Master’s Schiavo by Laura Lascarso
8
In the morning we resume our regular routine. Sun Salutations at dawn, worship of Master’s cock, a heart-healthy breakfast for Master and myself. Master milks me in bed without a cage because he wants me to feel settled when Silvio arrives. On our way to the pool, he gives me a brief tour of the rooms—a ballroom with a Steinway grand piano, a conservatory with my cello and music stand and several other instruments, Master’s study with his mahogany desk, also shipped from New York, and a collection of antique and rare books unlike any I’ve ever seen. Master’s villa houses all the playthings and diversions a kept boy could possibly want. Yesterday, this knowledge would have been a delight. Today, I’m not so sure.
“I expect you to stick to your schedule while I’m away,” Master says.
I don’t want to think about when Master is away. This slave is thinking only about the next five minutes.
“And the pool?” I ask.
“Swimming is part of your daily regimen now. Unless you’re sick or it’s bad weather, I expect you to do laps every day. Anthony or Silvio will supervise.”
Anthony, our ever-present shadow, has become so familiar with our routines that he sometimes feels the need to remind me, as if I don’t already know exactly what Master expects of his slave.
I slip into the pool, which I’m delighted to realize is saltwater instead of chlorine and slightly cooler than the pool at our building in New York, and because it isn’t in a closed arena, the ambient sunshine makes for a pleasant swim. I swiftly lose myself to the motion, cutting through the water like a whetted blade and going to a meditative place where my mind is quiet while my body takes over. It’s a while later when I surface to hear Master’s voice summoning me from my aquatic sanctuary. Silvio has arrived.
I climb out and towel myself off while eying the two brothers lounging together at a table nearby. Silvio is much younger than I expected, at least twenty years Master’s junior, with a full head of thick, wavy hair and a wide, burly frame. Master is broad-shouldered and angular, the very definition of tall, dark, and handsome. Silvio is shorter but with a thick barrel chest and brawny arms. His biceps stretch the fabric of his tight t-shirt, and where his sunglasses hang on the collar, his chest hair is silky and dark. Their facial features are similar too, but Silvio’s jaw is squarer with fuller cheeks and fewer wrinkles. Looking at Silvio could be like looking at Master twenty or thirty years ago. I scold myself for even thinking it, as if Master could be so easily replaced.
I stroll over to the table, feeling prickly and unsettled despite my hard swim and morning milking. Silvio stands to greet me while Master’s hand snakes between my legs to stroke my inner thigh, a subtle reminder to be polite.
“Lieto di conoscerti, Giovanni,” Silvio says and leans in to kiss one cheek and then the other.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Silvio,” I say in English.
Silvio glances at Master, eyebrows pinched together in a questioning look.
“Parla Italiano,” Master says. Speak Italian.
“Doesn’t he speak English?” I ask petulantly.
“Maybe you can help him improve,” Master says tightly. “But for now.”
My eyes drag away from his stern expression to meet Silvio’s inquiring gaze. “Ciao,” I say shortly.
Silvio sits down, still appraising me while Master continues to caress my inner thigh. His fingers brush against the underside of my balls through my Spandex bathing suit. I widen my stance so that he might have unfettered access to my body. His hand curves around my quad to give a little squeeze, and I think of Bernini’s sculpture and Master’s similar attention to detail. His fingers scale the front of my wet suit to stroke my cock, which responds eagerly to the familiar touch. In presenting me this way, Master is demonstrating his dominion over my body and reminding me of my place.
“Principessa,” Silvio says with one eyebrow raised as he motions to my gold jewelry and diamond earring, as well as a newly acquired anklet with my name on it. Princess.
“Giovanni is accustomed to nice things,” Master says in Italian while his hand dips underneath the elastic of my bathing suit to fondle me, skin-to-skin. Silvio watches and licks his lips, slowly.
“Very tempting,” Silvio says as his eyes rove over me from head to foot, unashamed of his blatant lust that blooms before my very eyes. I prefer Silvio addressing Master instead of me as it’s what I’m used to. As to the fact that he’s eying me with more than a passing interest, I know that I’m safe with Master here. “And very young, no?”
“Twenty-two,” Master says.
Silvio tilts his head and says with a smile, “Not so young for me, but far too young for you, old man.”
Master chuckles at his brother’s ribbing and says to me, “What do you think, Giovanni, am I too old for you?”
“I prefer the company of mature men,” I tell him, and that’s in Italian.
Silvio, to my surprise, only laughs. “And he has a mouth on him too.”
Master glances up at me and says with a devilish grin, “I make use of his mouth regularly, don’t I, beautiful boy?”
“This slave serves his Master with enthusiasm whenever Master desires it.”
“Schiavo,” Silvio says in a musing way, and I wonder the extent Master has shared with Silvio about our dynamic.
“Take off your suit, Giovanni,” Master says.
There’s not much to lose in the way of clothing. I pull down my Speedo and hang it on the back of the chair to dry, noticing Silvio’s attention to my cock and balls.
“You like him like this?” Silvio asks, waving a hand at my bare skin.
“Giovanni needs a lot of reminders.” Master tugs at my waxed genitals as if testing their buoyancy. “That he’s a boy, not a man. Men come whenever they want. Boys must earn their orgasms through obedience and service.”
Silvio raises his eyebrows at that, but he also looks intrigued. It seems whatever details Master has shared, Silvio is now getting a close-up look. Master invites me to sit with him, perched on the chair between his spread thighs. He tells Silvio about our Master/slave dynamic in his slow and measured way. Similar to when he educated Anthony, he talks about the things I like—pain, discipline, rules, and punishment—as well as the things I don’t—restraints, manipulation, separation…
And while Master speaks, his hands roam freely over my body, tugging on my piercings to the point of pain, squeezing my balls until the sensitive folds pinch between his knuckles, milking my cock so that it drips obscenely onto his fingers, then making me clean my mess from his hand with my tongue. Silvio’s eyes darken with desire and his cock thickens in his tight shorts. Master has used me in this way to arouse other men and women into fucking themselves or each other. They know the rule for Master’s schiavo—look but don’t touch.
“And he likes this?” Silvio asks and places two fingers to his mouth.
“Giovanni?” Master says.
“Master, and only Master, knows what’s best for this slave,” I say with defiance.
Silvio nods. “You have trained him.”
“With love,” Master murmurs, kissing the sensitive place where my neck meets my shoulder, “and a very firm hand.”
Master strokes me until I whimper and moan, nearly to the point of begging but not quite. When I’m uncomfortably engorged and feverish all over, Master says, “Let’s go to the steam room, schiavo. Silvio, will you join us?”
“Let me jump in the pool first. I need to cool off a bit.”
Silvio stands and tosses his glasses onto the table, then strips off his tight white shirt to reveal the full expanse of his torso. His chest is meaty and thick with a full pelt of silky, black hair that narrows to a dark line at his navel. His skin is more tanned than Master’s, bronzed by the sun, and when he strips off his pants—no underwear—his semi-hard, uncut cock sways like a pendulum between his sturdy thighs. Silvio catches me looking and winks before jogging toward the water and diving in.
Master hands me a sheaf of paper, Silvio’s latest health screening dated just days before. He told me already that he’s shared ours with Silvio with the reminder that he has no expectations whatsoever. Now, Master sees where my attention is focused—on Silvio swimming naked in the pool—and asks, “Do you want to see his cock when it’s wet too?”
My gaze drops and I feel ashamed for even entertaining the thought. Master’s strong hand circles the back of my neck and squeezes. “It’s okay, tesoro. He’s family.”
I do see Silvio’s cock when he emerges from the pool, and it is every bit as impressive wet as it is dry, dripping with water and tempting me with its lush ripeness. His balls, too, are hefty and round, and he walks with the kind of accidental swagger that well-hung men must adopt to accommodate their girth.
“Andiamo,” Master says, grabbing towels for him and me both, and tossing a third to Silvio. Silvio uses it to scrub his thick pelt of chest hair then swab at his genitals, drawing more attention to their impressive size and sway.
Silvio chuckles and says to Master in English, “He likes.”
Master smirks, and I feel stupid that my craving for dick is so transparent. I pointedly avoid looking at Silvio as we enter the cave. Small, recessed bulbs are embedded in the rock to light the interior in a warm, seductive hue. The pools in the cave are just as luxurious as Master promised and we soak for a little while in one of the hot mineral springs, then sit on the slatted wooden benches that have been laid atop the stone. It’s wonderfully constructed, and I know this room will be one of my new favorite places to linger.
The men converse while I migrate from lying on the bench to sitting in between Master’s legs, at his request. Master caresses my thighs, chest, and groin while Silvio watches, idly stroking his cock, which is so dense that it has trouble rising under its own heft and instead lists against his thigh like a branch weighed down by too much fruit.
“What do you think of my brother’s cock, schiavo?” Master asks, his voice barely above a whisper in the quiet cave. The use of my slave name is a subtle cue that my service is desired. Master knows my weaknesses—thick cocks, hairy Italian men, and steam rooms—and he’s surely exploiting them.
“It’s fine,” I say noncommittally.
“Are you curious to know what it tastes like?” he asks, drawing one fingertip across my lips to tease my tongue. Like it or not, that is really all I’ve been thinking about since Silvio took it out of his pants.
“Curiosity is not this slave’s virtue,” I remind him.
“Hmmm… very true, but subservience is.”
The word itself sends an erotic thrill through me. The definition of subservience is a willingness to do what others want or demand. It is the act of considering one’s own wishes as less important than those of another. Its root word is Latin, subservire, to be made useful or serviceable. Master told me this etymology during my education on the virtues of a slave. During that particular lesson, he was training me on how to deep-throat his cock without gagging, how to relax my throat muscles and accept that my breath was no longer my own. It took several lessons and a lot of popscicles before my gag reflex became practically non-existent. Master says a little bit of patience in the beginning of a slave’s training provides a much better payoff in the end.
Master is a patient man.
“Does Master wish for his slave to service his brother’s cock?” I don’t know what I want; I want Master to decide for me.
“Master wishes for his slave to have the freedom to explore safely while his Master is present. If you want to suck his cock, Giovanni, I would like to watch. I think you might find swallowing another’s man’s flesh to be very gratifying.” He rubs my shoulder, waiting patiently for me to fathom the possibility. “Color?’
“Green.”
Silvio has been watching our exchange in English without really comprehending. Now, as I go down to my knees on the floor in front of him, he glances at Master with a questioning look.
“Pompino,” Master says. Blowjob.
“Ah,” Silvio says, warming to the idea. In Italian he says, “Yes, princess, you are so pretty down there. Come a little closer now. Don’t be shy.” He makes a kissing noise like he’s calling a dog with his legs spread in an arrogant sprawl and one arm draped on the back of the bench. I should be irritated by it, but my body vibrates with arousal and need. My mouth waters for a thick cock to fill it, but shouldn’t it be Master’s dick that I crave, and only Master’s?
“Be a good host, Giovanni,” Master says. “Demonstrate the virtues your Master has taught you.”
It’s this idea that draws me forward, that through servicing Silvio, I might also be serving my Master. They are brothers after all, as well as business partners and friends. My mouth is Master’s gift to Silvio, a kind of homecoming, and my body is merely a conduit for their bond to be strengthened.
I begin with Silvio much as I would with Master, using only my lips and tongue to mouth and suckle his balls, only Silvio is much more enthusiastic and vocal with his praise. “Yes, right there, princess. Lick my big, hairy nuts. Get them nice and clean for me. Polish my dick too. What a pretty little cocksucker you are.”
Silvio smells different from Master, briny like the sea, but it’s not at all unpleasant, and though I wish that I might be more repulsed by it, I’m not. The scent of scrotum, sweat, and precum is familiar, a Pavlovian incentive that makes my own mouth salivate, and when his cock finally fills my mouth, I nearly forget to differentiate between the two brothers. My mind is singularly focused on my virtue, a boy on his knees servicing a man. It’s the man’s grunts and groans that guide me along with the throb and thrust of his flesh. The ache of my jaw and the steady abuse my tissues will withstand, for the man’s desire to use is the exact complement to my own desire to be used.
It’s only when Silvio’s cock starts pumping out his release that I remember myself, and I’m horrified to find that I’ve come too, an accident. His semen fills my mouth, coating my throat and tongue thickly, and I must come to terms with the fact that this is not my Master but practically a stranger, and even though Master is here watching, he won’t be for much longer and then what? This slave is more than a convenient mouth or hole to warm Silvio’s monster dick. I’m not his princess or his pretty cocksucker. I’m nothing at all to him.
I do something very disrespectful then, something that shames me to this day whenever I think about it. I stand, and with a mouthful of cum, I spit it in Silvio’s face.
Master doesn’t yellat me, doesn’t berate me or insult me, or even comment on it all that much. Master has never hit me, though I wish he would right then, an immediate punishment for such an egregious act of disrespect. Master does none of that, but he does cage my cock, and in the contemplative looks he gives me for the rest of the day, I know he’s disappointed in me.
Silvio only laughs boisterously and calls me cammello or camel. Perhaps he thinks he’s come out the winner in this situation because he got his rocks off all the same, but I know all the ways in which I disrespected my Master when I disrespected his brother, and my demons know it too.
No wonder he wants to leave you.
Spoiled, selfish boy.
You’ll never be able to hold his attention, you’re just a dirty little faggot.
I don’t say much for the rest of the evening. When Master and Silvio both try to draw me out by asking questions about our travels, I give them only one-word answers. I tell Master I’m not feeling well and ask to go into my box. He doesn’t lock it, though I wish he would. Inside I bury my face in the mattress and relive all the times I’ve been disobedient towards my Master, which are many, like a highlight reel that only serves to multiply my shame. I drown in all the ways I’m unworthy. After all that my Master has given me, his training and praise, security and comfort. If I cannot be a virtuous slave for Master, then what good am I?
Hours later, trapped in fitful sleep, Master comes again to the doorway and says, “Come to bed, Giovanni.”
“This slave does not deserve to share his Master’s bed,” I mutter in a scratchy voice.
“Master wasn’t making a request.”
Even in this, I am insolent. I drag myself off the foam mattress and join Master in his bed.
“I pushed you too soon,” Master says softly as he kisses my forehead. His arms wrap around me, offering me the comfort I surely don’t deserve. “I’m sorry.”
“Please, don’t apologize,” I beg. I need to be reminded of my place. If Master gives me even an inch, the demons will take over. “This slave was not virtuous. This slave needs to be punished.”
This is not some sort of melodramatic cry for attention; this is necessary to restore balance and order in the chaos of my mind.
Master nods and says, “We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”