Master’s Schiavo by Laura Lascarso
9
I’m distracted the entire time while cooking breakfast, anxious about the discussion Master and I must have. It takes me three attempts to poach Master’s egg properly. I eat the screw-ups, something else he notices. Master uncages me before I swim laps because the metal chafes my skin and slows me down. Afterward, I strip and go over to him to replace it, but instead, he motions to the chair across from him.
“Sit, Giovanni. Let us talk as men.”
As men, not as slave and Master. I dread these conversations. Even though Master is careful, I have a lot of triggers that pop up unexpectedly when I’m forced to think about anything other than the present. But it’s probably somewhat necessary with the recent upheaval in our lives. Master begins as he usually does, “How are you feeling?”
“Ashamed.” Whenever I behave poorly, the aftereffects are like the residual stinging throb after a burn, a shame that lingers.
“Aside from yesterday.”
This emotion is also familiar, and though I rarely experience it with Master, it is not so hard to articulate. “Betrayed.”
Master nods in understanding. “I considered telling you in New York.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I didn’t want your first glimpse of Bernini to be with this knowledge hanging over your head.”
Though I don’t want to acknowledge it, it makes sense. Our special moments would have been bittersweet if I’d known about Master’s intentions.
“How long have you been making these plans?” Surely, he knew when I asked him if he had one. So, how long before?
“When we spoke about the family business, and you told me your feelings about it, I realized that I love you more than I love being a boss, and I was relieved by what you said, because if you didn’t want it, then I could give up the family business and keep you to myself. So, I decided I would get out, either by breaking up the organization and selling it off in pieces or transferring ownership and keeping only a percentage of the profits. The party I hosted was my attempt to feel out potential buyers.”
This makes sense to me. Master is a shrewd businessman above all else.
“Are you mad at me for killing Salvatore Tagliarini?” I certainly screwed up his prospects if nothing else.
Master takes a moment to spit on the cobblestones to dishonor the name. “I’m grateful every day that you did what you did. You did exactly as I would have wanted. He would have taken you from me and...” Master doesn’t finish and he doesn’t need to. I shudder at the nascent nightmares trying to claw their way back into my consciousness as he continues, “I’ve killed for you, Giovanni. Did you know that?”
“Yes.” We don’t talk about that time, don’t even think about it.
“I would do it again.” Master wipes his mouth, no doubt distressed by the memories of the condition he found me in, both at the apartment and later in the park. My abusers, including my mother, were nearly identical in their utter disregard for my humanity. “I want to make a clean break without leaving behind enemies. I don’t want anyone to have cause to go looking for me. Or for you either.”
“And your brother is, what? A babysitter? A rent-a-Dom?”
Master gives me a sharp look. He doesn’t like me being flippant in these types of conversations.
“My brother is the only man I trust to look out for you, to protect you.”
“Does he even like fucking men?”
“Yes. He’s not a Dominant, but I believe he could be a good one with proper training. I think he’d enjoy it. He’s shown some interest in the past.”
“So, you figured you’d just pay him to spank me while you’re gone?”
“Watch your tone, young man,” Master warns, and it makes me feel better, more grounded. I need him to enforce the boundaries even when we’re not in our Master/slave roles. “I’m not paying him. I told him the situation and he volunteered to stay here with you. He likes you, and he likes the idea of spending time with you. You’re very pleasant to be around when you behave, and you’re not hard to look at.”
He’s flattering me, but I’m not ready to be charmed just yet.
“And I’m supposed to just fall in line?”
Master deliberates. “I have often wondered if I claimed you too soon.”
I don’t know if he means that I’m immature or too young for him or some combination of the two. “As far as I’m concerned, you didn’t claim me soon enough.”
“Because I have changed you, Giovanni,” he continues. “I’ve transformed you into what I would want in a boy, in a slave.”
“And I have been willing—enthusiastically consenting—every step of the way.”
“How would you know otherwise?” he asks, which is insulting and even he must know it.
“Does Master think for his slave now too, determine this slave’s interior thoughts and emotions?”
“Gio,” he says, but I don’t wish to pursue the paths not taken, most of which wind up with me dead or a slave to my addiction. I’m on the path I desire, the only path, alongside my Master.
“How long will you be gone?”
“A few months.”
“How many is a few?” He stares at me and doesn’t answer. He rarely repeats himself. “But you’re coming back?”
“I would never leave you, willingly.”
“And you expect me to fuck him while you’re gone?”
A flicker of anger crosses his face, which confuses me. I need concrete rules and clear expectations. This is how I operate within the boundaries he has set. “I want your needs met, and I want you to experience intimacy with another man. I believe Silvio can satisfy both.”
“But he doesn’t know anything about the lifestyle. Or me.” He doesn’t know about my demons and how loud they can get, how I need not only a firm hand but an ironclad mentality to keep me on the straight-and-narrow path.
“He’s interested to know more and to learn. We’re a lot alike, Giovanni.”
“But he’s not you. When I sucked him off, I felt like I was cheating on you. Like I’d betrayed you. And the way you so easily passed me off, it felt like a dismissal of what we have together.” Now, we’re getting to the heart of things, my glaring insecurities. I have Rebekah to thank for that.
“I’m sorry I made you feel that way. It wasn’t my intention. It was arousing, yes, but it was also hard for me to watch.”
“Why?” It doesn’t make sense that he would share me only to hurt himself.
“It was like getting a glimpse of your future.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Giovanni, there’s a whole generation between us. You keep me young, yes, but I’m not going to live forever. When I’m gone, you will take another lover. That is the way of things.”
I cannot contemplate a future without my Master. “Don’t tell me what I will or will not do,” I snap, slipping into the immature brat that only serves to prove his point.
“I won’t push you anymore,” Master says, conciliatory, which bothers me even more. I don’t want a gentle Master. I want him to be firm and uncompromising, to rule me with an iron fist. “While I’m here, I’ll sit back and let the two of you become acquainted on your own terms. You’ll be friends or lovers, whatever you choose. All that I ask is that you give him a chance.”
Nothing is settled between us, but at least everything is on the table. Master hasn’t given me a set agenda or rules to follow; he’s leaving it up to me to decide. The thought is at once comforting and terrifying. Still, there is one more thing he must know.
“I think you’re making a mistake.” I’m unable to articulate my fears beyond that; I only know that allowing a third person to share in our intimacy will change our dynamic because how could it not? “But I will trust you to know what’s best for this slave, as I always have. And I’ll try not to take out my feelings of hurt and betrayal on Silvio.”
“That’s more than I can ask for,” Master says with the humility of a saint. Master is not so proud to believe he doesn’t also need forgiveness. “That’s all that I want.”
“But you’re coming back to me?” I ask, trying not to sound as desperate as I feel.
“I promise you, schiavo, I will always come back to you.”
Master leavesme uncaged after that. He says I’ve been punished enough and that he must take some of the responsibility for my misbehavior as well. I think he’s letting me off too easily, but I’ll admit that it’s freeing to be nude at the beach without the encumbrance of my cock and balls being confined in metal.
Silvio is there too (and Anthony of course). It’s a comical scene, the Fortuna brothers under a shade tent and Anthony just a little to the side, strapped with weapons, gaze sweeping our surroundings while installed under a tent of his own. The men drink and chat, and I lounge at the water’s edge and use the gritty sand to exfoliate my skin. Master marvels sometimes at my relationship with water. I’m much calmer near bodies of water—pools, oceans, springs, baths, even steam rooms and showers. I crave the feel of it on my skin, the way water smooths away my rough edges and allows me to submerge myself completely. The power and roar of the waves reminds me of my own meekness and futility. My version of the afterlife is more like Atlantis than Mount Olympus, and I’d take the cerulean waters of the Mediterranean over the pearly gates any day.
I could swim out to the buoy that marks deeper water and back with Master’s permission, but I don’t want to be any farther away from him right now. After a time of solitude, Silvio joins me at the shore and encourages me to follow him into the surf with a playful, “Andiamo, bello.” When I hesitate, he assures me that my Master says it’s okay and I see him waving me along too.
Silvio splashes and chases me in the water, then challenges me to race him to the buoy, which he loses. He dares me to beat him back to the shore and loses again, then bellyaches about a cramp he’s probably faking. The melodrama continues as he rolls around in the wet sand and pretends that he’s dying. “Mouth-to-mouth?” he inquires, which I refuse. I can’t help but laugh at his ridiculous antics, and though I feel a twinge of guilt at sharing in a joyful moment with anyone other than my Master, I see him watching us with a smile on his face.
And I reason, if Silvio is Master’s beloved brother, I might consider him that too—an older brother to me. Not my Master, but someone who will watch out for me, protect me, and correct me if necessary. This, I can wrap my head around. It’s even something I can accept.
When we finally come back on land, Master motions me over and dries me with a towel then instructs me to lay with him on the lawn chair. I nestle in the space between his thighs with my cheek against his hairy chest and suck his fingers. They’re salty from the briny air and taste like the rum he’d been drinking. My eyes flicker over to Silvio from time to time, watching and perhaps even admiring him too.
“Is there something you’d like to say to Silvio, Giovanni?” Master asks.
“Mi dispiace.” I’m sorry.
From Silvio, I get an easy smile and a teasing lilt when he says, “Va tutto bene principessa.” Everything is all right, princess.
Over the next few days,Master invites Silvio into more of our daily rituals. I prepare breakfast for him along with Master and myself. Silvio lounges against the bedroom door frame or in a chair nearby and converses with his older brother while I worship Master’s cock, sometimes while he’s still in bed, sometimes during breakfast on the shaded loggia that surrounds the courtyard. I like servicing Master before eating myself because it makes me feel as though I’ve earned the right to nourishment. Silvio observes while Master milks my prostate, caged or not depending on what Master has planned. Master explains to Silvio that it puts me in the right headspace for service and centers me for the day ahead. It’s true that if any part of my routine is altered or if something gets left out, I feel off for the rest of the day. I’d imagine it’s like starting your workday and needing that first cup of coffee to get you going. I wake up looking forward to my rituals and am comforted to know I can count on Master to keep me in my routine.
We swim in the pool, relax in the steam room, visit the beach, cook meals together, and sometimes go to the town to eat or shop. Throughout our time together, Master makes use of my body at his discretion, and I service him with obedience and enthusiasm. Silvio touches me with brotherly affection, which I’ve already consented to, but makes no sexual demands. Master doesn’t offer my services to him either. I practice my virtues of patience, humility, subservience, and gratitude, and promise myself that I will not slip up again.
Today Master is occupied with making calls in the study and I’m reading about Epictetus, a Greek stoic philosopher, who argued that one must train themselves to accept and embrace the temporality of all things. I’m trying to prepare myself for Master’s departure, and I find solace in the musings of great thinkers.
During this time, Silvio struts into the room and complains about the heat, then says that he’s bored and asks if we want to go get ice cream.
“Take Giovanni,” Master says and motions to his phone to illustrate that he’s otherwise occupied.
“You like ice cream?” he says to me in English as he sometimes does because he thinks it will encourage me to talk to him more.
“Sì, signore,” I say because I’m not an idiot and bookmark my page.
It’s a bit of a walk to visit the place Silvio has in mind, so he suggests we take his car instead, an Alfa Romeo Stelvio that looks like it has a custom paint job. Not overly fancy but well suited for the hilly terrain. While we’re en route, Silvio says to me in English, “Why you don’t talk to me, Giovanni? You don’t like me too much?”
I smirk at his false assumption while knowing he’s probably only saying it to goad me into a response. I answer him in Italian, “What do you want to talk about, Silvio? The effect that Germany’s austerity measures will have on the price of olive oil imports from Greece?”
Yes, I listen to their talk. Even if it’s not this slave’s role to have an opinion on the conversations between men, I’m intelligent enough to keep up with what’s going on. Silvio shoots me a look, “You are a smart ass, princess. That’s what I like about you. Tell me about yourself. You have hobbies, no? What things do you like?”
“I like music, art, and philosophy.” Then I think to add, “and submission.”
“Ah yes, you like fucking my brother.”
“It’s not only about sex,” I tell him, “though I do love fucking your brother.”
He grins at that. He truly does seem to enjoy my sassy side. “But you are so young, and he is… not,” Silvio says as if trying to be tactful. Silvio is anything but.
“I love my Master.” But love isn’t a complete enough word for it. I live for my Master. I’d die for my Master. My world revolves around his needs and desires, and I’m grateful to have him as my center.
“You could be fucking many other men. Perhaps not richer men, but certainly younger men.”
Silvio must not know that I’m rich in my own right. Maybe he thinks I submit to Master in exchange for the lavish gifts and the nice ocean views. Those are certainly perks, but I could do without them.
“Fucking is only a fraction of what we do,” I tell him. Surely, he must realize this by now.
Silvio considers it before saying, “You should go out more. Parties, dancing…”
I used to go out every night during my first couple semesters of college, get faded on liquor, pills, and cocaine, and dance the night away before returning home to shoot up, then skipping my classes to sleep it off or get high again.
“I was gang raped at a party once,” I tell him. I don’t mean to burden him with my history, only illustrate why I’m not so eager to party like I used to—been there, done that. I deleted all my social media apps as well, not wanting any reminders of the people I used to know or associate with. I had to eliminate Matthew’s existence altogether—sacrifice him so that I could go on living.
“Oh,” Silvio says, which is followed by an awkward silence.
“I blacked out,” I continue. “Drugs and alcohol. Who the hell knows? I was in bad shape the next morning. They were…” Animals. “Not very gentle. So, that’s why I don’t party anymore. Not without Master.” I need rules and security measures and for Master to help me stay sober and keep me safe.
Silvio is quiet for the rest of the short ride. I suppose I have that effect on people.
We reach the more touristy part of the island where Silvio parks in one of the narrow cobblestone alleyways. Inside the gelateria, he points to one kind of ice cream in particular called stracciatella and kisses his fingers to signify its tastiness. I agree to the flavor and he buys us each a cone. We sit in the shade of a striped awning outside and eat our gelato. He’s right that it’s delicious, a rich vanilla threaded with strings of dark chocolate that are slightly salty and combined with the sweetness of the cream, makes for an excellent pairing. The ice cream is as decadent as our lush surroundings and reminds me of Silvio himself, a man in his prime of life—loud, brash, and enthusiastic in his every pursuit. Arrogant and almost innocent in a way I’ve never been.
Silvio tells me about the first time he visited his brother in New York City, and Master took him to a drag show in Hell’s Kitchen, and Silvio didn’t understand the significance until Master pointed out that the performers were not women but men.
“I didn’t believe him,” Silvio says, “so he asked one of the drag queens to prove it.”
I chuckle at that, imagining both Silvio’s surprise and Master’s ability to persuade people to do things they might not normally.
“They have gay clubs here, don’t they?” I ask.
He makes a gesture with his hand that I take to mean, somewhat. “Milano, Bologna yes, but less so in the south. We are not so open here. Private parties, back rooms, certain men’s clubs. You have to keep up appearances, you know?”
Yes, Silvio, I certainly do know.
“Are you out to your parents?” Master’s mother passed away when he was a teenager, after which their father remarried Silvio’s mother. This accounts for the rather large age gap between them. Their father has since died, but Silvio’s mother is alive and living in Naples.
“Yes. My mother said it must be my father’s fault to have two gay sons and no grandchildren. Something in the semen.” Silvio laughs and I join him. “See, I am fun guy,” he says to me in English.
“Yes, you are,” I agree, flattered that he cares about my opinion. I’m so accustomed to being regarded as a possession by the men in Master’s orbit, a pretty, vapid ornament. My internal thoughts I share with Master and Rebekah and Rico, but very few others.
“You should laugh more, beautiful.” Silvio touches the corner of my mouth with his thumb. My lips part reflexively to accept his digit inside, then stop, realizing what I’ve done. Rather than pull away, Silvio wipes a bit of ice cream from my lower lip and licks it from his thumb, smiling because he’s seen my slip, and he knows.
“He has pretty skin, no?”Silvio comments to Master about me the next afternoon.
“Golden,” Master agrees.
“What’s the story with those scars?”
I’m lounging on a beach towel in the sun, pretending to be asleep. I’m used to being discussed as if I’m not in the room, as it’s Master job to answer questions on my behalf, and it frees me from having to explain things. Silvio knows already that I used drugs, so he must have a suspicion about at least some of the scars.
“He cuts himself sometimes,” Master says matter-of-factly. “He has a lot of trauma in his past and voices in his head that are not kind to him.”
My lower lip quivers and my eyes burn a little, not because Master is speaking about my past but because the way in which he does it, is with so much compassion and acceptance. Master loves me, demons and all.
Master tells him, frankly, that I used to shoot heroin and use cocaine, among other things. And that, if given opportunity and access, I might again. “That’s why you must be careful when you go out as well as when you invite people over. Giovanni is intrepid. And very clever too. Even without money or means, he knows how to get what he wants.”
It would be a compliment if it weren’t applied to such deviant pursuits. Silvio must make some gesture or give some sort of look because Master then says, “An addict will do whatever is necessary, and it’s difficult for him to resist temptation. That’s why he must know who’s in control at all times.”
Master doesn’t use the past tense. He knows better than to think the addiction is behind me. I’m sober now, but I’ve had a few relapses in our time together. It’s a delicate dance I do with my demons, and they are constantly waiting for me to stumble.
“And he likes when you hurt him?” Silvio asks. He hasn’t witnessed that aspect of our relationship, not really, but he seems interested to know more.
“Giovanni finds the pain to be a kind of release.”
Master then gives one of his TED Talks on the physical and emotional benefits of the D/s relationship while I zone out and think about when he initially educated me on the subject and during our first formal scene, how easy he’d gone on me. A light spanking with me bent over his lap, firm hand to bare ass, followed by effusive praise. He couldn’t have known that I would respond so intensely. The rush I sometimes get from our play reminds me of when I was using drugs, but the difference is Master knows when I’ve had enough. Unlike my addiction, he handles my dosage and frequency and makes sure I have enough time in between sessions to heal. The pain is therapeutic rather than destructive and it only makes me stronger.
“Would you like to watch?” Master asks, and here my ears perk up because I haven’t been able to fly since Rome and Master will be leaving for New York in three days.
“Yes,” Silvio says and glances over at me again. Behind my dark sunglasses, I watch his eyes pore over my body, from my mouth to my naked cock down my long legs, all the way to my toes, and then slowly back up. I feel his lust rising like the tide as he adjusts himself inside his bathing shorts. “I would like to fuck him too,” Silvio says to Master and wipes his mouth with his thumb and forefinger.
Master says, “I’ll discuss it with Gio. Only with his consent.”
I roll over and turn my head so they cannot see my smile. This slave finds that they are not opposed.