1
As I prepare the penthouse for my Master’s return, I ponder the expanse of my devotion to him, a wellspring so deep and so wide that its magnitude sometimes astonishes me. One that is replenished daily through our domestic dealings, his gentle caresses as well as his bruising touches, in every rule he establishes and lovingly enforces, and in my own service and submission to him. I long for the sense of rightness only he can provide and the blessed silencing of the demons in my mind. If only I could drown myself in this obsession, I surely would.
I was raised by my paternal grandfather, the don of the Aponte family business. My Master, Valentin Fortuna, was his capo. Grandfather wisely identified his potential for leadership and promoted him from within the ranks. My father was the designated heir and poised to take over the family when he was fatally shot in a negotiation gone wrong. I was seven years old at the time. My mother turned to drugs soon after, leaving me in the care of unsavory characters or neglecting me altogether.
When he got word of how we’d been living, my grandfather stepped in and installed me in his country manor in New Jersey where I was socialized by tutors and household staff and my grandfather’s company on the weekends. Though it could be lonely at times, I was safe and comfortable. My grandfather spared no expense on my education—piano and cello lessons, Italian and French tutors, as well as academics paid to educate and debate me on philosophy, politics, and art. My Master visited too on occasion and would always offer an encouraging word, inquire about my studies, or compliment my playing when I performed for him. My grandfather provided me with endless opportunities to stimulate my senses and my mind, and all was well until a few years later when my mother, who was by then an impoverished drug addict, thought to kidnap me and use me to extort money from my grandfather.
She and her boyfriend hid me in a condemned apartment in the Bronx, making threats and demanding a ransom. My Master was the one who finally rescued me from that filthy hellhole where I’d been kept like an animal for months. I’d been so scared and so weak, so strung out on the heroin they’d given me to keep me quiet, to keep me tame.
I only talk about that time with my therapist and very rarely, with Master, but the lingering result for me was a drug addiction and PTSD from the abuses I endured.
After I was recovered, my mother overdosed for the last time. Her boyfriend’s body was found in a dumpster, his throat slashed. Absent were his cock and balls. It was a fitting disposal for such human garbage. Both deeds had been carried out according to my grandfather’s orders and executed, I suspect, by my Master’s own hands.
Though she was beautiful, or at leasthadbeen beautiful, my mother was also selfish, petulant, spiteful, and disloyal. She didn’t know gratitude, something it has taken me a long time to learn, and for all those reasons and more, I didn’t mourn her death, I only wished my grandfather had acted sooner.
Master has worked hard to break me of my bad habits, but my mother’s poisonous words sometimes wrap themselves around my tongue. Her demons pollute my mind. When a dark mood takes hold, I can hardly control my impulses, and it seems as though my hands are truly the devil’s own.
Master helps me with that too.
My grandfather was a firm but fair man, and I loved him dearly. Shortly after my rescue, he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, an aggressive type that had already metastasized by the time it was discovered. He left the family business in my Master’s capable hands and retired to live out his remaining few years in New Jersey under the care of a trained medical staff. I read to him and played for him and cried at his bedside, and when the nurses weren’t looking, I crushed his pain pills and snorted them. They weren’t nearly as good as the heroin I craved, but they were better than nothing.
We buried my grandfather just after I turned seventeen. All the New York families turned out for his funeral, a testament to my grandfather’s reputation and his reign. I’d never seen so many tailored three-piece suits and somber Italian men. Master held my hand throughout the memorial mass, a small comfort. As for me, I was high as a kite during the entire ceremony but masked it as grief. I think I was too dead inside to feel anything at all.
Master knew I wasn’t ready or interested in being the boss of the family, so he took over operations with the expectation that I would assume the responsibility one day. He bought my way into a university and checked on me regularly. I cherished our friendship, and though he tried to act as a mentor and guide, my addiction had burrowed deep inside of me, along with the shame of my trauma and grief over losing my grandfather. It wasn’t long before the demons took hold, and I succumbed.
Master came for me a second time after I’d blacked out at a party on Fifth Avenue and had been raped by numerous men, including some of my “friends.” Once I’d sobered up, Master said to me, “You can be a slave to this drug, Matthew, or you can stay here and belong to me. The difference is that I’ll take care of you and provide for you in a way this poison never will.”
The nature of my belonging has evolved over time. But it was an easy choice to make then and being in my Master’s steadfast care these past three years has only solidified that decision. I have come to treasure the stable life he provides, the structure I can count on, the menial chores he assigns that keep me busy throughout the day, the gifts he bestows upon me, and our stimulating conversations. I crave his presence and his discipline as I once craved drugs. The high that only he can provide is a natural one with farther-reaching effects. The drop is something I can manage. And though I’m a wealthy man thanks to my inheritance and have the freedom to leave at any time, I don’t think I ever will. The world has not been kind to me, and I don’t have the strength to resist its temptations. I’ve come to accept my own weaknesses for pleasure, for escape. Whether I was born this way or whether it’s a product of my trauma hardly matters because the result is the same. Master knows what I need better than me. My only fear is that he’ll leave me or that death will part us, as I have lived in its grim shadow my entire life.
Master has taught me so many things in our time together—patience, humility, subservience, gratitude… I reflect on these virtues as I make a quick circuit of the apartment, straightening cushions, folding blankets, and tidying away shoes. Except for the gifts he gives me, everything in the apartment belongs to him. That’s why I cannot break things during a tantrum. Because these things are not mine to break. I shelve the books I’d been reading during my designated time for scholarly pursuits, bookmarking one story in particular Master might like me to read to him later, if I have the energy. Tonight I’m being rewarded for my good behavior; Master has promised me already.
“Smells delicious,” I say to Rico who’s stirring a pot of sauce in the kitchen. “Gravy,” as we Italians like to call it. Rico is my security detail when I go out, and he stays with me during the daytime while Master is at work. I cannot be left unsupervised, not yet. Too much time alone gives the demons an opportunity to take over.
Rico doesn’t know that I’m the heir to the Aponte fortune. Very few people do. My grandfather kept me away from the family business growing up, and for those who might have known me then, they haven’t seen me since his funeral when I was blond and wearing sunglasses to hide the fact that I was strung out on drugs. Instead, they believe I died from a fatal drug overdose, a tragic end, so much like my mother. And when Matthew Gianni Aponte III passed away, Giovanni Ricci was born. A new identity, a clean slate. When wiseguys visit or when we go out, they see me only as a glittering ornament, Master’sschiavo, or slave. It’s a title that I relish. Master is clever, to hide me in plain sight.
The situation works out well for Rico too. Part babysitter, part companion, Rico is an Aponte family man who wanted a safer position within the organization. He has two kids and a pretty wife he didn’t want to widow at a young age. He enjoys our time together, I think. I try to be good company for him.
“What are you making?” I ask. His duties occasionally extend to cooking for Master and me.
“Spaghetti Bolognese.” He uses a spoon to taste the sauce, then holds out another one for me to sample.
“A little more sugar,” I advise. “Master has a sensitive stomach.”
Rico nods and adds a pinch more. I take my leave to freshen up in the bathroom. Master likes me bare everywhere, soft and smooth to the touch, entirely exposed to his ravenous gaze. Let me describe what it feels like to be looked at by my Master. It starts with a wash of heat that engulfs me from head to toe, followed by a low vibration that escalates until I’m trembling all over. My mind cannot form quips or barbs, can hardly form sentences when I am the sole focus of his desire. The hunger in his eyes reminds me so much of my drug craving, a single-minded obsession to possess, to consume, to dominate. It flatters me that I inspire such a passion in a man, inthisman, who has saved my life twice already. The tyrannical god of my tiny existence, I spend my days thinking about how to better serve him and my nights under his commanding, yet careful hands. I live for his praise. I would rather die than not have him. This is not an exaggeration.
I have a professional esthetician who comes to the apartment once a month to wax me and perform other beauty treatments. Even still, I like to make sure my skin is moisturized and supple to the touch. I wear a cap when I swim so that my hair doesn’t stink like chlorine, and I wash myself thoroughly to get rid of the chemical tang of pool water. Master loves the way I smell, says that sometimes hours later, he can still taste me on his fingers and his tongue, that I am delicious.
I clean myself inside and out and prepare my hole, first with a moisturizing lotion and then with lube. We have to be careful with this area because of the scar tissue around my anus. Master tells me the ridges feel good against his smooth cock, but I often wish that I could be untainted for him. Virginal every time. Master says that sort of talk is deprecating and that I’m perfect just as I am, but I know how my injuries must look.
Next, I assess myself in the mirrors in Master’s bedroom that offer me a 360° view. When I first came to live with him, I was thin and unwell—the drugs always taking precedence over such things as eating and exercise—but I’ve gained a bit of muscle in the past couple of years. A nutritionist plans my diet according to my daily activities and caloric intake, and Master limits my sugar and carbs. A personal trainer meets with me at the building’s gym twice a week for strength training, and I swim most mornings to clear my mind. Master weighs me every couple of weeks to make sure I’m at a good weight, since I sometimes have a habit of skipping meals. I’ve never been healthier than in his care.
There’s a knock on the door and Rico’s low voice, “Your Master is ten minutes away.”
Rico refers to him as that when it’s just us. He knows how important it is for me to know my place and stay within the boundaries Master has set. The knowledge that my Master is so near sends a jolt of excitement through me, a low thrum that buoys me through the last of my preparations. I insert my butt plug, gold-plated stainless steel and shaped like a spherical spade with a flat, smooth base. Master had it engraved for me with “schiavo,” which makes it my favorite. He has other plugs, dildos, and vibrators, but Master likes to use those on me himself. Sometimes all he does is stretch me, filling me up completely without letting me come. Master has taught me the art of delayed gratification. God, how I adore him.
I remove my silk robe in the bedroom and walk naked to the living area to kneel on an oversized velvet pillow by the door, head bowed, hands laid open on my thighs as an offering. I am my Master’s own Vestal Virgin, presenting myself as a supplicant to his holy rites. Everything in this apartment is opulent because my Master likes nice things, but I am by far his most extravagant possession.
While I wait, Rico tidies up the kitchen. His shift is over when Master arrives. There’s another member of the family’s security detail who takes over then, but he’s positioned outside. This waiting is sweet torture for me. In a way, I am perpetually waiting for my Master, because it is only when I’m with him that I feel truly alive. But in these moments when my head is buzzing and my every nerve is fine-tuned to his arrival, I must concentrate even more narrowly on the act of simply breathing and remind myself that patience is this slave’s virtue.
