Master’s Schiavo by Laura Lascarso
4
Master will survive. The bullet missed his major organs and made a clean exit out his back, just under his rib cage. Many, many blessings. I will light all the prayer candles next time I attend mass and say my Rosary every night. There must be a reason Master is named after the goddess Fortuna. I’ll make my offerings to her as well.
Master’s surgery to mend the torn tissue is minor, but Dr. Greyson prescribes two weeks of bed rest so that he can fully heal, and I’m in charge of making sure that happens. One disadvantage to being a mob boss is that none of your underlings will tell you to get back in bed, but I sure as hell will.
Rico’s injuries are more serious, but the prognosis looks good for him too. By the time the medics got to him, he’d lost a lot of blood, and his blood pressure dipped dangerously low before he arrived at Dr. Greyson’s clinic. But the doctor and his team were able to stabilize his condition and give him a blood transfusion. His wife Gabriela came as soon as she got the call. We bonded over our shared panic and anxiety. I drank coffee for the first time in three years and ate way too many donuts. She told me about her most recent diet cleanse and showed me pictures of their kids.
And now that Master is past the danger zone, he is very grumpy. I’ve installed him in the guest bedroom of the penthouse on an adjustable bed that I had brought in so that he can convalesce in comfort. A man like him cannot lie flat on his back all day; it would be bad for his mental health. But what it means is that he spends at least ten minutes every hour adjusting the controls while complaining about the doctor’s orders, which are my orders now. I remain firm. I will not risk Master’s recovery because he’s antsy to be up and out of bed.
The Aponte family’s clean-up crew handled the dead body, and the bedroom carpet was swiftly replaced so there are no bloodstains or lingering evidence. The team worked quickly and efficiently, which isn’t surprising because Master only employs competent people. Perhaps I should feel worse about what I did, but it was self-defense, and I’ve known people to be murdered for far less. I worry sometimes that I have become too good at compartmentalizing, but on my list of mental health issues, it ranks rather low.
There are men placed strategically throughout the apartment and outside of it, including security cameras that monitor the lobby, stairwell, and penthouse elevator. As it turns out, I killed someone relatively important, a nephew to the Tagliarini don. The Commission will meet to discuss the situation when Master is feeling better. For now, what is known is that Salvatore Tagliarini disrespected Master’s hospitality, broke one of the gentlemen’s rules to not inflict violence on a man when invited into his own home, and that Master acted in self-defense. The official story is that Master shot Salvatore after being shot himself. I don’t really care what the mafia propaganda machine is churning out, so long as Master is safe and sound.
But with the added security and Master being in recovery, it means that I must shed my role of schiavo for the time being and run the household. The wiseguys need to be fed and watered, and for those staying in round-the-clock shifts, accommodations need to be made. I doubt they’d take me seriously if I strutted around the apartment nude, so I must wear clothing, which is cumbersome. Neither Master nor I like our privacy being invaded like this, but his health and safety are the most important things to consider right now. And though I try to stay out of mob politics, I know that a weakened don is an easy target for the other families and even for those rats within our ranks.
The men are civil, some more so than others, and those who were on the clean-up crew know that I can handle a gun. It’s obvious to anyone who saw the scene that I was the one who shot Salvatore in the head. Maybe they speculate to each other. As for me, I say nothing at all about it.
Thankfully, food has been provided by the mob wives and arrives in a steady stream—baked ziti, manicotti, lasagna, and the occasional tuna casserole. I give the meals to the men while keeping Master and me on our strict diets.
And now I must get Master to eat his soup.
“Why do you fight me, Master, when all this slave wants is to take care of you?” It’ll be another day or so before he’s allowed to have solids. Dr. Greyson wants to give his digestive track a break and the morphine increases constipation. Not to worry, the meds are under lock and key, and only the nurses have access to them. Master’s lack of appetite causes me some anxiety. At the point my grandfather started refusing food, his condition deteriorated drastically.
“It’s me who should be feeding you, tesoro,” he says grouchily, “and fucking you too.”
He’s in no condition to fuck me, but he knows how important our routines are to me.
“If you are very good and eat all of your lunch and let me wash and shave you, this slave will service his Master’s cock afterward,” I say while holding the spoon expectantly at his mouth.
This lifts his spirits a little, and though his agreement is a grumble, I’ve been granted his permission all the same. After I’ve fed him his soup and shaved his face and given him a thorough sponge bath, I draw back the covers and, avoiding his bandages, worship his cock. Because of the pain meds, Master is unable to sustain an erection, but he allows me to pleasure him as much as I am able while drifting in and out of sleep. Towards the end I simply suck on the tip of it like it were a pacifier and drowse right there with him. Rest is what he needs most, and if it means sleeping alongside him, I will.
And because Master knows that going for too long without exercise is bad for my mental health, he assigns one of his guys to accompany me down to the pool so that I can swim laps. The man’s name is Anthony and he’s one of the better ones—respectful, diligent, cleans up after himself rather than expecting me to do it like some goddamned housewife.
“Can I ask you a question?” he says when we’re on the private elevator back up to the penthouse. I’m wearing my Speedo with a towel draped over my shoulder. My cap is off and I’m shaking out my long hair. I’ll shower upstairs.
I nod for him to continue. Some speech is necessary, but I try to limit it as much as possible to maintain my good habits.
“Why do you call him Master?” Anthony asks, and his tone sounds curious, rather than judgmental.
“Why do you call him Boss?”
“So, it’s a sign of respect then?”
“And an exchange of power and control. Master knows what’s best for this slave. The slave finds it freeing to not have to worry about what to wear or what to eat or what their next few hours might entail. What does tomorrow look like? What about next week? Master makes those decisions for his slave because he is competent and capable. The slave does not need to wonder or be curious, only serve.” I don’t always slip into referring to myself in the third person, but I find it comforting sometimes to put a little bit of distance between my selves.
“And he, um…” Anthony begins but doesn’t finish. They’ve heard (or seen) enough by now to know the nature of our relationship.
“He, um, what?” I ask impatiently.
“He fucks you?” Anthony asks, dropping his voice to a whisper.
“The slave exists solely for Master’s pleasure. Master uses his slave as he sees fit.”
“So, it’s like a role play then?”
“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players,” I say, growing bored by his questions. Anthony looks confused. He must not be a fan of Shakespeare.
“Doesn’t that make you feel… like some kind of prostitute?” he asks, his eyes flickering to the gold adorning my body. No doubt he’s also seen my lavish clothing and fine instruments littered around our apartment.
“What is a wife but a contractual whore?” I ask. “What is a husband but a yoked stud?”
This gives him something to ponder. “But don’t you ever just want to…” he stalls, clearly thinking on what to him resembles ultimate freedom, “I don’t know, get a beer with your friends or eat a whole carton of ice cream?”
Both of those options sound terribly pedestrian to me. I worry Anthony might be lacking in imagination.
“Truthfully, I’d rather Master whip me until I bleed, then gag me on his cock so that I choke on his cum.” His eyes go a little wider, arousal or perhaps shock. I shouldn’t play with Master’s men, but sometimes I can’t help myself.
“It takes all types I guess,” he says at last.
I smile. “Yes, it does.”
Even with stickingto our routines, the demons have a habit of taking advantage when they spot an opening, so on the ninth day of Master’s convalescence, I suggest that he might tell one of the men to lock me in my box.
“What are the voices saying, tesoro?” he asks with concern.
I try to sort through the din and the rabble. The overarching theme is that they want a blood sacrifice, a few cuts to release some of the mounting tension.
“They want me to cut. Just a little,” I add, so that Master won’t worry too much. I really hate to bother him with my problems when he clearly needs to focus on getting better.
“Undress yourself and come up here.” He adjusts the bed and removes the covers, then pats the space between his thighs. Anthony is nearby and a voyeur to this exchange, though his face doesn’t betray anything out of the ordinary, another reason I tolerate him better than the others. “Anthony,” Master makes a motion, “shut the door, will ya?”
I undress quickly, already feeling more centered than I have since Master’s party that went disastrously wrong.
“I haven’t been able to milk you,” Master says with a note of regret as I settle myself between his strong legs.
“You’ve needed your rest. This slave feels inadequate that they are unable to manage a couple of weeks without Master’s attention.”
“Schiavo,” he says softly. “None of that. Master appreciates your care. It’s because of you that I’m feeling so much better, not to mention…” He lowers his voice to whisper in my ear, “You saved my life, tesoro.”
“This slave would do anything to ensure his Master’s well-being,” I say as a wash of gratitude overcomes me that we’re together in this moment, that we have cheated death yet again.
I try to let his praise quell the demons the way a blanket smothers flames, but they are very persistent today. Too many people and too many demands. Too many decisions to be made. Master rests one large palm against my throat, stroking along my tendons and down to my collar bone. He calls for Anthony to get him the lube, and Anthony obliges, knowing or maybe guessing where it’s kept. He’s no Rico but he’s the only one Master has allowed into our bedroom and the only one who has witnessed our more intimate exchanges.
With his right hand now lubricated, Master takes hold of my cock. I feel exponentially more secure and even more so when Master says, “Lift your chin.” I raise my head until my throat is fully exposed with the back of my head resting against his clavicle. “When my hand is here,” he grips my throat with his left hand, firmly just underneath my jaw, “you do not have permission to breathe. Understand?”
“Yes, Master.”
We’ve done breath play before, but not quite like this. I have excellent lung capacity from swimming and Master knows this already, so the first round takes a while. When he finally releases my throat, I gasp for breath and my cock plumps to full arousal. The blood flows so hard and so fast to my dick that it prickles from the sensation.
“Very good,” Master murmurs with admiration. He has complimented my obedience many times; he finds my willingness to deprive myself of breath and movement—without any real physical restraint—extremely arousing.
Anthony’s eyes dart over at us and then away, like he can’t decide whether or not to watch.
“You can observe us if you’d like,” Master says. He’s open about our practices amongst those in the lifestyle and has given demonstrations using me as his submissive. Only me. That’s one of my rules. I’m terrible at sharing—always have been—and if I found out Master’s hands had been touching someone else, doing for them what he does for me, my wrath would surely be summoned. Regardless, Master says he prefers our exclusivity, that I’m a handful already.
The exhibitionism is more for his ego than my own, but Master should be proud of his techniques. I’m not an easy sub to manage. Some aspects of my character are well-suited to service, but other parts are not subservient at all. Master never “broke” me, as other Dominants may have been tempted to do. Rather, like channeling water, he narrowed my options until the path I chose was his own, until my will was his will too.
We go a few more rounds, and every time Master’s hand clamps around my neck, I feel such exquisite pleasure that my toes point and I almost regret having to breathe when he releases me again. I’m dizzy but not dangerously so, euphoric but not so gone that I cannot feel his other hand gliding smoothly over my cock or hear the words of possession he whispers into my ear.
“You breathe because I allow it, schiavo,” he rumbles. I moan, unable to respond verbally. “You were put on this path to serve me in every way. Body, mind, and soul. The voices do not control you. You do not control yourself. I am the only one who controls you.”
Though barely more than a whisper, Master’s voice is louder than the demons, and it reassures me unlike anything else. It might be an hour or three when I finally orgasm, spilling over Master’s capable hand and onto my navel. It’s a good one, despite our circumstance. I know the amount of energy it must have taken for him to give me this gift and for that, I’m grateful.
“Thank you, Master,” I murmur, leaning back against him to recover. My neck muscles are sore from the pressure of his palm and my throat is dry from gasping for air. I hope there will be bruises, but even if not, this will have to do.
“Prego, schiavo.”
Master holds up his hand so that I may lick the cum from his fingers. Anthony watches me with rapt attention. I think about his version of freedom and feel dangerously superior as my tongue dips between my Master’s knuckles to collect the droplets of cream that have collected there.