Master’s Schiavo by Laura Lascarso
6
We’re going on a trip. From what Master has told me and what I’ve overheard the men discussing when they think I’m not paying attention, New York is a little too hot right now. The don of the Tagliarini family is pissed that his brother’s kid got murdered by Valentin Fortuna’s boy whore (even though that’s not the official story). Master worries there might also be rumors circulating as to my true identity. For these reasons and more, we’re traveling to Italy to see the sights and visit Silvio at the Fortuna brothers’ coastal property in Ischia, an island off the coast of Naples. I’ve been to Italy once before with my grandfather when I was thirteen, but it was a business trip, so we couldn’t explore the country all that much. Despite the circumstance, this will be a vacation for both of us. Master has promised to spoil me rotten but has given me very few details beyond that.
I have questions, of course, but I remind myself that curiosity is not this slave’s virtue. Master instructs me to pack lightly, only my favorite toys, toiletries, and jewelry. He’ll have a few things shipped to his estate, and we’ll go shopping in Milan for some new clothing and shoes for me once we arrive, which is exciting. All the fashion trends hit Milan months before they make it over here.
The only drawback is that Anthony will be accompanying us. Master says we need the added security, that he won’t be able to enjoy taking in the sights if he’s constantly looking over his shoulder. I suspect Master might also want a second set of eyes on me, but I don’t mention it because Master knows best. I have my doubts that Anthony, being relatively young and new to the family, is the best choice in muscle until we’re waiting in the JFK airport terminal to disembark and a friend of Master’s named Sir Keller approaches us. Anthony intercepts him so quickly that my head spins.
All is well, though. Sir Keller isn’t connected to the mob. He’s a leather Daddy with a rope fetish and one of the Dominants who was present at my collaring ceremony. He’s begged Master in the past to let him tie me up for Master’s pleasure (and I’ve definitely been interested), but I’m just not ready for that yet.
I wonder sometimes how Master manages it when his worlds collide—mobster, businessman, Dominant, homosexual. It takes a strong man to integrate one’s many selves into one life. And then I think about my own meekness, a slave who must be given permission to come or to speak in the presence of men, who even as a boy has stood in the shadow of great men. But if I am the one who offers my Master such succor with my body and contentment through my servitude, surely some of his greatness must belong to me too.
Sir Keller claps Master on the back and tells him he must run and catch a flight but to enjoy our vacation. “And keep an eye on this one,” he says and winks at me. I smile demurely at his innocent flirtations. Sir Keller has tried to convince Master to let him play with me as he has in the past with former subs, but Master won’t allow it. I could probably be persuaded with someone we both trusted, but Master readily admits he is too possessive to share me. It’s comforting to know that no one else will ever have me; I will belong to my Master as his bed-warming catamite forever.
For now, Master places his hand at the base of my spine and says to Sir Keller with a polite curtness, “I surely will.”
Master flies first class,always, and on the rare occasions when I’ve flown, so do I. I know I’ve spoken about some of our luxuries, but I can attest that the one place you’ll want to splurge if you can afford it is on a transatlantic flight. Master and I sit together on one side of the cabin with Anthony directly behind us. The seat next to Anthony is empty, and he appears to be on high alert. Now that we’re confined on a plane without weapons, I can appreciate Master’s forethought in bringing on the added security.
The flight attendant is flirting with Master, which I find amusing. She’s an attractive woman in her early forties and definitely more age-appropriate than myself. She keeps offering Master amenities—a warm towel, fresh cookies, a refill on his seltzer. I think if I were in her shoes, I’d cut to the chase and offer him a blowjob. Isn’t that what every man wants?
When Master gets up to use the bathroom, the woman stops by again to see if I need anything. I do not and tell her so politely.
“Your father is very attentive,” she says, finding a reason to linger. Master asked for a blanket and pillow so that I might be more comfortable while I watch the in-flight movie. I have to give her credit, though, it’s pretty smart to go through a man’s boy to get his attention.
“He really is,” I say. “He’s had a really hard time since my mother passed.” I sigh as if bereaved and she echoes her sympathies. “It was so sudden, you see. My mother was jogging through Central Park when a bolt of lightning struck her dead.”
There’s a snort behind us. Anthony covers it by clearing his throat.
“I’m so sorry,” the woman says while her eyes light up because she sees an opening. “It must have been so hard for you both to lose her like that.”
“It really was. That’s why we’re taking this vacation. Ma always wanted to visit Italy. I only wish my dad had someone he could share his time with. You see, I’d love to go out dancing, maybe take in the nightlife, but I don’t want to leave him all alone.”
“Well, I have a layover,” she offers. “I’d be happy to show him some of the sights.”
I smile. “That would be lovely. Why don’t you write down your phone number,” I hand her the drink napkin, “and I’ll pass it along to him when he gets back.”
“Wonderful,” she says and does so eagerly. I could probably ask her for a dozen cookies at this point and she’d give them to me without batting an eye, but Master is making his way over.
“What did she want?” he asks gruffly once he’s seated next to me again. It’s not that Master is jealous, but he is very protective. “She told me I have a very attentive father,” I say with a slow smile. We get mistaken for father and son all the time. I think it’s hilarious. Master less so.
He shakes his head. “That you do.”
“I said you were still grieving the loss of my mother.”
“Giovanni,” he chides, but he’s smiling.
“She gave me her number if you want to go with her to see the sights.” I show him the napkin.
“I should make you eat that.”
I tear off the top layer of the napkin, tuck it into my mouth, and then swallow it down with a chaser of his Pellegrino. He shakes his head at my antics and tells me I’m too much. After that I try to get comfortable, but I’m restless and out of sorts because we’re off our routine and there are too many unknowns confronting us when we arrive. Master has a plan, but what if it’s one I don’t like? This slave is so curious.
“Will you fuck me in the bathroom?” I whine to him a little while later. It’s a long flight and due to our travel schedule, I wasn’t milked this morning.
“No, I will not.”
“Can I suck you off under the blanket?”
“No, and if you keep it up, I’m going to cage you as soon as we land, and I won’t let you out for a week.”
I sigh morosely and stare out the window. Master lays one hand atop my thigh and gently squeezes, reminding me he’s here and he knows best. When the flight attendant comes by again, she notices the position of his hand and does a double take. Master smiles charmingly and says to her smoothly, “My boy and I are very close.”
Master checksus into a suite at the Palazzo Parigi in Milan with breathtaking views of the city. The hotel houses a spa with a counter-current pool where I can swim laps in the mornings, a luxurious steam room, and masseurs on staff specializing in three different types of massage. Our suite of rooms includes an area for entertaining so that Master can invite friends over, as well as an adjacent room for Anthony. Master says we’ll resume our routine tomorrow once we’ve recovered from our long flight, and I must admit that blowing my Master the next morning while gazing across the Milan skyline makes this slave feel pretty spoiled rotten.
After that, we go shopping—Canali, Armani, Versace, and Montezemolo, which was started by the owner of Ferrari and just goes to show that fast cars and well-dressed Italian men are a perfect pairing. Master has a Beamer in New York that he takes out sometimes, but more often he’s driven around by the family. He’s already promised me a convertible for my next birthday if I continue to demonstrate my virtues. I think a red one would suit me.
At the clothing stores I choose my favorite pieces and model them for Master. He either approves of them or not, but all the ones I want, I get. I receive a few looks from the shop attendants at my cock cage, which stretches the fabric of my tight Versace briefs, but this is really the only way to make sure my pants will lay well over my groin when I’m wearing it.
In the whirlwind of decadent meals and expensive gifts and fucking on every surface of the lavish suite, the highlight of our stay in Milan is when Master invites a couple of his Dominant friends over to play poker. Master has maintained his ties to the old country and visits regularly. In addition to running the Aponte family business, he’s part owner of his brother’s venture and has a few cousins and distant relatives scattered around Italy.
On the night of the poker party, one of the men brings along a submissive of their own who Master invites to sit next to me. I’m wearing my gold accoutrement and draped across an elegant chaise like Hadrian’s beloved Antinous. The seat is big enough for two, and I wouldn’t mind the company. Master gives me permission to speak with Alessia, a female sub, probably because he wants me to practice my Italian.
Alessia is in her mid-thirties and attractive in the way that most Italian women are, with raven hair and a rich Mediterranean complexion. Even with her natural beauty, she wears long, fake eyelashes with rouged cheeks and a painted beauty mark near her mouth that reminds me of depictions of French prostitutes in the late Renaissance, when the aristocratic trends of the high court trickled down into the brothels and whorehouses and the women made themselves up to be attractive to rich men. The gloss around Alessia’s lips is messy and smeared, as though her Dominant made use of her mouth in the car ride over, or perhaps in the hallway outside our suite.
Some Dominants like their subs to look used and whorish as a testament to their virility. Some will paint their faces with their cum and have them wear it as a badge of honor. I can see the appeal. I, myself, have fantasized about the Japanese practice of bukkake, which is when several men ejaculate on one person’s face until their skin is milk white. But Master says he alone can mark me, so it remains only a fantasy for now.
Alessia greets me briefly before settling back on the chaise and opening her legs to display her sex. Her clit is pierced, and she manipulates it between her manicured fingers, stealing glances at her Dom to see if she has his attention.
He looks over at her once or twice, probably considers claiming her, but ultimately goes back to playing cards. Master also pays attention to my reaction, probably not wanting me to get any ideas (as if I were so easily influenced!) but this sort of blatant eroticism feels cheap to me. And a little desperate. Because of Master’s background and his current position of power, and because we’re the same sex, he’d never want me to be so obvious. In public we are discreet and even in private, any overt displays of sexuality are on his terms.
“What’s your name, handsome,” she asks when it seems her Dominant will not leave the company of men.
“Giovanni,” I tell her, though I’d be happy to be known only as my Master’s schiavo.
“You look like a good little boy, all dolled up for daddy’s poker party.”
I don’t know what she means to imply, other than a general sense of superiority, and since it’s not a question, there’s no real need to respond. She continues with, “Your master looks pretty old, baby boy. Can he still get it up for you or does he have to bring in a stud?”
I don’t discuss our private life with anyone but Rebekah, and I will not discuss it with her. I know some subs like to compare notes about their Dominants’ particular talents or brag about the sizes of their dicks or if it’s a Mistress, the female equivalent, but I feel disrespectful doing so. It is not this slave’s job to rate their Master’s performance, only to accept what they are given and be grateful.
“I bet he does.” She nods knowingly. “I bet he likes to watch you get fucked by a few big, strapping bulls, all taking their turns doing doggy style on that sweet little ass of yours.”
I’m doing my best to translate, but the Italian equivalent to “doggy style,” is actually a pecorina or “sheep style.” Italy is a bucolic country.
“I like your piercing,” I tell her, which takes the attention away from myself. Alessia goes on to tell me where she got it done and how it hurt like a bitch but that she likes the extra stimulation, especially when her Dom takes it into his mouth and sucks hard. “He can make me come all night long,” she says smugly.
We then drift into talking about other subjects, hair care products and hair removal—she has a Brazilian wax and is impressed by my commitment to be bare.
“Does your master fuck women?” she asks, probably noticing that even though I’m fit, I’m not the most masculine of slave boys. This feels safe enough to answer.
“No, only men.”
“How’s his cock?” She really has a one-track mind.
“This slave doesn’t comment on his Master’s endowments, only accepts the blessings he’s been bestowed.”
She laughs at that, bawdy but not unkind. “Well, aren’t you a good little boy?”
As the night wears on, I can tell Alessia is growing impatient for her Dom’s attention. I can sympathize. When your whole focus in life is narrowed to the sole purpose of pleasing one individual, it’s difficult to concentrate on anything else for very long, especially when we’re dressed up and displayed as we are, like lavish, fuckable pets, and even more so when the musk of man is so thick in the air. Their deep voices and hearty chuckles are like an aphrodisiac to this slave’s senses, and I have the urge myself to make sexual advances if it meant persuading my Master to come claim me.
I don’t though. Patience is this slave’s virtue.
Alessia goes back to massaging herself, her breasts this time, which are nice and round as half melons with pert brown nipples. I tell her about the erotic art of antiquity, specifically those sculptures depicting prostitutes. “They held their breasts like this,” I say and grip my own chest to show her. “That meant they were selling their wares.”
Alessia likes this and she goes back to modeling the pose, splayed out on the chaise like a true Babylonian whore. She has her Dom’s attention now. The men are taking a break or perhaps the game has concluded. Master pours his guests another drink while Alessia skates one hand along my thigh. A suggestion or an invitation. My cock is caged so there’s no real threat of arousal. Consenting subs often play with one another for the entertainment and pleasure of their Dominants, but she shouldn’t touch me without my Master’s permission.
“Does your slave fuck women?” Alessia’s Dom asks my own.
“My slave doesn’t fuck anyone, not even his own hand.”
That’s true. I haven’t touched myself in an erotic way for at least two years now. Orgasms must be earned through service and only according to Master’s wishes.
“Too bad,” the man muses. “I’d like to see them play. You could uncage him, let Alessia suck him off.”
“I don’t think so,” Master says. “And I’d appreciate it if your sub didn’t touch him either.” The Dominant motions to Alessia, and her hand lifts from my thigh almost immediately, which is a relief, not because I felt threatened but because I like knowing Master will protect me.
The men move closer to where we’re lounging and spread out on couches and recliners around the room. I can tell Master wants my attention by the way he’s watching me. His pheromones reach out to me like a panther’s claw, but I’m not permitted to leave the chaise without his permission. Master makes rules for me like this whenever he entertains, to keep me safe or to torment me, sometimes both. Alessia is behind me now and whispering suggestive things into my ear. Master’s expression is tight; he doesn’t like it.
“Giovanni,” he calls. I could simply walk over and bow before him, but I wish to demonstrate my subservience, so I climb off the chaise and crawl across the floor to him. The marble hurts my knees, but I can think of no better reason for the discomfort. Master sets aside his frizzante and touches my face by way of greeting.
“You doing all right over there?” he asks. He knows how I am about strangers touching me.
“Alessia needs to be bred by her Sir,” I tell him. He chuckles, probably agreeing with me.
“What do you think of the party?”
I like it when Master hosts poker night because it reminds me of my grandfather’s den in New Jersey when he would do the same. The men were loud and boisterous, and I’d wander through refilling their drinks or bringing them a cold beer from the fridge and getting teased along the way. They’d ask me to look at my grandfather’s cards and whisper in their ears what he was holding. Of course, I never did.
“I was thinking about when you used to play cards with grandfather, and you’d let me sit on your lap and play a few rounds.”
Master smiles, remembering. “You loved the kings.”
That was true, I was a bit of a hoarder when it came to the kings. “I like strong, powerful men,” I tell him.
“I like beautiful boys,” he says. “One in particular. Will you sit on my lap now, tesoro?”
“Yes, Master,” I say, hardly able to contain my excitement. There is a certain thrill a slave experiences after hours of preparation and patience, to finally be claimed by their Master. And a sort of heady validation too—Master could be conversing with his longtime friends, but at this moment, he chooses me.
“Your grandfather was a good man,” he says contemplatively. He misses him, as do I.
“Yes, he was.”
“I wonder what he would have to say about this,” Master remarks, as he sometimes does, whenever he’s feeling guilty.
“He’d want you to take care of me as only a Master can.” I lower my lashes and lick my lips, my own subtle sexual advances.
“How do you like being taken care of, Giovanni?” he asks, his eyes glazed with lust.
“I like to be bred by my Master. And dominated by my king.”
“Turn around,” he says and after I do, he carefully removes my collar and sets it on the table right beside him. Then he stands to drop his pants, plucks open the buttons of his nice shirt and pushes the tails aside, then sits down again. He looks so debauched with his fine slacks pooling around his ankles and his cock hanging out, just waiting for an eager boy like me to come along and ride it. Master strokes himself, and I watch the foreskin peel back from his head like a snake sheds its skin, the head of it blooming, succulent and wet.
“Vieni, ragazzo.”
I climb onto his lap from where I’m sitting on the floor and carefully remove my plug. Master drinks his sparkling water, unhurried, and watches me stretch myself with two saliva-slicked fingers fucking in and out of my hole. Here I’m allowed to touch but only for the purpose of preparing myself for his penetration. The foreplay is largely unnecessary, but Master appreciates a little theater.
“Ahhh,” he murmurs contentedly as I slide carefully down onto his cock. Once seated, Master clenches his ass cheeks and adjusts his hips so that I sink all the way onto my mount. I start with a sensual rhythm, rolling my hips so that I can feel every inch of his snake inside me, a massive eel squirming in its tight cave. Slow and steady, I ride him for several minutes before realizing our guests (and Anthony) are watching me take care of my Master. I am prideful at times, so I toss my long mane of hair over my shoulder and reach my arms behind my head, displaying my athleticism and control.
“Such a showoff,” Master says in between husky grunts, though he admires me too. He pulls an ice cube out of his glass and drags it across my nipples and down the center of my navel. I shiver from the chill of the ice contrasting to the warmth of our bodies and the friction of his penetration. I lubed up beforehand, but I still feel the drag and burn of his thick organ against my sensitive tissues. He places the ice cube in my mouth, followed by his two fingers stuffing it inside. “I wish I had a second cock to put here.”
I murmur some agreement and Master’s hand slips down to my neck, where it often strays. He takes hold of my throat with one hand, clenching and unclenching his fingers while I ride him, making me gasp for breath, making me whimper and moan. He will likely leave bruises, something to look for tomorrow. In my dizzy, half-light vision, I see Alessia take note of the complete dominance my Master has over me, and I preen at my own submission at his hand. There is a certain freedom in this voluntary subjugation, to surrender one’s ego to the will of another. The lack of dignity in being choked and fucked in a roomful of strangers is also a kind of release. Master is the star of this performance with my body as his tool of pleasure. The room is quiet, except for the sounds of our fucking—skin slapping skin, Master’s grunts, and my stifled pants and groans, noises that beg without begging.
When Master finally comes, his neck is corded and tendons rigid, his mouth pulled back in a tight grimace. For the briefest moment, he’s no longer in control, and I get a heady rush of power in being the one person who can render him so helpless, if only for a few seconds. He floods me with his release, pumping my guts full of hot, sticky cum. My own cock dribbles semen through the cage, a boy’s humiliation that he cannot even climax like a man, but my contentment lies in knowing I’ve been well-used by my Master. I have made my offerings to Eros, god of lust.
“Molto bene,” Master says, breathless as well. He shifts so that I might sink down onto his lap where I continue to roost on his softening cock. I would gladly die right here and now in my Master’s arms, supremely contented. He strokes my hair while the men resume their conversation, something about the strength of the Italian economy under Mattarella.