Master’s Schiavo by Laura Lascarso
3
Master has invited some of his business associates to join him at the penthouse tonight for drinks, and my sense is that this party has something to do with our conversation last weekend about the family business. Depending on how the demons are behaving, I can either attend this work function or not. But if I don’t attend, I must go in my box.
My box really isn’t so bad. It’s tall enough for me to stand, and there’s a foam mattress (no springs) if I want to rest and a few of my favorite books to read. There’s also a stainless-steel toilet and sink if I’m going to be in there for a while. It’s well-ventilated with its own climate control system and the walls are made of the same material as the terrace windows, so that Master can monitor me if he needs to. Mobsters don’t like to deal with institutions like hospitals and police—too many questions—and I don’t like going under suicide watch in a facility either (they tend to make my demons louder), so Master has found a way to accommodate me when I need a timeout.
How spoiled am I to have a tiny palace that was built just for me?
But the demons are quiet today, and other than my general apprehension around strangers, I’m well enough to entertain.
For now, I admire myself in Master’s mirrors like the doomed hunter Narcissus. I’m very vain, another of my mother’s sins, but Master has done very little to curb me of this habit of self-idolization. If anything, he encourages it with the many decorative pieces he’s given me, several of which I’m currently wearing. Even though this isn’t a BDSM or sex party, Master still likes me to present in a certain way. I’ve brushed my forearms with makeup and bronzer and covered my wrists where the scars are more noticeable with gold bangles. My nipple rings are attached to an assortment of gold chains that drape across my chest like a curtain or a veil. My cock is caged inside my tight leather pants and my plug is already in place. I line my eyes with black eyeliner and use a smudge stick to give it the smoky effect then dust my eyelids with a gold powder. The effect is very Cleopatra, intentional on my part as she is one of my idols. A pioneer of her times, Cleopatra created her very own vibrator using live bees trapped inside a phallic-shaped instrument. What an icon.
“Bellissimo, Giovanni,” Master says, admiring my reflection alongside me. He’s holding my favorite piece of jewelry, one that only he is permitted to take on and off. I wear it when Master entertains, and especially around others in the lifestyle, so they know I’m off-limits to them. “Are you ready for your collar now?”
“Yes, Master.”
I pull my hair to the side and bow my head. It’s very expensive, my collar. Like everything else, Master had it custom-made for me. Lightweight and made of gold, it’s about two inches in width and fits snugly around my neck. Its surface is smooth and unblemished, and the curve is tailored to the shape of my throat. It’s a remarkable piece of jewelry, but more importantly, it signifies that I am owned.
“Perfetto.” Master kisses the side of my cheek and reaches to my front to grip the cage underneath the leather and give it a proprietary tug. The noises he coaxes from my lips would shame me if I didn’t know how much he enjoyed my torment. “Are you going to be good for me tonight, schiavo?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Bene. I’m sure you will.”
Rico is in the kitchen already, supervising the catering staff, a team of people Master has worked with before. Anyone who wishes to step foot inside Master’s home must go through extensive screening, and even still, guests are patted down outside the door. Master takes no risks with his safety or my own.
“Looking fancy, Giovanni,” Rico says as he pops a piece of prosciutto into his mouth. I dip my head in acknowledgement. I’m not permitted to speak to anyone but Master during his business functions, which suits me just fine. The isolation is also somewhat necessary as I’m very good at getting the things I shouldn’t.
Rico samples more of the food and points out what I might like to try later if Master allows it. The only thing I’m permitted to drink during parties is water, juice, or club soda with lime, and the bartender knows this already. There are several fail safes in place to help me stay sober.
Soon after the caterers leave, the escorts arrive. Though there are some women high up in the family business, Master’s parties tend to be male-heavy, and he likes to arrange for pretty women (and some men) to entertain. With regard to Master’s sexual orientation, the family demands discretion, but what happens in Master’s penthouse stays in Master’s penthouse, and he has risen to such a position of power that many are willing to overlook his “proclivities.” There’s also the prevailing theory that so long as Master is in the dominating role, his masculinity remains intact. Not so different from the rules of antiquity or feudal Japan, when the height of manhood was in taking a boy under one’s wing and subjugating them to one’s sexual appetite—alongside mentorship, of course. This rationale is something I’ve heard his men discussing within earshot as they look me over and deliberate whether or not they’d fuck me and how. I suppose even for their proclaimed heterosexuality, I look feminine enough to pique their interest.
I think this sort of talk is stupid, but it’s not this slave’s job to educate Master’s grunts on gender theory. And if my looking fuckable earns Master their respect, then I can only see it as an advantage.
While Master gives instructions to his security detail, I let in the escorts. Those who’ve never been here before marvel at the apartment’s lavish furnishings and view of the Manhattan skyline, which is exquisite. Some of them marvel over me too.
“Aren’t you a pretty one,” a busty woman remarks, touching my long, black hair. Not being in the lifestyle, she likely doesn’t know the proper etiquette of no touching without permission. I could politely ask her not to, but I am content for the moment, and I predict Master will intervene before too long. As for the woman, her face is heavily made-up, which makes her look older, and her eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide. Pills, if I had to guess. A half dozen of the escorts are already blitzed—cocaine, ketamine, ecstasy, opioids… More will go to the bathroom during the party to powder their noses or shoot up, which means they have drugs on them, tucked away in their knock-off designer purses. With a whisper and a sleight-of-hand, I could be high within minutes.
Yes, yes, yes,the demons purr while rubbing their hands together.
“I love these,” the woman says as her burgundy-lacquered fingernail flicks over one of my nipple rings. She regards her companions who are also gazing at me with a mixture of awe and envy. “Maybe I should do this myself.”
“Please refrain from touching my young man,” Master says to the woman, suddenly at my side. He then turns to the crowd, placing himself between me and the escorts as his deep voice booms across the expansive room, “Ladies and gentlemen. Our guests will be arriving soon. Please get a drink and make yourselves comfortable.”
The woman winks at me and heads to the bar. Master squeezes my upper arm, refocusing my mind with his firm touch.
“Why don’t you play something for me, schiavo?” he says, only we both know it’s not a request.
Master likes it when I play for guests, not only because I am very good, but because so long as he can hear the music, he knows the devil’s hands are occupied. I sit at the piano and play one of my old standards, “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” from The Lion King. My grandfather never really cared what I played as long as I practiced, so I made him buy me all the scores for the Disney movies. Most of them I’ve memorized.
Of course, I jazz it up and add my own flair, a few glissandos across the keys, a building crescendo before the bridge. I’m only warming up right now. I’ll save the good stuff for later. Sometimes people will make requests, and if I know it, I’ll oblige them, but there’s too much activity in the main room, and those who’d been hanging near the piano now congregate around the suits who’ve just arrived. With everyone’s attention away from me, I slip into one of the Nocturnes I’ve been practicing, “No. 1 in B flat minor.” The fingering is not terribly difficult, a series of simple arpeggios, but it has an interesting series of layered rhythms, so that the notes sound as if they are tripping over one another in their haste to chase the melody.
I’m just finishing the piece when I’m met with a slow clap. I glance up from my music to see a man who looks vaguely familiar, though perhaps older than when I last saw him. I don’t like to think too hard on how I might know him, as I tend to disassociate altogether when confronted with artifacts from my past.
“Bravo,” he says with a sort of slimy grin that reminds me of my mother’s boyfriend who then became my unwanted pimp. This man is not part of our family. Somehow, I know this without knowing. Aponte made men are subdued, nearly silent individuals who watch and wait and when the opportunity presents itself, they strike like vipers. Their suits are expensive, their appearance impeccable, and when they do speak, others listen. This man looks half-tanked already, his suit is cheap, and his demeanor is sleazy.
“A hooker who plays the classics,” the man says, though I doubt he could even identify the composer. “Tell me, gorgeous, where in the hell did Valentin find you?”
My expression is mild, and I incline my head slightly, knowing my Master is already nearby. His hand comes to rest on my bare shoulder, and the touch is followed by the soothing rumble of his voice.
“He’s not an escort,” Master says. “Giovanni is mine. He was a gift from my brother Silvio.”
This is the story Master tells people, that I was plucked from the old country by Master’s younger half-brother and presented to him as a gift. My Italian, when I speak it, is good enough to sell it, and as for my English, I hardly ever converse with anyone outside of my therapist, Master, and Rico. I’ve never met Silvio, though Master speaks well of him and frequently. For any who suspect it’s not true, they keep it to themselves. The Aponte family doesn’t deal in human trafficking but it’s ancillary to the life. Being in the import/export business, there are always stray goods in need of fencing.
“A green-eyed Italian,” the man muses. “Where’s your family from, kid?”
“Milano,” Master answers smoothly. “Please address me if you have questions, Salvatore. My schiavo doesn’t speak to company. It’s one of his rules.”
The man’s beady eyes narrow on me and then Master. Some men feel threatened by Master’s dominion over me. I find it amusing that it stokes their own insecurities. Perhaps they think they are above such servitude. Which is the greater submission, I wonder, letting a man fuck you or killing in his name? For Master, I’d do both.
“Where’d he learn the piano?” Salvatore asks while Master’s grip on my shoulder tightens. He doesn’t like these questions either.
“His mother was a dancer. He learned to play in the studio.”
It’s true that my mother studied ballet in Russia, but nothing ever came of it. She was a mail-order bride to my father. Apparently, that was something wiseguys did at the time, selected their blond, blue-eyed wives from a catalog and had them shipped here to America. I’m not judging my father’s method of finding a wife, necessarily, but I can see why there were problems in their marriage from the beginning.
“Why don’t we let the boy continue playing and have another drink?” Master says. He motions with one hand for Salvatore to join him, but Salvatore stares at me a moment longer with bad intentions simmering behind his eyes. A dark premonition passes over me, but it is not this slave’s job to contemplate the motives of such men.
Instead, I focus on the movement of my fingers traveling with elegance and poise across the ivory keys.
Hourslater I’m out on the terrace gazing at the bright lights of Manhattan. The party has wound down and most of the guests, if not all, have departed. I do not greet or send off Master’s associates, and the escorts have either paired off or left. The interaction with Salvatore was unsettling. I don’t like to be reminded of my past.
I hear the opening of the sliding glass doors and sense his presence before he even says a word. My Master has come to claim me.
“Are you cold?” Master asks as his lips drift across my bare shoulder.
“No, Master.” It’s chilly outside but I’m comfortable.
“You did very well tonight,” he compliments.
“Thank you.”
He senses my melancholy, which hovers like a mist around me. I can’t help my moods.
“What are you thinking about, tesoro?”
Master only asks if he truly wants to know. Sometimes I think it’d be easier for me if he only concerned himself with my body, but most of his discipline has more to do with the delicate ecosystem of my mind, and the trust we have in each other demands complete transparency, at least on my part.
I tell him, “I’m thinking about that time a few years ago when I came to the Red Room and you were there.” Red Room is a nightclub in Chelsea owned by the Aponte family. Master has an office there and sometimes uses the VIP Lounge to conduct business. I’ve visited with him a few times since becoming his schiavo, though it always makes me a little uncomfortable as it brings back a lot of memories of my reckless past.
“And?” Master prompts. He probably knows which time already.
“You were watching me on the dance floor,” I say. “From above.” There’s a glass booth elevated from the floor where Master can look out on the club’s operations. He’s fucked me against that wall too.
“I was,” Master says mildly. “I often did.”
I’d been on the dance floor for a while, and when my high started to fade, I went to the bathrooms, not the public ones, but the one in the VIP lounge with leather sofas and good lighting. I went in there to do a couple of lines of cocaine, and as soon as I’d finished, I turned and found Master standing right there behind me. He’d locked the door, and I had the sense he’d been watching me cut the lines and snort them, letting me dig my own grave.
“When you shoved me back against the mirror and gripped my jaw in your hand…” I shudder at the memory of it, the eroticism of his touch. “At first I thought you’d meant to slap me, but now I think it was something else.”
“What do you think it was?” he asks, never one to give anything away.
“You wanted to kiss me,” I say, and his silence confirms it. “Or maybe you wanted to fuck me.”
“I wanted to do both.”
“So, why didn’t you?” I ask, petulant.
“Giovanni.”
“Why didn’t you take me then?” I ask, bitter at all that I had to endure because Master was slow to act. Like my grandfather who knew my mother was a rabid bitch long before he put her down. “Why did you wait?”
“You weren’t mine, Giovanni. You had a future. You had—” he interrupts himself.
“I had potential,” I finish for him.
“You have potential. You are exactly where you should be. Safe, stable, and getting stronger every day.”
“You must have known what would happen to me.” I was spiraling long before Master collected my brutalized body from the park bench where I’d been dumped the next morning like a piece of garbage. I told Master I didn’t know who’d done it, because he would have given them the same treatment as he did my mother’s boyfriend. There would be no in-between.
“I thought you might persevere. You are strong, Giovanni. You always have been. What happened to you back in—”
“Yellow,” I say without any hesitation. He swallows and I can hear him breathing, can feel the pressure of his chest rising and falling against my back. “I’m sorry, Master, I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’ll discuss it with Rebekah at our next therapy session.”
His arms wrap around me in a comforting embrace and then he says very slowly in his stern Dominant voice, “Take off your pants, spread your legs, and brace yourself against the glass.”
Yes,my mind says before my body even thinks to react. I shiver when the night air hits my ass and caged cock. I kick away the leather and lean forward with my palms flat against the glass, arms and legs bent slightly. The weight of the gold necklaces tugs on my nipples as they tighten in the chilly air.
“You’re right, Giovanni,” he says, one hand sliding down the slope of my back. “I should have claimed you then and made you mine, but since I cannot go back in time, I will do it now.” He manipulates the plug so that it drags against my gland. My cock tries to inflate but it can’t. “The cage stays on as a reminder that you are a kept boy, that I own you. How do slave boys earn their orgasms?”
“Through service to their Masters,” I respond, grateful for his dominance and his willingness to put me in my place.
“Color?”
“Green.”
I hear the rasp of his zipper, followed by the wet slick of his hand oiling his cock. He keeps oil and lube everywhere around the apartment, in decorative decanters and beautiful stoppered bottles. It comes in handy for parties too. Master tugs out the plug and pockets it while my cock fights with the metal cage, but it will not win. The futility of the effort is another reminder that Master is the one in charge.
He enters me with one long stroke and my body accepts him readily. I’d only ever been raped before him or fucked when high out of my mind. Master took his time teaching me that my body could also be used for my own pleasure. Now, his penetration is something I crave. The burn is delicious, the squeeze of my muscles around his dick so satisfying; my prostate is already stimulated by a long night wearing the plug, so every drag of his velvety skin feels like a match being struck. The cage prevents much sexual satisfaction, but the real reward isn’t my own climax, it’s in pleasing my Master.
His hand slides along my hip and he says, “Do you want to know how many times I thought about your smart mouth warming my cock?”
“Yes, Master,” I growl.
“How many times I imagined you falling to your knees before me in worship?”
“Yes, Master.”
“How I wondered if you chose my club to shake your ass as a way to tempt me into doing bad things to you?”
I nod, tears forming at the corners of my eyes. He used to have his men invite me up for a drink in his private booth, saying very little but listening to me talk and watching me with his piercing gaze. I’d always thought it was out of respect for my grandfather. I didn’t think I had much to offer a man like him, though I would have tried. He could have taken me any one of those times and I’d have gone willingly.
“The real question, schiavo,” he says as his hips smack ruthlessly against my ass cheeks and his dick hammers away, nailing my prostate. “Is why didn’t you fall before the feet of your Master?”
My voice is a howl when I cry out, “I wish that I had.”
Master is quiet then, approaching his climax. My cock dribbles a steady stream of fluid, signifying my own aborted orgasm. The sensation on my prostate is unbearable, like being punched in the nuts from the inside. Master finishes at last with a primal roar, pumping inside me a few more times and forcing me backward in order to receive him.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I’m finally released from the dark hands that had been grasping at me all night.
“We couldn’t have known, tesoro,” he says softly, “but we do now.”
He leans against me as we both pant to catch our breath. A noise behind us catches my attention and I turn slightly. Rico clears his throat. “Boss,” he says, shuffling nervously. “Sorry to interrupt. Salvatore Tagliarini came back for his coat.” Rico motions to the man inside the penthouse standing by the bar within full view of our fucking. His smile is just as smarmy as before and it disgusts me.
“Make him a drink,” Master says casually. Rico gives an awkward nod and heads back inside. Master has fucked me in front of his friends more times than I can count, those who are amenable to the lifestyle, but he is generally more reserved around fellow mobsters. He pulls out of me completely and zips up. Then he replaces the plug to hold me over until later. “We cannot change the past, schiavo, only prepare for the future.”
He slides one hand along my ass and squeezes, signaling he’s finished with me. I stand at last and stretch my neck and shoulders, which are still tight from playing the piano. Master removes his suit jacket and drapes it around my shoulders. “Wait here while I get rid of this troublesome man.”
I wish I had a cigarette right then and I imagine he does too. Master adjusts his tie, then smooths it down against his shirtfront before heading back inside. Rico and Salvatore are standing behind the bar, facing each other while having a drink. I pick up my flat club soda and take a sip. I imagine Rico trying to make small talk to cover the awkwardness of what they both just witnessed, and a smirk plays across my lips. I’m never asked to explain or justify my behavior. There’s no shame in following Master’s orders or in being his pampered pet. They think I’m only here for sex, and that’s certainly part of it, but what Master and I share is so much more than just physical gratification. Besides, they should all be thanking me for keeping him in such a good mood.
Master enters the room and motions to the two of them from across the bar. Some words are exchanged, and what happens next is so fast that it’s almost a blur. Salvatore raises a kitchen knife he’d been hiding under his suit jacket and stabs Rico in the gut twice, then grabs Rico’s gun out of his holster, aims it at Master, and fires. Master falls to his knees, clutching the bar counter at the same time my crystal goblet shatters on the floor of the balcony. Then Salvatore turns his predatory gaze on me.
I dash across the terrace into Master’s bedroom and lock the door behind me, but it’s a flimsy French door, and I know it won’t keep him out for long. I sprint into the closet and slide down to the carpet on my knees. With shaking hands, I spin the dial on Master’s safe. The code is my birthday, and I pray to God he hasn’t changed it. The latch lifts and I thank the Virgin Mary for her grace as I yank open the heavy door and grab Master’s 9mm, slam in the cartridge, then release the slide. I position myself against the back of the closet, facing the bedroom. I pull a bunch of Master’s suit jackets off their hangers to hide myself and wait for the rat bastard to approach. The glass on the French door shatters followed by the click of the lock as he manipulates it from the outside.
“Matthew,” he calls like the coo of some deranged bird. “Matthew, I know you’re in here, and if you come with me nicely, there won’t be any trouble. I won’t have to hurt you,” he adds as an afterthought.
He reminds me again of my mother’s boyfriend preparing me for my first shot of heroin, telling me it will be so, so good, like quicksilver in my veins, the best I’ll ever feel. What choice did I have as their captive? I didn’t even realize I’d been raped until much later, after I came down. Of course, I wanted more heroin, but by then, I had to earn it.
I breathe deeply to steady my hand and wait for his approach. “Matthew,” he says as though asking me to be rational. “Come on now, kid. I can take care of you better than Valentin. I’ve got plenty of silver spoons for a good boy like you. That’s what you want right? A little bit of smack to make you feel good? Uncle Sal can make it real nice for you. Come on out now so I don’t have to get nasty.”
He approaches the closet with his gun drawn. He thinks I’m scared, and I am—not for my own life but for Master’s. Every second that slips by is critical to his survival. If he’s not dead already, the demons whisper but I shut them out. I’m armed and capable. I know how to handle a gun, and though I’ve never killed someone before, the thought of it doesn’t scare me.
Salvatore swings open the closet door, and I have him in my sights. I pull the trigger before he even glimpses my face. His body drops and I glance at him just long enough to see that I shot him in the face. A closed casket, then. The hours spent with my grandfather and Master at the shooting range were not in vain.
Keeping hold of the gun, I sprint to the kitchen where Master is still on the ground, though propped against the side of the bar now and clutching his abdomen. I place the gun in his right hand, his dominant one. He knows already what happened in the bedroom. “Call Dr. Greyson,” he rasps. “I’m fine. Apply pressure to Rico’s wounds.”
It kills me to leave Master’s side, but I do as he orders, fumbling his phone out of his pants pocket and unlocking it with his bloody fingertip. I put it on speaker while I grab dish towels and rip open Rico’s suit jacket to find his shirt bloodied with more of it pouring out.
“Valentin,” the doctor says promptly. As quickly as I can, I relay to him what happened, who’s injured, and how. While I’m still on the phone and following his instructions, four medics arrive with stretchers to transport them both. I fight off the urge to disassociate and remind myself that Master needs me right now. I tell them there’s another body in the bedroom, already dead, “so don’t waste your time.” I grip Master’s hand even as they take him away, running alongside the stretcher down the stairwell on bare feet to keep up, refusing to let go. In the van, which is rigged up like an ambulance, one of the medics offers me a pair of scrubs, pointedly avoiding looking at my cock cage and other adornments. I hurriedly dress and return to Master’s side, gripping his hand as if I might be able to squeeze the life back into him. His other hand still holds the gun.
“Don’t you fucking die on me, Valentin,” I rasp viciously.
His smile is weak but devastating, nonetheless. “I wouldn’t dare.”