Master’s Schiavo by Laura Lascarso
2
Iwake with the dawn’s light without an alarm and check on Master to find him still slumbering in bed next to me. After relieving myself in the toilet, I unroll my yoga mat to do my Sun Salutations, positioning myself in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of the bedroom as the first rays of light begin to paint the high rises of Manhattan in a rich golden hue. Master says it’s important that I show my gratitude for every day I am given, and this ritual is my way of doing so.
After my stretches, I inspect my bruises in Master’s mirrors. They’ve faded since our scene three nights ago, no longer indigo and violet but more of a mottled yellow and brown. They’re not attractive at this stage and the pain is too distant for me to enjoy, but I remind myself that only when I’m fully healed will Master use me as his canvas again.
In the kitchen, I prepare our breakfast. Today is Master’s day off, so we’ll eat together on the terrace since the weather is nice. On workdays our morning routine is abbreviated, but today we have the luxury of drawing it out. I poach three eggs, two for myself and one for Master. When the nutritionist laid out my eating plan, I asked that she create one for Master as well, a heart-healthy diet that I might implement to reduce his cholesterol and lower his blood pressure. Though he assures me he follows it when he’s away, I have more control over the foods I prepare for him. He’s cut back on his drinking and quit smoking too, only indulging in the occasional cigar. If I have my way, Master will live forever.
Once the eggs are poached, the melon is cut, and the toast is sprayed with a light butter substitute, I cover the plates under two aluminum domes and carry them outside where I’ve already set the table with Master’s espresso, orange juice, and pills. My medications are there too. Master makes me take them in front of him, so I don’t forget.
Now is one of my favorite rituals. I crawl under the covers where Master is slowly beginning to rouse and gently tug down his sleeping pants with my teeth. Sometimes he sleeps naked, sometimes not. Unless it’s cold in the house, I’m always nude when Master is at home. At the beginning of my slave training, it helped him make sure I wasn’t hiding anything that I might use to hurt myself. Since then I’ve become accustomed to the nudity, especially in the warmer weather, and I want Master to feel that he can make use of me whenever he desires without the obstacle of clothing.
I lay my palms atop Master’s sinewy thighs where I’ve exposed him. I begin at the base of his scrotum, inhaling his rich earthy scent and using my tongue to lap at his big hairy balls. My master is well-endowed, something I like to gloat about, if only to myself. I draw each of them into my mouth, savoring his salty, musky flavor. I suckle them gently, paying homage to the organs that sustain my Master’s manhood and provide this slave with so much nutritious seed.
Master stirs at last, his hand coming to rest on the back of my head, a silent encouragement to keep going. His cock is stiff already from his morning wood, and I lick along the bulging veins and up to his darker, bulbous crown. At the base of Master’s dick is a nest of salt-and-pepper hair that I mouth with my lips and tongue. I repeat this pattern, adding a swirl around his flared glans and teasing his foreskin with the tip of my tongue. When I finally take his full length into my mouth, Master’s hips start to move, thrusting upward. Sometimes he lets me finish him off here; other times he rolls me onto my back and fucks into my throat until I choke on his cum. Occasionally, he’ll let me ride him to completion, guiding me with only his hand on my neck. The most important thing for me to remember is that Master is the one in control.
For now, his strong hands cradle the base of my skull, fingers threaded in my hair to hold me in place, and I know what this means too. I relax my jaw and open my throat to receive him. Master fucks my face while grunting in time with his lunges, his strong hips slamming upward with my nose buried in his thick nest of hair. Master takes medication to increase his libido and help lower his blood pressure. He’s a competitive man, and when he realized how high my sex drive was, he found a way to match me.
His cock throbs with the oncoming release, and I’m ready for the first dose when it shoots like snake venom down my throat. I swallow rapidly to catch it all and savor the last few pulses of his cock still spitting its seed. Master has praised me for my tidiness, especially when he’s wearing nice pants. He’s brought me to his office in Manhattan a few times and had me sit under his massive mahogany desk and suck him off in between meetings. Nobody even knew I was there—except Rico, of course. Master says his dick gets raw by the end of the day, but I’m always happy to do it. Regardless, I’m very good at capturing his cum. With Master’s appetite now sated, I wait for him to soften completely, as I’m not permitted to pull away until he allows it.
“Very good, Gio,” Master says at last, and I finally rise to greet him, making sure to kiss his cock a few more times in appreciation before tucking him away. His hand cups my cheek, and he looks at me with love and tenderness. “Morning, tesoro. How did you sleep?”
“Very well.” No nightmares, no wetting the bed, no demons whispering in my ear.
“Is breakfast ready?”
“Yes. It’s on the balcony.”
Master grabs his robe and hands me mine to wear to ward off the morning chill. On the terrace, he pulls out my chair for me because Master is also a gentleman, and we sit down together. The newspaper is there for him already but he ignores it, choosing instead to watch me as we eat.
“Is your breakfast okay, Master?” I ask, wanting to make sure.
“Perfect as always.” He tidies his mouth with a cloth napkin and lays it on the table, sitting back to regard me thoughtfully.
“Does Master require his slave’s attention?” I sense that he wants something from me only he doesn’t know how to go about getting it. Master is rarely shy, but it does happen occasionally. He comes from a modest background and lacks the ingrained sense of entitlement rich men are born into. He is cultured and mannered because he has worked hard to become the man he is today.
“How are you feeling, schiavo?” he asks at last.
“I’m feeling well, Master.”
“Are you in pain?”
“Not much.” Today it’s only a light ache, like the day after a hard workout with Phillipe, my trainer.
“And how are the voices?” He studies me carefully. Master calls them voices, not demons because he doesn’t like to think of me as wicked.
“They’re quiet,” I tell him, though they begin to sit up and take notice at the strange turn in our conversation.
Master nods and gazes out at the bay. There’s an eight-foot wall of tinted, bulletproof glass surrounding the terrace so that we can see out, but others cannot see in. Master has fucked me against it quite a few times, an exhilarating thrill as I imagine that it’s his cock alone that keeps me from tumbling to my death. Master had the glass installed when I moved in with him to deter me from jumping over the edge of the balcony. It’s a long way down from up here, and the demons are sometimes very convincing.
“We need to talk about the family business,” he says at last. “Man-to-man.”
My whole body stiffens and Master notices that too. It’s been a while since Master has brought up the family business, which is how I prefer it.
“What about it?” I ask, my tone a warning.
“I’ve been running the show for a few years now, and I’m content to do it a little while longer, but I’d like to know what you want for yourself. Whether you think this is a role you’d like to step into, in the future as… as Matthew.” He says the name with a note of caution because he knows I find it offensive. The only way I could reclaim my title would be to assume that identity. I had hoped my “death” would put the issue to rest, but as I’ve said before, my Master is a humble man.
I study the gold-leaf pattern on the fine porcelain plate in front of me. For Master gold is a signifier of his prosperity, like King Midas with the golden touch. He prefers my blond hair for the same reason, but dyeing it helps me maintain my anonymity.
“Matthew is dead,” I tell him. “Remember, Master, he was dead that day you found him in Central Park, covered in feces and blood and other men’s cum.”
Poor, poor Matthew.
Master purses his lips and studies me. I wonder sometimes if I’m worth the trouble. With Master’s distinguished looks and money, he could get any number of beautiful men to service him, to worship him, without so much hassle. “What are the voices saying now, tesoro?”
“They don’t want to hear about Matthew or the family business. They want you to—” I’m about to say shut the fuck up, but I catch myself in time. I will not be so disrespectful. “They want you to stop.” I could use my safeword if I wanted, but it would only invite more conversation, and I’d rather him lay this matter to rest once and for all.
“I have your grandfather’s legacy to consider. This was only ever a temporary solution.”
“My grandfather never designated me his heir.” He knew better than to make such an egregious mistake.
“Tesoro, you were seventeen,” Master says with sympathy. There’s so much pain in my past that I’ve had to compartmentalize in order to survive, and I’m bitter at him for forcing me to face it today when the demons were sleeping.
“Think about the business,” I say, “and think about what it would mean for me to run it, to even be in a position of authority within the ranks.” Master knows what it takes to be a wiseguy, the amount of mental fortitude a person must have to make life-or-death decisions and hunt down rats within the organization, to exact retribution and maintain the respect of the other families. He still comes home sometimes with dried blood caked in his fingernails and splatters of it on his clothing. There’s a reason most mob families have a dry cleaners on the payroll. “Do you think me capable?” I ask. “And more importantly, would you want that for me?”
Master sighs, and I don’t know if it’s his disappointment in me or that he must face the truth that I’ll never be able to fill my grandfather’s shoes. His legacy died with Matthew Aponte III.
“He didn’t raise you for the life,” Master finally admits.
When I reflect on my upbringing—the tutors, the lessons on etiquette, the lack of technology and instead, a focus on academic debate and witty repertoire, learning to play musical instruments and how to entertain guests at parties… My grandfather must have seen something in me early on, or rather, a lack thereof. He knew that I was too soft or too mentally unstable or too meek. He taught me to be polite and charming, and he rewarded me with lavish gifts and attention. What does a wiseguy need to know about seventeenth-century art or the works of Homer and Shakespeare? Nada. My grandfather raised me to be an attractive accessory on the arm of a powerful man, and I suspect one man in particular.
“Do you remember the first time I played ‘Adagio in G minor’ for you on the cello?” I ask my Master. My grandfather brought in a cello quartet to accompany me for the performance, which was hosted at his manor for a very select few of his friends with my Master among them. I wore a tuxedo for the event, and the reception afterward was catered with a full bar.
“Of course, I do,” Master says, his tragic brown eyes growing misty. “I cried it was so beautiful.”
I nod in remembrance. I’d cried too because I was proud and also exhilarated that I could summon the tears of a man as strong and ruthless as Valentin Fortuna.
“Why do you think Grandfather wanted me to learn that piece?” I ask. Master shakes his head but surely, he must know. “Why did he insist I learn Italian, your mother tongue, when he himself barely knew it?” Master sighs and closes his eyes as if he’s in pain, but I need him to understand that our fates are forever intertwined, that my happiness—my survival—is dependent on him. “On his deathbed, my grandfather didn’t talk to me about the family business,” I tell him. “He said to me, ‘You don’t have to worry, Mattie. Valentin will take care of you. Whatever you need, you only have to ask him, and he will provide it.’” Master nods, the knob in his throat more prominent. I’m hurting him, and I don’t care. “What did he tell you?” I ask even though I know the answer already.
“He told me to take care of you,” he admits.
Master was never, not once, inappropriate with me. Prior to me living with him, we were only ever friends, and even when I first came here, he was reluctant to initiate a sexual relationship with me. But it was what I needed, to be disciplined and dominated in every way imaginable.
“My grandfather didn’t raise me to be a wiseguy, Valentin,” I say, using his first name to remind him that whether my grandfather intended it or not, this is the life I’ve chosen. “Are you grateful for the gift your don has given you?”
Master glares at me with a love so fierce that it alarms me. “I am grateful, Giovanni.”
After breakfast is cleared away,I take a shot of an herbal tincture that activates my bowels. Once I’ve evacuated and cleaned myself, Master milks me by stimulating my prostate with his fingers until I orgasm. Sometimes he uses a vibrator. Other times, when he wants to “play doctor,” he puts my feet in stirrups and uses a speculum to pry me open while wearing a latex glove. If I’ve been bad or disrespectful, I have to wear the cage during my milking, so that it’s hardly pleasurable at all. But today, we’re in bed and Master takes his time, making me sweat and groan and clutch at the sheets with my fingertips. He collects my cum with a champagne flute and makes sure that I drink every last drop. One of Master’s rules is that slave boys swallow their own ejaculate and that of the men they serve. It’s how I demonstrate my humility, and it reminds me that even in my selfish pursuit of pleasure, I am subservient to him.
After my milking we go for a swim in the building’s indoor pool. Master uses the lane next to mine and goes at about half my pace. He’s not so insecure that he would ask me to go slower. He celebrates my athleticism and boasts about it to friends, perhaps because he’s also seen me at my worst.
It’s early still, and the pool is mostly empty. Whether they know who my Master is or whether they only suspect, people tend to keep their distance. I once made the mistake of swimming too soon after a high-impact scene, and a woman spotted my bruises. The next time I saw her, she gave me a pamphlet for a domestic abuse hotline. I thanked her for her concern and threw it away after she’d gone. I don’t bother trying to explain our relationship to outsiders. Master’s friends in the lifestyle understand, and as for his business associates and the people he employs, they don’t say a word about it.
After my swim, Master and I go into a private sauna to unwind. Our security waits outside the door. Master carries a pistol with him at all times, and though I’m trained on how to use it, I’m not allowed to carry or even touch his without permission. For now, it lays underneath a towel next to him, pointed away from us but loaded all the same. I’ve asked him to fuck me with it in the past, but he refuses. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he thinks it wouldn’t be good for my mental health. He’s probably right.
The mood between us is still tense from the morning. The swim and my milking helped extinguish some of my nervous energy, but the sense of uncertainty remains. Master is not grounded in the present but contemplating the future, presumably our future. What I want is to be his schiavo eternally, but the slave cannot determine the will of his Master.
“You have that look, Giovanni,” Master says, his shrewd eyes roving over my nakedness. I removed my wet bathing suit and now lie on my back on a towel across from him.
“What look is that, Master?” I ask, rolling onto my side to face him. My coyness sneaks out sometimes, unbidden.
“Like you need to be caged.”
As I’ve said before, my libido is strong and I’m very willful. Despite all of Master’s meticulous training, my grandfather’s blood still courses through me, which I attribute to some of my pride and arrogance. Master cages my cock to humble me.
“I’ve been good,” I remind him. He may not have liked the turn our conversation took this morning, but I was honest, and he cannot punish me for that.
“Hmmm,” he says noncommittally, but he’s right that the balance between us needs adjustment, so I go down to my knees on the cedar-plank floor and bow before him until my nose touches the ground. I’m willing to make myself small in my attempts to appease him.
“May I worship you, Master?” I ask in my most subservient tone.
He repositions himself on the wooden bench with his legs spread wide and adjusts his sweaty balls so that they lay fat and proud beneath this ample cock, such a delicious, hearty treat. “You may.”
I begin with the insole of one foot, massaging and lifting it to kiss it gently. When I finish with his foot, my deft hands work their way up Master’s calf, rubbing lightly and stroking as my mouth follows the path my fingers have blazed. When I reach the inside of his knee, I repeat the ritual on the other side. I used to rub my grandfather’s feet for him after a grueling work week, and I find this experience somewhat similar but far more pleasurable. Perhaps my grandfather had an inkling even back then as to my true purpose.
By the time I reach Master’s thighs, his posture is completely relaxed, his legs open wide, and his shoulders slumped back against the wall of the sauna. His eyes are partway closed as he gazes down on me, always watching. He trusts me now, but I was very bad in the beginning, so it fills me with a deep sense of accomplishment to know that he allows me to worship him when he’s so defenseless.
“Would Master like to make use of his slave’s mouth?” I lick my lips and let my mouth fall open. Master appreciates our set routines, but he also enjoys being seduced.
“You seem a little too smug about it, schiavo.”
“This slave only wishes to please his Master.”
Master waves me on, his blessing to proceed. Sometimes I like to think of Master’s cock as a bottle or a teat, and his cum as the milk that nourishes me. If only I could survive on his ejaculate alone.
After I’ve serviced him to completion for the second time this morning, Master pats the space between his legs and I join him there on the bench with his hairy thighs bracketing me on either side. There’s a bottle of massage oil in one of the cabinets and he drips some of it onto his palm, though a dry hand job would be fine too. He takes my cock in hand, and with an almost impersonal efficiency, strokes me rapidly while his other hand pinches and tugs at one nipple, fondling the jewelry and tugging on the hoop to cause a small spike of pain. The piercings were my birthday present last year and soon after, a series of cascading gold chains to connect them for when he presents me at parties. Never for scenes though, as that could be dangerous. Master once brushed me with a golden powder and made me stand still as a statue on a pedestal with my cock caged, wearing only my jewelry during one of his sex parties. All around us men were fucking like dogs, but Master’s attention was focused only on me.
Now, in my Master’s capable hands, I feel the familiar twitch in my cock and heat blooming in my groin, and just as I’m about to come, he bites down savagely on my shoulder, nearly breaking the skin and making it all that much sweeter. I cry out with such enthusiasm that security pops his head inside to make sure nothing is amiss. His assessing gaze flicks over us with a professional curiosity before resuming his post outside the door.
“You’re going to be the death of me, Giovanni,” Master says on a deep exhale, but he sounds happy.