Master’s Schiavo by Laura Lascarso
7
Over the next two weeks, we visit several landmarks—St. Mark’s Basilica in Venice, the Asinelli Tower in Bologna, the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, and the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Master takes me to a few choral and orchestral concerts as well, but the highpoint for me is the Villa Borghese in Rome. We spend two days exploring the massive gallery where Bernini’s sculpture Apollo and Daphne is housed as well as Rape of Proserpina, which depicts the moment Hades steals Persephone from the earth with the intent to make her his wife in the Underworld. Master tells me Bernini sculpted it when he was 23 years old, only a year older than me, and points to the detail in the marble of Hades’ fingers dimpling the flesh of Persephone’s thigh where he grasps her.
How could Bernini depict rape in such a beautiful, masterful way? Having studied this particular sculpture prior, I know that historians will argue that in the context of the subject, the word “rape” refers to the traditional translation of the Latin word raptus, which means “seized” or “carried off” and not to sexual violence, but I think we’re all fooling ourselves to believe Hades didn’t rape Persephone, if not during the very act of kidnapping her, then surely soon after, once he had her cloistered in his underworld lair. To call her his “wife” is only to soothe our own conscience about the violence inflicted upon her, especially when “captive” or “sex slave” is far more appropriate.
You may argue this is just a myth, something make believe, but the stories we tell ourselves and the gods we worship sometimes say far more about a society than its facts and figures.
Is it strange that I feel comforted to know the crime of rape is as old as time? And that society has been trying to justify the act and erase the pain and grief of its victims for just as long? To couch the aggressors, the rapists, as powerful, lusting men unable to control their own passions. In Apollo’s case, he was struck by an arrow—so, faultless. For Hades, Persephone had the audacity to attract his attention while picking flowers by the riverside. And in both stories, the victims were delivered by yet another being. Daphne’s father transformed her into a tree, and Demeter, Persephone’s mother, reclaimed her from Hades for six months out of every year. In this way, the victims are stripped of all their agency and become mere objects, bodies to be coveted and plundered.
I find myself overwhelmed by the beauty and mastery that surrounds us. And while the connection I feel to both Daphne and Persephone’s plights seems natural and right, the sympathy, and even more disturbingly, the lust that I have toward the gods who pursued them seems much more monstrous. I tell Master about these conflicting emotions and ask him what they might mean and more pointedly, if there might be something wrong with me.
“There is nothing wrong with you, Giovanni,” Master assures me in a soothing tone. “And it’s not wrong to feel this way either. Very strong emotions, even terror and rage, sometimes blend and comingle with pleasure, and these sorts of associations form all the time. It’s why we have safewords, because we never know what traumas we might unearth when we play.”
“Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with you?” I ask because Master’s confidence always seems so unshakable. “To want to hurt me the way you do?”
“Yes, but I came to terms with my sadistic urges long ago, and I only want to hurt you in ways you’ll enjoy.” He studies me. “Did you ever fantasize about being hurt when you were younger. Or being rescued?”
I dreamt of being rescued so many times from my mother, even before the kidnapping. When my grandfather took me away from her the first time as a child, I considered him to be my knight in shining armor who’d slayed the dragon at last. But I don’t think that’s what Master means.
“The housekeeper’s son used to come over sometimes and we would play tag,” I tell him, recalling the big, bruising boy named Christopher who could also be surprisingly gentle when showing me a bug or a flower. “I liked it when he caught me because he didn’t just tag me, he wrestled me to the ground and made me beg him to let me go.”
Master smiles and touches my hair. “You do beg so beautifully. Did you ever cry?”
“Sometimes.”
“I bet he liked that too. Did you find the experience arousing?”
I nod. I was young but in retrospect, I can see where those urges might have led. I recall Christopher’s flushed face while he attempted to pin me, squirming, beneath him, the satisfaction he expressed in rendering me helpless. How I could have wounded him with words or told my grandfather about it, but I did neither because I liked it too. “How about you?”
“There was a boy who let me hurt him.” Master pauses and purses his lips in displeasure. “My father found out and forbid me from seeing him anymore, but I think that was what solidified it for me.”
“How did you like to hurt him?”
“Pinches, slaps, scratching...” Master says in a musing way. “I wanted to mark him, and I liked to make him a little bit afraid of me too. It made me feel powerful and in control. I think he liked the part where I took care of him and doted on him afterward.”
“You are very good at aftercare.”
“You deserve to be spoiled after enduring all the terrible things I do to you,” he says with a sly grin.
“Worth it.”
“And if you ever wanted something different…” Master begins.
“I don’t,” I assure him. “What we have is perfect.”
Master’s smile is tinged with a bit of melancholy. “Yes, I think so too.”
Bernini’s sculptures are by far my favorite, but Master favors the paintings by Caravaggio. He points to one in particular, Boy with a Basket of Fruit, and describes the eroticism inherent in the work, from the youth’s woozy expression and pink parted lips to where his shirt has artfully fallen away to reveal a bare muscular shoulder, one of Caravaggio’s trademarks. In the painting, the boy invites the viewer to sample from his luscious bounty of fruit, all of them ripened and sensuous, as if making an offering of himself.
“Was Caravaggio gay?” I ask. The painter certainly had a talent for capturing the male form.
Master tilts his head. “This young man with the beautiful curls is Minniti, a fellow painter and only sixteen years old at the time. He was Caravaggio’s companion for a while, and Caravaggio painted him extensively, but he also used young male prostitutes as his models. Draw your own conclusions.”
On our last day in Rome, we don’t leave our rooms at all. Master pops two blue pills and spends the whole day edging me with his cock, to the point that I worry he’ll make me incontinent and tell him so. Master assures me that’s what my exercises are for and continues his torment. Hours later when I’m a sweating, trembling mess and all I can say is “please” over and over again, he finally lets me come, and I’d swear my soul leaves my body.
An artist in his own right, Master offers me these rare glimpses of the divine.
But that wastwo days ago. And now we’re on the ferry to Master’s villa where I will meet his younger brother Silvio. With it being the start of summer, the weather is warm and the water is beautiful, but there’s something weighing on Master’s mind. I can see it in the set of his shoulders and the lines on his face, which cut deeper when he’s stressed. We’re not affectionate in public, but we stand very close to each other on the ferry’s upper deck and gaze at the rocky island ahead of us while Master tells me about he and Silvio’s business to pass the time.
It’s a somewhat commonplace trade amongst intrepid Italians, and unlike the Aponte family business, it’s completely legitimate. Because Greece never invested in processing plants for their olive oil, they export most of it in bulk to Italy where it is bottled and slapped with a label that says, “Made in Italy.” The markup is significant, and the only work that must be done is in marketing and distribution. In fact, most of the olive oil that claims to be Italian is more likely Greek. It should be criminal but it’s not. This is the gist of what Master tells me, as well as sharing with me some of the features of the property that I’m about to see.
“There’s a natural underground cave with hot springs that I’ve converted into a steam room. I think you’ll really enjoy it.”
“I’m sure I will,” I tell him because how could I not?
“There’s a pool, of course, and a private beach where you can swim in the ocean, every day if you want.”
“Master offers this slave every comfort imaginable,” I say to assure him because he’s never felt the need to sell me on a place before, especially one that looks and sounds like a literal paradise.
“My brother…” Master begins.
“Silvio?”
Master’s lips thin to a severe line. He seems to shake himself out of it, then says, somewhat ominously, “We’ll discuss it over dinner.”
Master knows I don’t like to think about the space between now and later, so I can only assume his hesitance means there is some news he wishes to share but finds our current surroundings less than ideal. Of course, this activates the demons who start chattering amongst themselves like conniving, backstabbing bitches, but I remind myself that we’ve had a wonderful trip, I’ve behaved very well, and why would Master take me to his private villa to meet his beloved brother only to give me bad news?
Master instructs the driver to load up the car with ours and Anthony’s luggage and deliver it to the estate, that we’ll go to dinner and walk home from there. The island is small—bikeable from one end to the other—but large enough for a bustling little village and thriving tourist economy, this also according to Master.
Once we’re seated at a candlelit table with a view of the Mediterranean and Anthony at the table next to us, Master orders us a variety of local fare, ranging from mussels in wine sauce to seared scallops and fried calamari. He drinks Fiano, a regional white wine, and watches me as I indulge in the cornucopia of food.
“Master?” I ask tentatively.
“I love you,” he says.
“I love you too.” Those words have never sounded terrifying before, and I know that I cannot tolerate this suspense any longer. I wipe my mouth and place the napkin on the table. I’ve eaten enough anyway. “This slave senses that his Master has something important to tell him but is hesitating. This slave would like to know what thoughts trouble his Master so.”
“New York is not safe for us right now.”
I nod. I figured that was the reason for our trip.
“I brought you here because I needed somewhere secure to put you and with someone I trust.”
“Silvio,” I say slowly.
“Silvio will watch over you while I wrap up business in New York.”
Understanding dawns on me and chasing right behind it is panic that what the demons have been saying all along is true. I feel them clawing at my stomach, trying to get out.
“You’re leaving me?” I ask shakily.
“I’m leaving you for a little while so that I can take care of things in New York and return to you here as soon as I’m done.”
“Why can’t I come with you?” I haven’t been away from my Master for more than a day or two since I came to live with him three years ago.
“The Tagliarini don wants blood, Giovanni. It’s not safe for you in New York.”
“Then it’s not safe for you either.”
“I have people who will protect me.”
“They’ll protect me too.”
“I cannot risk your life.”
“I can’t risk yours,” I say stubbornly. My eyes flood with tears and my gluttonous meal, now churning in my stomach, threatens to come back up.
“I’m retiring from the Aponte family business,” he says evenly. “I’m going to sell everything in New York and live here with you. But I need to be smart about it, and I can’t have you there with me. This has already been decided. You have to trust that Master knows best.”
His face is stern. Master has made up his mind, and there’s no changing it. He’s leaving me in the care of his brother, a stranger, while he extricates himself from our life in New York. I hardly consider my own ties to the city because there is little about it that I’ll miss. My world these past three years has largely been limited to Master’s penthouse and the building’s amenities, to servicing the man who sits before me for rewards, much as my childhood was devoted to my grandfather and confined to his New Jersey manor. With some alarm, I realize I have always been a kept boy. I gaze at the ocean just outside our window, and I think about all the beautiful views I’ve been given, vistas I’ve been content to observe from a distance.
“How long will you be gone?” I ask. How long will I be expected to manage unmoored from the man I’ve come to rely on so intimately that I hardly even consider my bowel movements to be my own.
“I don’t know exactly, but I’ll come back to you as soon as I can.” He attempts to steady me with his unflinching gaze. Meanwhile, the demons begin chattering.
You will not survive.
You’ll never make it all alone.
How could he do this to you?
And then the worst one, He doesn’t want you anymore.
I struggle to swallow past the lump in my throat. “You’re leaving me.”
“I’m leaving you in the care of my brother temporarily until I return.”
I stare at the butter and wine sauce congealing on my plate, which blurs through my burning eyeballs. Somewhere in the fog, Master asks me if I want dessert, but I don’t really hear him because I’m no longer present. The demons are too loud for me to hear anything but their constant refrain, confirming my deepest fear.
I’m not wanted.
I come backto myself an hour or so later in a parked car. Master must have decided walking wasn’t a good idea. My first sensation is the pressure of Master’s fingers massaging my hand. I blink and glance over to find him sitting beside me in the backseat of a luxurious sedan that smells like money and leather. Anthony sits up front with our driver. I get the sense we’ve been idling here for a while.
“There you are,” Master says as the lines of concern around his eyes fade a little. “Where did you go?”
“I was swimming,” I tell him, “in the pool back home.” Cutting through the water like a silver fish and losing myself to the rhythm of my movement and breath. It’s a safe place for me to retreat to when the stress becomes too much.
“I know there are a lot of changes happening right now,” Master says gently. “And it’s a lot for you to process, but I want you to know that I’m happy to answer any questions you might have, now or later.”
I’m silent at that. I have a lot of questions, but they will likely trickle out when I feel ready to take in more information, which is not right now when I’m still so out of it. “Where are we?” I ask, choosing to focus only on what is in front of me.
“Our new home. Would you like to take a look around?”
Our new home.
“Yes.”
Anthony opens my door and Master assists me out of the car. I’m always in a bit of a daze after I disassociate. Sometimes, I can ward it off. Other times, and especially if I know I’m safe, I just let the sensation take over. Rebekah says it’s a protective measure my brain has instituted to cope with my fear and trauma, but my demons sometimes use it to their advantage. Overall, it’s a bit of a mixed bag.
I gaze all around at the sprawling stucco mansion bathed in twilight as Master leads me through an open-air courtyard with an in-ground pool. Surrounding it are several balconies with stone balustrades and brightly colored bougainvillea draped over them like sated lovers.
“I’m going to live here?” I ask, still a little confused and needing his assurances. Perhaps Master is telling the truth, that he will come back to me. This is his estate after all, and I am his property. This idea comforts me, though I’m not sure that it should.
“This is your home now, Giovanni, for many, many years to come.”
Years.In our time together, Master has seldom talked about our future in terms of years. In the beginning, he didn’t think it would last, or he thought I was using him as a crutch temporarily, and I would soon move on from his attentions. This goes back to our age difference, I think. But it was all in his head. I sometimes behave badly, but I’ve never threatened to leave. And I’ve proven my commitment to him every step of the way.
On our way inside, he points out the entrance to the steam room, which is near the pool and appears only as a softly lit cave leading underground. “Tomorrow,” Master promises. In the bedroom suite, I find something familiar—my box. Master must have had it dismantled, shipped here, and rebuilt while we were traveling the country.
“What does this mean?” I don’t have the ability to think clearly or rationally. Too much is happening all at once.
“You’ve not outgrown your box yet,” he says, watching me take it in. “So, I had it brought here for when you need it.”
I think about the routines and discipline Master has instituted for me. Questions volley for attention in my mind, and I don’t know where to begin.
“There will be rules in my absence,” Master says, perhaps sensing my inner chaos, “and there will be consequences when I return.”
“But how?” Only Master can enforce the rules; only Master knows what this slave needs.
“Silvio will be checking in with me daily.” Master licks his bottom lip and watches me carefully. “He’s looking forward to meeting you.”
A sick feeling shudders in my stomach as another dreaded realization hits me. “Master is giving away his slave.”
“No, Giovanni.” His hands grip my upper arms. “That’s not what this is. This is temporary, I promise you.”
“Master is loaning out his slave to another man, a stranger.” I start trembling all over as visions of that apartment in the Bronx comes rushing back. The things my mother’s boyfriend did to me and let others do to me as well.
Master’s strong arms encircle me. “The rules still apply,” he says in a soothing tone while stroking my hair. “The slave serves according to his own will. The slave is touched only when invited. Green, yellow, red, Giovanni. The only thing Master asks of his slave is to keep an open mind.”
“He won’t touch me,” I ask, needing the confirmation.
“He will not touch you without your explicit consent. You can trust him, tesoro, as I trust him. He’s family.”
“But you want him to touch me?”
“I want my slave taken care of in my absence. I want you healthy and thriving when I return. I want this slave to miss his Master, but I don’t want you unhappy or suicidal or tempted to abuse drugs while I’m away. Now, take a deep breath.”
I do as Master instructs, breathing in deeply through my nose and out through my mouth. I think about Silvio, Master’s brother, a man I’ve never met before and know very little about. Is he somewhere in the villa now? Is he truly looking forward to meeting me? Does Silvio think this slave will do the things for him that he’s done for Master? Absolutely not.
“Does Master really think this is a good idea?” It’s not a slave’s virtue to jump to conclusions, but this slave sees red flags all around.
“I believe this is the best course of action given the difficult situation. Will you trust me, Giovanni? Will you trust that your Master knows what’s best?”
I want to be good for my Master, to exemplify the virtues of patience, humility, subservience, gratitude…
“Where is Silvio?” I ask.
“He has a house on the other side of the property where he keeps his boat. He’ll be by tomorrow.”
“To meet me?”
“Yes.”
“What if he hates me?”
Master gazes down at me with a tender expression. “He could never hate you, Giovanni. I know my brother. He’s going to love you.”
But the demons whisper, we’ll see.