Master’s Schiavo by Laura Lascarso

5

It’s been two weeks now and Dr. Greyson stopped by yesterday to tell us Master is cleared to resume his normal activities with the caution to go easy on his more athletic pursuits. The doctor said that last bit with a subtle nod in my direction, which I took as a compliment. Being part of the BDSM community and a close personal friend, Dr. Greyson knows firsthand how physical Master likes to get with me. People probably wonder how Master maintains his stamina. I am here to tell you about the wonders of Viagra and a heart-healthy diet.

Now, I’m dressing Master for his meeting with the Commission, which is what they call the ambassadors and negotiators of the prominent New York families. They meet to strategize, settle disputes, and prevent turf wars. Or try to. Sometimes the meetings turn violent, and the Commission gets disbanded for a spell. There are, of course, rules of engagement, but you really can’t count on anything when dealing with criminals or politicians. I once suggested to Rico that if they started conducting business via video conference it might prevent a lot of cleanup detail, but he argued one of them would accidentally hit record and get them all sent to Club Fed, which I thought was a good point.

The sit-down is happening at a location unbeknownst to me. The running of the family business is not this slave’s concern, but the presentation of my Master is. I have very good taste, thanks to my grandfather’s influence and the guidance of my stylists over the years. I’ve convinced Master to get a few extravagant suits for occasions such as this, and it’s one of those that I pick out for him today—Armani, black, tailored, sharp. While I manipulate his silk tie into a Hanover knot, Master jokes with Anthony that at least if he’s knocked off, he’ll already be wearing his funeral suit. I scowl at him and he chucks my chin.

“Kidding, Giovanni.”

It does very little to assuage my fears as I use the pomade to slick back his thick hair and neaten his eyebrows. He looks so handsome that all I want is to sit him in his leather recliner with a good cigar and ride him until we both come, but there’s no time for that now. Maybe later.

If he comes back,the demons whisper.

I shake my head and Master, sensing my anxiety, wraps one arm around me, crushing me to his beautiful, pressed suit.

“I’ll be fine, tesoro.”

I nod and put on a brave face, determined not to cry in front of Anthony or Master’s other hired muscle. They depart soon after with only Anthony left behind to watch over me. I get the impression that Master is trying to make Anthony the new Rico, which is an impossibility in itself. Rico is due some vacation time, and rumor has it that he and his family are going on a cruise. Laying low, if you will. While I know the vacation is well-deserved, I do not like new people in our orbit, especially those who don’t understand the unique dynamic between Master and slave.

“Boss said you need to call Rebekah today,” Anthony says, which irritates the shit out of me because who in the hell does he think he is to remind me of my own damn therapy appointment?

“I don’t need to be told what to do by a grunt,” I snap. It doesn’t even help that he’s a few years older than me. He’s still a boy by my estimation.

He nods respectfully and doesn’t say another word about it.

“May I have my phone please?” I ask a little while later because I do, in fact, need to call Rebekah. Anthony digs into his suit jacket and pulls out a cheap burner phone with only two numbers programmed into it, those belonging to my Master and my therapist, Rebekah.

“Would you like me to…” He jerks his thumb at the other side of the room.

“I’ll take it in my box,” I tell him and then lead the way there.

The men have all seen my box. It stands on the far side of Master’s massive bedroom suite. I know they have questions. I think they believe it’s for some sort of sex ritual or erotic demonstration. Master and I have never had sex in the box. It’s my safe space and sometimes it’s my punishment, but the point is that it’s always mine. Master only enters to make sure I haven’t hidden any contraband inside, and if it needs to be cleaned, I’m the one who does it.

I climb the platform and step inside, shutting the door behind me. It locks from the outside but that’s not necessary today. Anthony can see me through the glass, but the sound is muffled, which also comes in handy for Master when the demons take over.

“Giovanni,” Rebekah says when I call her.

“Hello, Rebekah.”

“So nice to hear from you. I missed you last week.”

Last week we were still dealing with the fallout from Salvatore Tagliarini’s unexpected demise. Master won’t let me miss two weeks in a row.

“It’s been a difficult couple of weeks,” I tell her.

“Has it? What’s your stress level right now?”

This is how Rebekah refers to my demons. She doesn’t like “voices” because she feels it shifts the responsibility away from me. She also doesn’t believe in demonic possession. Well, beliefs are like opinions and assholes.

“I’m at about a seven,” I tell her honestly.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s been going on?” she says casually. “Start at the beginning.”

I’ve never met Rebekah in person, but I know she has a miniature poodle named Judicious who recently celebrated his Bark-mitzvah because they’re Jewish and he was turning thirteen years old. I had Master send Rebekah a basket of extravagant dog treats shaped like gelt, which she said she had to parse out because Judicious overindulged the first night and puked all over her nice Persian rug. These are the kinds of details she shares with me, while I tell her about the poisonous things my mother used to say to me during my kidnapping like calling me a dirty little faggot and accusing me of seducing her rapist boyfriend.

Master insisted that I talk to Rebekah as a condition of adopting our lifestyle, and even though our sessions sometimes trigger a tantrum or depressive episode, I know that she’s helping me process my trauma and survive day-to-day. Master is good but he’s not a miracle worker. Rebekah also has an excellent understanding of BDSM and our particular lifestyle, so my only conclusion is that she knows Master through that avenue as opposed to his professional one, though her grasp of mob politics isn’t bad either. Even still, I’m careful to leave out any incriminating details.

“There was a death in the family,” I tell her, “the extended family, that is, very unexpected. And Master was injured, pretty severely.”

“That must have been terrible,” she says sympathetically. “Is your Master okay?”

“Yes, he’s fine. He’s at a very important meeting today.” I pause and take a deep breath because if he doesn’t come home…

“Is this meeting the cause of your stress?” she asks.

“That’s part of it. There are also a lot of people coming in and out of the house. To help take care of Master and keep us safe.”

“That’s a lot of disruptions to your rituals and routines, not to mention your Master probably hasn’t been able to enforce his rules much, has he?”

“No, not really. I’m trying very hard to be good.”

“I’m sure you are, Giovanni. That sounds like a lot to manage. Can you tell me some of the ways in which you’ve served your Master these past two weeks?”

I recline back on my foam mattress to recount them. The most obvious one is that I shot Salvatore Tagliarini in the face. Again, there is this nagging feeling that I should feel worse about taking a man’s life, but I have no regrets. I’d do anything to protect my Master.

“When Master was injured, I was very quick to react. He says that I saved his life.”

I hear the astonishment in Rebekah’s voice, “Wow, Giovanni, that’s quite an achievement. I’m sure your Master is very grateful to you for your quick thinking.”

I probably don’t give myself enough credit, so I take a moment to congratulate myself for doing the exact right thing at the exact right time.

“I’ve also been taking care of him while he recovers, making sure he stays in bed and preparing his food for him. You know, the usual things.”

“But with a lot of added stressors,” she says.

“Yes,” I admit readily.

“Tell me, Giovanni, does taking care of your Master like this bring up memories of your grandfather when he was nearing the end of his life.”

I nod, bracing myself emotionally. If there is a scab anywhere on my psyche, Rebekah knows just how to pick it off. “Yes, I think it does.”

“That must be scary for you, worrying about your Master in that way, but there are some differences between the two situations, aren’t there?”

“Yeah, I never sucked my grandfather’s cock to get him to eat his soup,” I tell her.

“Giovanni,” she says in a lightly chiding tone, though I’d like to think she might also have a smile on her face. “You’re deflecting.”

I sniff and rub my eyes, trying to stall the tears. “The biggest difference is that Master is feeling better already. This is truly an injury, not an illness, and he’s making a full recovery. He’s not going to die.”

Not by Salvatore Tagliarini’s hand, anyway. If I didn’t have to clean it up myself, I’d spit on the ground to scorn his name.

“But you still worry about him,” she says. I nod silently. “Giovanni, do you ever think about the age difference between you and your Master?”

I know that Master thinks about it more than me. That’s why he hesitated in claiming me, because of our age difference. His friends have commented on it too. Rebekah and I have talked about my seeking the comfort of older men as a way to recreate the safety and stability I felt in my grandfather’s care. But it’s not like I’m pursuing older men as a rule, just one older man in particular. And even if it were true, I don’t really see why it matters all that much, so long as both our needs are getting met.

“I think about it sometimes,” I tell her. “Usually, I only see it as an advantage. Master knows all the tricks on how to make me behave.”

“Does he make you behave, or do you demonstrate your gratitude through honoring his rules and obeying his commands?”

The place where the BDSM and therapy communities overlap most obviously is in their love of proper lexicon and pedagogy.

“This slave only wishes to serve his Master,” I tell her, an easy refrain.

“Do you ever think about a future time when your Master may not be capable of dominating you in the way in which you need?”

I can feel her question triggering something deep inside of me, and I immediately revert to my mantras. “This slave lives only in the present, as it is not the slave’s responsibility to contemplate the future. The slave exists to gratify the desires of his Master when Master demands. That is the sole concern of this slave.”

“I understand your reluctance, Giovanni. A large portion of your life up until now has been about survival. Does it make you uncomfortable to think about or plan for the future?”

“Yes.”

“Can you articulate why?”

My past is blood and pain and poison. The future is a long empty road with storm clouds thundering in the distance. In some ways, being neglected and ignored was worse than any of my other traumas. Being used and then cast aside like garbage. Waking up or coming out of my drug-induced haze to find myself terrified and alone, in pain and not understanding why any of this was happening to me.

I say to Rebekah, “The only safe place is with Master, right here, right now.” Whether he’s holding me or fucking me or disciplining me… “With Master, I’m always safe and I am never alone.

“The future is unknown,” Rebekah says, “and it can be hard to map the points in between where you are right now and where you might like to be later. Here’s what I’m going to ask you to do, Giovanni. When you’re feeling stronger, and when things are a bit more stable in your household, I want you to ask your Master if he has a plan for the future. It may not be the slave’s place to know the details of the plan, only to know that a plan exists. I think that may bring you some comfort when your day-to-day life is feeling topsy turvy. What do you think?”

“Master always has a plan,” I tell her.

“I’m sure he does.” And then she says the other words of affirmation I long to hear, “From what you tell me, it sounds like your Master loves you very much. And I can imagine that he’d want to reassure you that there is a plan for you. Because what does a good Master always do, Giovanni?”

“A good Master takes care of his slave.”

“Yes, he does.”

Master is still awayby the time Rebekah and I finish our session. He’ll likely be gone until the evening, which means I need to fill the hours between now and then. Victoria, my esthetician, wasn’t able to come for my appointment due to the heightened security, so I asked Master for permission to wax myself. The pain will help too, take the edge off my anxiety. Anthony, my minder, sits on the edge of the bed in Master’s bedroom while I minister myself in the en suite bathroom. The angles are all wrong, which means that I’ll probably miss some spots, but it’s better than nothing. If Master can take a bullet and survive, I can endure a subpar waxing.

“I don’t know how you can do that to yourself,” Anthony says while I pull a strip off my inner thigh. I don’t have to answer him, but I’m bored and could use the distraction.

“It’s a small sacrifice this slave makes in order to be pleasing to his Master’s touch.”

Another rip in the crevice of my groin, tearing the hair follicles from their roots along with the top layer of my skin. Yes, this feels much better.

“So, are you bare… everywhere?” he asks. He’s seen me shower and change in the pool’s locker room before. He knows the answer already.

“Yes.”

“I guess that makes sense for…” he stalls again. His habit of not finishing his sentences irritates the fuck out of me.

“For what?” I ask, unable to resist.

“For when he, um…”

I count to three and yank another strip from the base of my balls. My skin is a forest razed by fire, every pore crying out in agony and pain. Yes, the demons say, more.

“For when he fucks me?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“Are you thinking about fucking me, Anthony?” I purr, as my finger drifts across my chest and plucks at one of my nipple rings. I shouldn’t be touching myself like this. I really need to be bred.

“What? No.”

I smile. I have too much fun sometimes. “That’s good because if Master sees you even look at me wrong, he’ll cut off your balls.” That’s patently not true. The men look at me all the time, but they never touch. Master finds their fascination amusing, as do I.

“I wouldn’t,” Anthony stammers. “I haven’t.”

“I saw you looking at me in the shower just this morning.” Maybe he was watching me. Maybe he was just doing his surveillance duties. Who’s to say?

“I’m not gay,” Anthony states adamantly.

“You don’t have to be gay to fuck a man.”

“Pretty sure that’s the definition of gay.”

“To be gay, there’s an element of sexual attraction or romantic interest, but you can fuck a man out of spite or anger or simply because there are no wet pussies available.” Or on a dare, I think bitterly.

I see him shaking his head through the gap in the open door. He finds my crassness amusing and perhaps also surprising. People think that because I submit to Master so readily that I will be meek with them too.

“Are you gay?” he asks.

I’ve wrestled with my sexuality long enough to know that I don’t know what I am. I like being dominated by Valentin Fortuna. I’m also sexually attracted to him, but more so in the context where he takes charge. His authority turns me on and makes me want to serve and obey. He’s kind and considerate in his own way, but he is seldom nice, and if he were a “nice guy,” I might not be interested in him at all.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly.

“The things you and the boss do seem pretty fucking gay to me.”

This makes me cackle. Pretty fucking gay. If Master heard Anthony right now, he’d die laughing. Anthony’s phone rings a moment later, and I know from his deferent tone that it’s my Master.

“Is he all right?” I ask as soon as Anthony ends the call. I’m standing in the doorway between our rooms wearing my silk robe.

“He wanted me to tell you that he’s fine and that he wants you in position to serve when he gets home, that the other men will be stationed outside, except for me. And that you’ll be getting a reward.”

I smile like the cat that ate the canary, ate the whole fucking aviary. “Well, it looks like it’s going to be an exciting night for both of us, Anthony.”

When Master returns home,I’m waiting to receive him on my velvet pillow. My posture is impeccable, my hair is brushed and glossy, and my skin is soft and silky to the touch. Anthony hovers in the kitchen, trying not to watch the intimate exchange between us as I worship Master’s hand and demonstrate my obedience. Master notices Anthony’s skittishness and asks, “What’s the matter with you?”

Anthony’s eyes cut away from him to glance at me again. “Your schiavo told me if I look at him, you’ll cut off my balls.”

Fucking snitch, I want to scream at him in a sudden rage. If that stupid fucking cunt just messed up my reward, I am going to cut off his balls myself.

“Did you say that to him, Giovanni?” Master asks. He squeezes my jaw in his firm grip and forces me to look at him.

“Yes, but I was only playing,” I tell him and make my eyes go wide and innocent.

He shakes his head, smirking. “You and your smart mouth.”

“I’m sorry, Master.”

“You should apologize to Anthony.”

“I’m sorry for teasing you, Anthony,” I say flatly and try to keep myself from glaring at him.

“Hmmm,” Master says. “You could make that a little more convincing next time, schiavo.”

Not mouthing off to Master’s grunts isn’t one of my rules. And I apologized, so there will be no punishment. “This slave needs constant correction,” I tell him with an angelic smile.

“That you do,” Master says and then to Anthony, “Anthony, you want to watch me reward my sub?”

He says it like he’s asking Anthony to get him a beer from the fridge. Anthony tugs at his cheap tie as his eyes dart back and forth between us.

“I mean, I could.”

I nearly roll my eyes. Anthony’s need is so apparent it’s embarrassing. I don’t know yet whether it’s to dominate or be dominated, but I’m sure Master will ferret it out before long. My suspicion that Master is grooming Anthony to be the new Rico is confirmed. He’s testing Anthony to see if he can bear witness to our intimacy without passing judgment.

“Is that all right with you, Gio?” Master asks.

“It’s fine,” I tell him, though my feelings about Rico being replaced are more complicated.

After I undress Master and wash him in the shower, he escorts me to the playroom with Anthony trailing behind like a lost hound. My reward is a paddling on the spanking bench. Fairly tame, but I must remind myself that Master just got shot two weeks ago. I position myself so that my knees are secure on the vinyl pads with my ass hanging off the edge. My cock and balls dangle in the air. The bench, like most of Master’s dungeon furniture, is designed to make his sub both vulnerable and accessible, but the apparatus is sturdy, which is good because Master has a heavy hand. Master makes me count the blows and he doesn’t go easy on me. If anything, he’s showing off for Anthony’s benefit. The wooden paddle has holes in it to maximize the impact, and each hole acts like a reverse nail against my flesh. I whine and moan from the needling sting while focusing on the pitch of the whistling sound it makes every time Master cracks my ass. I’m not able to fly away because of the distractions, but tonight I don’t really mind. This scene is for Master and slave to get reoriented, and for the schiavo to be put in his proper place.

“Giovanni likes pain,” Master says to Anthony with a kind of academic musing. He tugs on my plug until it’s stretching me to its widest diameter before pushing it back inside. I writhe on the bench and attempt to hump the air. Anthony can now appreciate why I’m bare all over. “That’s what he needs to go into subspace.”

What Master doesn’t mention is that he also likes inflicting pain, but maybe Anthony knows this already. This brings on another round of questions and now I do roll my eyes because, while I appreciate Master taking the time to educate a newb, there is also something called the Internet. No doubt Anthony’s fingers will be busy later. At least Master is stroking my hair while they talk.

“But he doesn’t like to be called names or be denigrated for the sake of it.”

“This slave would endure it if that’s what Master desired,” I say drowsily. Master massages my ass cheeks, which have been set aflame by the paddle. The effect of his fingers digging into my already tender muscles is like poking a wound. Master knows how to maximize his efforts.

“Master didn’t ask for your input,” he reminds me. “In fact, it was the schiavo’s smart mouth that got him into trouble in the first place.”

I smile. Master must be feeling better if he’s acting so frisky.

“You’re going to have trouble sitting down tomorrow,” Master says, already looking forward to it.

“It’s a small sacrifice to please my Master,” I tell him. My breakfast will be served in bed, but when I do finally make it to the dining table, he’ll remind me to use a pillow, then watch me try to get comfortable, reveling in my discomfort the entire time.

They speak a little more about what this slave likes and dislikes while I appreciate the attention Master is paying to my plug, using it to lazily torment my prostate. He wants me to feel good after all the hard work I’ve put in these past two weeks.

“And do you always…” that maddening pause again. “Do you always, uh…”

“Fuck him?” Master asks. He’s direct about the things we do. If you can’t say it… “Usually. But sometimes, I fuck him with toys instead of my cock, or I make him wear the cage, so he doesn’t feel any pleasure at all.”

I feel some pleasure, but it’s not nearly as gratifying as being permitted to come.

This brings on another round of questions about the reasons for chastity, and when I start to get antsy, Master gives me a hard thwack with the palm of his hand. I prefer this sort of skin-to-skin contact and groan from the impact. “See how he likes that,” Master says as he strokes my swollen cock, then flicks the head of it, which makes me draw back but not very far because Master is right behind me, blocking my retreat. “How do you think he’d look with a piercing in his cock?” Master asks and I know that he’s teasing Anthony now.

“Ah… well...”

“I could attach it to his nipple rings and lead him around like a dog. Would you like that, Giovanni?”

“Master knows what acts of humility are most appropriate for this slave,” I say mildly. The piercings were my idea, as Master is something of a purist.

“I could give him hormones so that he grows tits.” Master strokes the side of my chest, then dips underneath to tug sharply on one of my nipple rings. Fuck, yes. “Milk his tits every morning like I milk his gland.”

This touches on some of my insecurities, namely my inability to be biologically bred by my Master. “Is Master displeased with his slave’s appearance?” I ask, my tone just short of snippy.

“You’re perfect, tesoro, you know that. The most beautiful boy,” Master compliments while stroking the curve of my ass. He gets high on his power too.

“He is very attractive,” Anthony admits like it kills him to do so.

Sounds pretty fucking gay to me, Anthony,I want to shout, but I keep my smart mouth shut.

“He’s my golden boy,” Master says. “My very own treasure.” He then pushes two digits inside my mouth, and I readily accept them, gazing up at Anthony while making love to my Master’s fingers with my tongue and lips. His fingers fork so that he may sweep the inside of my mouth, then plunge deeper. In and out, he mimics the motion of a cock, depressing my tongue and testing my gag reflex to make sure I haven’t forgotten my training. Master is covering all his bases, reestablishing his claim on the places that have been lying dormant while he was on bed rest. “Very good, Gio,” he says and then to Anthony, “I might be able to find someone for you. If you’re interested…”

Anthony startles or maybe he just came in his pants. “Oh, I don’t… ah….”

“Think about it,” Master says. “Now, if you don’t mind?”

Anthony backs away, only a little, and rather than relocating, Master fucks me right there on the bench. It’s dirty and delicious and makes me feel like a complete whore to be used like that right there in front of Anthony’s wide-eyed stare. I howl and rut on Master’s cock like his best breeding bitch, and Master smacks my thigh to show me he likes it too.

Pretty fucking gay,I think to myself with a chuckle.

When I come, it’s with the glut of a pig in shit, snorting and grunting in delight while Master chuckles at my enthusiasm. After we both finish, Master makes me clean the cum I spilled on the bench with my tongue before he wipes it down with a disinfectant. Back in his bedroom, he shows Anthony how to properly medicate my ass cheeks while explaining the importance of aftercare. I’m already dozing in Master’s lavish, king-sized bed while he drones on and on about the proper care and feeding of his slave. He makes it sound as if I’m needy or something.

Once Anthony’s been stationed in the living room with a couple of others, and I’m lying in my Master’s arms feeling wrung out in the very best way, he asks me about my day. I tell him a little about my session with Rebekah, only what I feel comfortable sharing. And then I say, “The events of the past two weeks have shaken this slave’s sense of security and stability. This slave worries about his Master being involved in such a dangerous profession and would like to know if Master has a plan.”

He’s slow to respond but eventually, he says in his measured way, “Master does have a plan, specifically one to keep his slave safe while he wraps up a few loose ends. The important thing for this slave to remember is that his Master will always provide for him.” He touches my chin so that I’ll look at him. He gives me that well-deep stare that cuts through all my defenses and carefully constructed selves. “I will always take care of you, Giovanni.”

I nod and lower my head in deference. “Thank you, Master.”