“Roll over. On your stomach. So I can give you a proper massage.” He says this like it’s the most reasonable request in the world, not like he’s asking a grown man to put himself in an even more vulnerable position than he’s already in.
“Ginni, I’m chained to your bed. I’m not rolling over for anything.”
“The chains have plenty of slack,” he points out, which is annoyingly true. “I made sure of that when I adjusted them this morning. You can lie comfortably on your stomach without any strain on your wrists.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point then?” He tilts his head, genuinely curious, and the gesture is so innocent it makes my chest tight. “Are you worried I’m going to hurt you?”
The question catches me off guard. Am I worried about that? The boy who’s spent days feeding me by hand, bathing me with reverent care, shaving me with a cutthroat razor without so much as nicking my skin?
“No,” I admit reluctantly. “I’m not worried about that.”
“Then what’s the problem?” Ginni asks, settling cross-legged beside me on the bed. “I’ve been watching YouTube tutorials on therapeutic massage. Deep tissue work, sports massage techniques, pressure point therapy. I want to take care of you properly.”
Of course he has. Is there anything this boy hasn’t researched in obsessive detail?
“I don’t need a massage,” I say, but the protest sounds weak even to my own ears.
“Yes, you do,” Ginni replies with patient certainty. “Your body is your most important tool in your line of work. You need to maintain proper muscle tone and flexibility, especially when your mobility is restricted. Especially at your age. Besides,” he adds with a sly smile, “I think you’ll enjoy it.”
The way he says it, with that hint of promise in his voice, makes heat pool low in my belly despite my exhaustion.
“Is this another sex thing?” I ask, and somehow my voice sounds far more excited than wary.
“Not everything is about sex, Carlo,” Ginni replies, laughing softly. “Though I won’t lie and say I don’t enjoy touching you. But this is about your health and comfort. Let me take care of you.”
There’s something in his voice, a note of genuine concern mixed with that devoted affection I’m becoming accustomed to, that makes my resistance crumble. I think I can cope with this.
“Fine,” I mutter, already starting to shift position. “But if you try anything...”
“I’ll be the perfect gentleman,” Ginni promises, though the mischievous glint in his eyes suggests his definition of gentlemanly behavior might differ from mine.
Rolling over while chained is more awkward than I expected, but Ginni helps guide me, adjusting the chains and pillows until I’m lying comfortably face-down on the mattress. The positiondoes feel vulnerable in ways I’m trying not to think about, but there’s also something oddly relaxing about it. Like surrendering control, letting someone else take charge of my comfort.
“There,” Ginni says with satisfaction, running his hands along my shoulders with professional assessment. “I can already see the problem areas. You’re carrying so much tension here.”
His fingers find knots I didn’t even know I had, pressing gently to assess the damage. The touch is clinical, impersonal, but I can feel my body responding to the contact anyway.
“I’ve been watching YouTube tutorials on therapeutic massage,” he continues, reaching for something from the collection of bottles he’s apparently arranged on the nightstand while I wasn’t paying attention. “Sports massage, specifically. Deep tissue work, myofascial release, trigger point therapy. It’s fascinating how interconnected everything is in the human body.”
The oil is warm when he drizzles it across my shoulders, and I can’t help but sigh at the sensation. It’s scented with something floral. Jasmine, maybe, with hints of sandalwood and bergamot underneath. The kind of luxury aromatherapy blend you’d find at an exclusive spa in Switzerland.
“Just relax,” he murmurs, his voice taking on that soothing, professional tone I’m beginning to associate with his caretaker mode. “Let me take care of you.”
His hands are smaller than mine, delicate-looking with their fine bones and soft skin, but there’s surprising strength in his fingers as he begins working the oil into my shoulders. He starts with long, sweeping strokes to warm up the muscles, then gradually increases pressure as he finds the knots and tension points.
“You’re really good at this,” I admit, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice.
“I told you, I’ve been studying,” Ginni replies, his hands now working on a particularly stubborn knot near my shoulder blade. “YouTube tutorials, online courses, even some video calls with actual licensed massage therapists. I wanted to be able to take care of you properly. All aspects of your health and wellbeing.”
The knot gives way under his persistent pressure, and I let out an involuntary groan of relief. Years of stress and tension seem to be melting away under his skilled touch. The constant vigilance required in my line of work, the weight of responsibility, the physical strain of always being ready for violence. All of it dissolves as Ginni’s hands work their magic.
He moves methodically down my back, finding tension I’ve been carrying for months. Places where stress has settled into my muscles like sediment, creating painful knots that I’d learned to ignore because there was never time to deal with them properly.
“Better?” he asks softly, working along my spine with gentle, circular motions.
“Much better,” I admit, and I can hear the amazement in my own voice. “Where did you really learn to do this?”
