler now, so I wear slippers and a thicker robe that opens in the front and can be easily swept aside or removed altogether. Whenever I roam within Sir’s reach, his hand slides inside the fabric to caress my thigh or my ass or the small of my back. My arousal is so apparent that I worry Master will cage me, but he only seems amused by this slave’s utter lack of modesty and decorum. I’m so distracted by Sir softly stroking my hip that I miss Master’s question altogether.
“Excuse me?” I ask, my heart and mind aflutter.
Master purses his lips and repeats himself, something he seldom does, “I said, are you happy to see your Sir?”
“Yes, Master.” Just in case it wasn’t obvious enough, Sir then gives my stiff cock a playful nudge to make it bounce.
“Seems like it,” Master says.
“I’m sorry, Master. Would you like this slave to go sit on his pillow until I’ve calmed down?”
“No, Giovanni, I blame Sir for this one. I have some business in Roma to handle and I wondered if you might like to spend some time alone with Sir in my absence, reconnecting?”
Of course, I want to spend time with Sir, but since Master has returned to the island, he hasn’t gone anywhere without me. When I first came to live with him in New York, I could only focus on the day ahead of me, and Master would lay out his plans for me at breakfast every morning, including whether he’d be home or away and for how long, and that helped me manage my anxiety. But since then, my horizon has expanded to a little farther into the future, which Rebekah assures me is a step in the right direction.
“How long will you be gone?”
“Only a few days.”
“But you’re coming back?” I ask, needing his confirmation.
Master tilts his head and gives me a look. “Giovanni, what have I told you many, many times before?”
“That you’ll always come back to me.”
“That’s right. So?”
I glance down at Sir who is smiling up at me, charming as ever.
“Does Sir want to spend time reconnecting with this slave, and not just in a supervisory capacity?” I need to know that Sir wants me and isn’t just agreeing to babysit me while Master takes a business trip.
“I’d like to show you some of my new tricks, princess. And some old ones as well.” Sir licks his luscious lips in a lewd way, and I nearly burst into flames right there in the courtyard.
“Then yes, I’d like that very much.”
“You’ll go with Sir to his house,” Master says. “Silvio, what would you like Giovanni to pack?”
Sir reaches inside my robe to pull it back all the way, so that he can look me up and down. Even though it’s chilly outside, I push the robe off my shoulders so that he might inspect me freely, as is his right.
“This robe,” Sir says, “and a pair of socks so your feet don’t get cold.”
Patience has always beena struggle for Sir, so it’s not long after that we’ve tumbled into his bed at what the men refer to as “the boathouse” because it’s much smaller than Master’s manor with only two bedrooms. It has a clean, nautical feel with wood paneling and has been decorated by Sir with artifacts from the sea. I like to think of Sir as a kind of Triton, who are fish-tailed demigods in the service of Poseidon and considered to be the satyrs of the oceans. Lusty, sea-loving Sir whose normal habitat is in the water with tail and scale but adopts the shape of a man on land. We’re similar in our love of the ocean, though I believe Sir seeks to conquer it while I only wish to be held in its comforting embrace.
“I missed you, princess,” Sir says as his hands become reacquainted with my skin. “How was your birthday?” I tell Sir about our visit to Naples and the convertible Master got me. Sir frowns at the mention of my new car. “He spoils you too much. How can I compete?”
“There is no competing with Master,” I remind him. “This slave has the capacity to serve you both. Please don’t try to best your brother on this humble slave’s account.”
“Ah, Giovanni,” he says, shaking his head. “You are too pure for words.”
We wrestle in the bed and Sir kisses me in a feverish way, not only my mouth but bruising my neck and torso with his love bites and hickeys. He spreads my legs to mark my inner thighs as well. He’ll want Master to see them when I return, so that he’ll know I’ve been thoroughly reclaimed by Sir. Try as I might to assure Sir of his importance, I feel powerless in this regard, so I must remind myself that the competition between men is not this slave’s concern. Sir rubs one spit-slick finger against my hole and asks, “Have you been doing your exercises.”
“Yes, Sir, every day, and I thought about you fucking me every time, just like you asked.” It was one of Sir’s rules for me when he left, as a way for me to keep him front and center in my mind, as if I needed any reminders.
“Very good, princess. I can’t wait to be inside you,” he rumbles in my ear, but he makes no attempts to do so because Sir is sometimes a terrible tease. “There is nothing else like it.”
I’m sure there are some things like it. I ask Sir during a break in his attentions, “Did you dominate a lot of subs in your training?”
Sir grins lasciviously. “Are you asking if I fucked other men, princess?”
“Yes.”
“Only as many as it took to bring me back here to you.”
I smirk and shake my head. I imagine Sir with his lusting, arrogant cock being serviced by so many hungry subs. Of course, I’m a little jealous, but my place is here with Master, and I cannot expect a young, virile man with an appetite like Sir’s to be so chaste while he’s away.
“I was safe,” Sir assures me, “And I got tested before leaving Milan. Valentin demanded it.”
“Master takes no chances.”
“How about you?” Sir asks with a dark look. “Have you played with anyone else?”
I shake my head solemnly. “Master doesn’t share me.”
“I know, but I thought that might have changed now that you’ve experimented with me a little.”
“This slave doesn’t like strangers touching him. Only his Master and his Sir.”
Sir’s lips brush across my jaw and he says, very softly, “Can we talk about that, princess?”
I squirm a little in his arms. “Talk about what?”
“Who hurt you.” The playfulness leaves me almost immediately, and I sort of sink down into the bed, reminiscent of that time. Phantoms of being violated in the worst ways pass through my body, cold and stabbing echoes of my trauma.
“I only ask because,” Sir continues as though gentling a horse, “I’d like to play with you, but I don’t want to scare you or hurt you.”
I understand his reasons. Sir wants to restrain me or at least show me some of his ropework. I’ve admired the art of shibari from afar, and I’ve tried a little light bondage with Master, but I couldn’t get past my block. I’d like to make another attempt with Sir, not only for his benefit but because as someone who likes ceding control of my body, it’s something I think I’d enjoy.
So, I tell Sir about the time I was kidnapped, the room where I was kept, which was filthy and reeked of cum, piss, and shit. How I wasn’t really given enough food or water or allowed to go to the bathroom all that much, so that I often wet the bed or defecated on myself. When I speak about this time, I go into a kind of altered state where my tone is flat and unemotional, and I recite the abuse with the detachment necessary to revisit those events. I tell myself, as I often have, that those things happened to Matthew, not me. Matthew is dead, (poor, poor Matthew) and Giovanni is here and safe with Master.
“And when my grandfather refused to pay them the money,” I tell Sir, “my mother’s boyfriend decided that I needed to earn my keep.” It was so they could get money to buy more drugs, that was how he sold it to my mother, at least. She didn’t need much convincing. “So, he handcuffed me to the bed and rented me out, and that’s why I don’t like to be restrained, especially my wrists.” I rub the scars on my wrists, not only from the damage done at the time but because I have cut myself there too, avoiding the vein but getting very, very close. It’s what the demons want, to be released. They are listening now, quietly.
“I had to do physical therapy for a while,” I tell him. “I’m lucky that I can still play the piano and cello and there wasn’t any lasting nerve damage.”
Lucky isn’t the right word exactly, as there is plenty of lasting damage, but one must count their blessings where they can. I used to want to die, and I don’t anymore. So, progress.
Silvio makes a clucking noise in sympathy and draws his thumb along one of my longest scars, the time my demons meant to do away with me for good. By the time I finish, Sir’s sympathetic murmurs have become a kind of lullaby and I fall asleep, which is what my body does when it needs to shut down.
I wakeup with Sir’s meaty arm lying over my chest in a possessive embrace, and I think how far I’ve come in the past few years to welcome this sort of physical touch rather than recoil from it. Master was so cautious in the beginning, slowly earning my trust through habituation. I wonder if that might be why he is at times hesitant to touch me outside of a scene, for fear that I might lash out unexpectedly or curl into a protective ball.
Sir has no such reservations, and I am thankful to my Master for this gift too, to have worked so diligently with me that I am now able to enjoy Sir’s easy affection. I snuggle under him while he slowly wakes. He immediately asks if I’m hungry, most likely because he is. Then he brings us a platter of cheeses, breads, and fruit with Nutella. He dips strawberries in the chocolate spread and feeds me by hand.
“Sir, you spoil me too much,” I say but I eat it all the same.
“Let me spoil you, princess. You deserve it.”
Sir tells me about his ropes Master, a shibari expert man named Sir Santino, who Master found through Sir Keller in NYC. Sir asks me if I’d like to get acquainted with his implement, assuring me that there won’t be any restraining today, and I agree to test it out.
He brings a length of black rope to bed and uses one end of it to make slow, mesmerizing shapes over my skin. The rope is ticklish, especially when he drags it over my stomach and privates.
“It’s so soft,” I remark.
“It’s made of silk,” Sir says in his low, seductive voice. “Very expensive. Only the best for my pretty princess, no?”
“Is this the rope you used to tie up your subs?”
“No, this one’s special for you. It took me a long time to select the perfect one. I think it would look beautiful wrapped around your body, like art.”
Sir has always had a knack for making this slave want to roll over and show their belly. “You want to ensnare me in your net,” I say, thinking of the cast net Sir tosses from the end of his dock to catch bait fish.
“And devour you,” Sir says as he drags the rope over my lips. I open my mouth, and he tucks the end of it inside. I make love to Sir’s rope as I would if it were his cock. Sir’s arousal blooms in front of my very eyes.
“Can I lay this on you and fuck your mouth?” he asks, his breath a throaty rasp.
“Yes, Sir, absolutely.” He doesn’t need to ask, not really, but it has been a while since Sir has made use of me, so it may take him some time to remember.
Sir drapes the length of rope over me, back and forth, avoiding my wrists, which are laid softly against the pillow. When I’m decorated in Sir’s rope like it’s a string of black pearls, he asks to take a picture and I consent to that too.
Then Sir climbs up to my chest, supporting his weight with his knees braced on either side of my head. I’m sandwiched between Sir’s sturdy thighs with his drowsy cock gently kissing one cheek, then the other. Sir teases me with it, dragging his cockhead across my lips but not satisfying me until I say with a begging voice, “Sir, please?”
“Have you missed this beautiful cock, Giovanni?” he asks.
“I’ve missed everything about you. Even your terrible jokes.”
“Terrible?” Sir says, lifting his dick away from me as a punishment. “I cannot feed you this magnificent cock until you admit I am the funniest man you know.”
“You’re the funniest looking man I know,” I tell him.
He shakes his head and acts as if he won’t give it to me, so I tilt my chin up and open my mouth wide. Soon enough, Sir is taking up space as always. With one hand on the headboard and the other twining my hair, he fucks my throat nice and deep, rolling his hips and grunting and telling me to “take it all, princess.”
Yes, Sir.
But Sir, insatiable Sir, wants more than just my mouth, and it isn’t long after that he tells me to lift my legs and hold myself open for him. He drapes the rope around my thighs and ankles looping them loosely so that it acts like a kind of harness. Sir’s tongue is as clever as always, and he has me twisting and moaning in no time with the attention he’s giving to my hole. The rope has plenty of give, but I can imagine it cinching tight and holding me tight while Sir does wicked things to me. I’ve always loved the feel of Sir’s body on top of me, so weighty and familiar, like the boy who used to hold me down until I begged to be released.
“Please, Sir,” I plead.
“Please what, Giovanni?” Sir asks. Master gives me what I need, but Sir gives me what I want. Even still, I have to ask for it, or beg.
“Please fuck me with your monster cock,” I tell him.
“In my boathouse?” he purrs.
“Yes, in your boathouse, in your bed, tangled in your net.”
“You are singing my favorite song, princess.”
By the time Sir finishes with me, I’m knotted in his arms as well as his rope, which seems a natural extension of himself. I worry that I’ve stained his beautiful silk with my sweat and cum, but Sir assures me that he can wash it and besides, that’s what it’s for.
Sir takesme sailing the next day to Vivara, an uninhabited island and a satellite to Procida. It’s the crescent-shaped remnant ridge of an ancient volcanic crater that is part of the Phlegraean Fields. Ischia itself is a volcanic island, which is why it’s pitted with so many thermal springs. We hike during the day and at night, we lie on the deck of Sir’s boat and trade stories about what we’ve been doing in each other’s absence. When I tell Sir that I’m now the island troubadour, he promises to come to some of my performances. I also relay to him the story that he and Master are my uncles. Sir laughs and says he hopes none of the islanders see us dancing together in Naples or the jig is up.
While we’re lying together and staring at the stars, Sir asks me again what I want to do with my life—he asks me to tell him about my dreams—and I say to him again, “All I want is to live here on this beautiful island and serve you and Master. Isn’t that what you both want from me? Isn’t that enough?”
“Yes, Giovanni,” he says with a smile and a kiss on my cheek, “that is more than enough.”
The next dayI must return to Master, and though I offer to make the short trek back to his manor on my own, Sir insists on accompanying me.
“I’m more trustworthy now,” I tell him, in case he’s worried about my safety. I often go to my gigs alone, only checking in with Master once or twice, and Anthony no longer has to supervise me when I’m at home.
“It’s not that, princess. I just wanted a goodbye kiss.”
In the cobblestone courtyard, he presses me against the wall with his hands in my hair and kisses me with the passion I’ve come to expect from Sir, an endless fountain that at once slakes my thirst while nearly drowning me at the same time.
Master strolls out to the veranda during Sir’s goodbye kiss and clears his throat. Sir finally pulls away with messy hair and red, swollen lips. I can only imagine how I look.
“I take it you had a good time with my schiavo, Silvio?” Master asks, his assessing gaze flicking over me from head to foot.
“He is just as sweet as I remember,” Sir says and smacks his lip. “Maybe sweeter.”
“Well,” Master says. “Will you be staying for a while?”
“I have no plans to leave,” Sir says, still looking at me.
“Then we’ll have to discuss some sort of long-term arrangement.”
“I think so.”
“Giovanni,” Master says. “You have some practicing to do on the piano while the men discuss matters.”
“Yes, Master,” I tell him, bowing slightly.
I try to temper my enthusiasm, but inside this slave is rejoicing because Sir is here to stay.
When Master callsme to the veranda later, Sir is gone. He invites me to sit because he’d like to talk man-to-man. I think it’s going to be about his and Sir’s arrangement, but sadly, it’s not. It’s about my finances.
I have a lot of money. Well, Matthew has a lot of money. The last time Master showed me the paperwork regarding my investments, it was quite a lot, and I imagine it just keeps growing. Master asked me a while back where I’d like to dedicate my charitable donations. There are a few small galleries and art restoration projects that I donate a portion of my wealth to, as well as a scholarship fund for young artists and musicians. My gig money I usually just tithe on Sunday to one of the churches or pass it off as tip money to the servers at the restaurants where I play. I buy stationary from Signor Maggio too and use it to write love letters to both Master and Sir, though I never send them. The letters are just for me, one of Rebekah’s suggestions to help me sort through my feelings.
“I met with your financial advisor while I was in Roma,” Master says, and when I don’t respond, he continues, “You’re a very wealthy young man.”
“Thank you, Master, for taking care of this slave’s finances in a responsible way.”
“I’m telling you this because the money is there for you if you ever wanted to pursue a degree or attend a music conservatory or travel.”
My anxiety flares whenever Master starts speaking in this way, about my future and the prospect that I may have to leave him.
“Would you like to do any of those things?” Master prompts when I am silent for too long.
“Not without my Master,” I tell him, “and not without my Sir.”
It takes a long time for me to get attached, but when I do, I tend to not let go. Master looks pensive, as though he’s trying to tread lightly with his next words. “I know you’re happy here, Giovanni, but you are still very young. There are a lot of opportunities for a man with your talents and intelligence.”
This feels a lot like Sir questioning me about my dreams as if the one I have isn’t good enough. “Is this another conversation about my potential?” I ask while trying to keep my tone respectful.
“This is a conversation about your future, yes, and where you might see yourself in five or ten years.”
“You said this was my home.”
“This is your home, Giovanni. No matter where you go or for how long you are away, you can always come back here."
“I don’t want to go anywhere. I love this island and I love our routines and I love you and Sir. You wanted me to get a job, so I got a job. You wanted me to make friends, so I did. You wanted me to be more independent, and I am. What more do you want from me, Master, if not to be rid of me altogether?”
Master takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, but what I want him to do is put me in my place. “It’s important that we have these check-ins, tesoro, to make sure that what we have is still what we both want.”
“It’s obviously what I want,” I say, my panic rising, “but what about you? Has this slave served its purpose?”
“No,” Master says sharply. “Don’t take that tone with me, Giovanni. This is a man-to-man discussion that I’d like to have with you without you assuming the worst of me.”
“The worst is you leaving me or kicking me out. The best is keeping me forever. I’ve felt this way since you brought me into your home, and that feeling multiplied when you made me your own. You trained me to be your schiavo, and when you discuss the possibility of me being anything but that, it makes me feel unwanted, and I don’t feel you are demonstrating your gratitude for this slave’s sacrifices.”
We stare at each other for a long while. When Master falters, and it’s usually only on this particular point, is when my demons start to chatter and scheme, and he knows this. So, if he truly doesn’t want to be rid of me… “What is the purpose of this conversation?” I ask, feeling far too bold and not at all charitable.
“I don’t want you to look back in ten years and have any regrets,” Master says with a note of sadness. “That you spent so many years of your youth in the service of an old man.”
In this moment, I wish there weren’t this ocean of years between us. Because this is not something either of us can overcome, and as Master gets older, I fear his concerns about our age difference will only get worse. I’m also frustrated because I don’t know what else I must do to prove myself to him. My daily acts of devotion should be enough—more than enough—to quell his insecurities.
“That will never happen.” I stand from the table, towering over Master in my youthful arrogance and say, “Man-to-man, I suggest Master work on his pride.”
I storm out of the courtyard and jog down to the beach where I sit in the sand and stare at the water, getting lost in the cadence of its rhythms until Anthony comes down to fetch me for dinner. Master doesn’t apologize and neither do I; we just glance at each other warily from across the dinner table, two scorpions circling one another.
It’s like that sometimes, even between Master and slave.