“Tell me, Giovanni, does taking care of your Master like this bring up memories of your grandfather when he was nearing the end of his life.”
I nod, bracing myself emotionally. If there is a scab anywhere on my psyche, Rebekah knows just how to pick it off. “Yes, I think it does.”
“That must be scary for you, worrying about your Master in that way, but there are some differences between the two situations, aren’t there?”
“Yeah, I never sucked my grandfather’s cock to get him to eat his soup,” I tell her.
“Giovanni,” she says in a lightly chiding tone, though I’d like to think she might also have a smile on her face. “You’re deflecting.”
I sniff and rub my eyes, trying to stall the tears. “The biggest difference is that Master is feeling better already. This is truly an injury, not an illness, and he’s making a full recovery. He’s not going to die.”
Not by Salvatore Tagliarini’s hand, anyway. If I didn’t have to clean it up myself, I’d spit on the ground to scorn his name.
“But you still worry about him,” she says. I nod silently. “Giovanni, do you ever think about the age difference between you and your Master?”
I know that Master thinks about it more than me. That’s why he hesitated in claiming me, because of our age difference. His friends have commented on it too. Rebekah and I have talked about my seeking the comfort of older men as a way to recreate the safety and stability I felt in my grandfather’s care. But it’s not like I’m pursuing older men as a rule, just one older man in particular. And even if it were true, I don’t really see why it matters all that much, so long as both our needs are getting met.
“I think about it sometimes,” I tell her. “Usually, I only see it as an advantage. Master knows all the tricks on how to make me behave.”
“Does hemakeyou behave, or do you demonstrate your gratitude through honoring his rules and obeying his commands?”
The place where the BDSM and therapy communities overlap most obviously is in their love of proper lexicon and pedagogy.
“This slave only wishes to serve his Master,” I tell her, an easy refrain.
“Do you ever think about a future time when your Master may not be capable of dominating you in the way in which you need?”
I can feel her question triggering something deep inside of me, and I immediately revert to my mantras. “This slave lives only in the present, as it is not the slave’s responsibility to contemplate the future. The slave exists to gratify the desires of his Master when Master demands. That is the sole concern of this slave.”
“I understand your reluctance, Giovanni. A large portion of your life up until now has been about survival. Does it make you uncomfortable to think about or plan for the future?”
“Yes.”
“Can you articulate why?”
My past is blood and pain and poison. The future is a long empty road with storm clouds thundering in the distance. In some ways, being neglected and ignored was worse than any of my other traumas. Being used and then cast aside like garbage. Waking up or coming out of my drug-induced haze to find myself terrified and alone, in pain and not understanding why any of this was happening to me.
I say to Rebekah, “The only safe place is with Master, right here, right now.” Whether he’s holding me or fucking me or disciplining me… “With Master, I’m always safe and I am never alone.
“The futureisunknown,” Rebekah says, “and it can be hard to map the points in between where you are right now and where you might like to be later. Here’s what I’m going to ask you to do, Giovanni. When you’re feeling stronger, and when things are a bit more stable in your household, I want you to ask your Master if he has a plan for the future. It may not be the slave’s place to know the details of the plan, only to know that a plan exists. I think that may bring you some comfort when your day-to-day life is feeling topsy turvy. What do you think?”
“Master always has a plan,” I tell her.
“I’m sure he does.” And then she says the other words of affirmation I long to hear, “From what you tell me, it sounds like your Master loves you very much. And I can imagine that he’d want to reassure you that there is a plan for you. Because what does a good Master always do, Giovanni?”
“A good Master takes care of his slave.”
“Yes, he does.”
Master is still awayby the time Rebekah and I finish our session. He’ll likely be gone until the evening, which means I need to fill the hours between now and then. Victoria, my esthetician, wasn’t able to come for my appointment due to the heightened security, so I asked Master for permission to wax myself. The pain will help too, take the edge off my anxiety. Anthony, my minder, sits on the edge of the bed in Master’s bedroom while I minister myself in the en suite bathroom. The angles are all wrong, which means that I’ll probably miss some spots, but it’s better than nothing. If Master can take a bullet and survive, I can endure a subpar waxing.
“I don’t know how you can do that to yourself,” Anthony says while I pull a strip off my inner thigh. I don’thaveto answer him, but I’m bored and could use the distraction.
“It’s a small sacrifice this slave makes in order to be pleasing to his Master’s touch.”
Another rip in the crevice of my groin, tearing the hair follicles from their roots along with the top layer of my skin. Yes, this feels much better.
“So, are you bare… everywhere?” he asks. He’s seen me shower and change in the pool’s locker room before. He knows the answer already.
