I smile. “That would be lovely. Why don’t you write down your phone number,” I hand her the drink napkin, “and I’ll pass it along to him when he gets back.”
“Wonderful,” she says and does so eagerly. I could probably ask her for a dozen cookies at this point and she’d give them to me without batting an eye, but Master is making his way over.
“What did she want?” he asks gruffly once he’s seated next to me again. It’s not that Master isjealous, but he is very protective. “She told me I have a very attentive father,” I say with a slow smile. We get mistaken for father and son all the time. I think it’s hilarious. Master less so.
He shakes his head. “That you do.”
“I said you were still grieving the loss of my mother.”
“Giovanni,” he chides, but he’s smiling.
“She gave me her number if you want to go with her to see the sights.” I show him the napkin.
“I should make you eat that.”
I tear off the top layer of the napkin, tuck it into my mouth, and then swallow it down with a chaser of his Pellegrino. He shakes his head at my antics and tells me I’mtoo much. After that I try to get comfortable, but I’m restless and out of sorts because we’re off our routine and there are too many unknowns confronting us when we arrive. Master has a plan, but what if it’s one I don’t like? This slave is so curious.
“Will you fuck me in the bathroom?” I whine to him a little while later. It’s a long flight and due to our travel schedule, I wasn’t milked this morning.
“No, I will not.”
“Can I suck you off under the blanket?”
“No, and if you keep it up, I’m going to cage you as soon as we land, and I won’t let you out for a week.”
I sigh morosely and stare out the window. Master lays one hand atop my thigh and gently squeezes, reminding me he’s here and he knows best. When the flight attendant comes by again, she notices the position of his hand and does a double take. Master smiles charmingly and says to her smoothly, “My boy and I are very close.”
Master checksus into a suite at the Palazzo Parigi in Milan with breathtaking views of the city. The hotel houses a spa with a counter-current pool where I can swim laps in the mornings, a luxurious steam room, and masseurs on staff specializing in three different types of massage. Our suite of rooms includes an area for entertaining so that Master can invite friends over, as well as an adjacent room for Anthony. Master says we’ll resume our routine tomorrow once we’ve recovered from our long flight, and I must admit that blowing my Master the next morning while gazing across the Milan skyline makes this slave feel pretty spoiled rotten.
After that, we go shopping—Canali, Armani, Versace, and Montezemolo, which was started by the owner of Ferrari and just goes to show that fast cars and well-dressed Italian men are a perfect pairing. Master has a Beamer in New York that he takes out sometimes, but more often he’s driven around by the family. He’s already promised me a convertible for my next birthday if I continue to demonstrate my virtues. I think a red one would suit me.
At the clothing stores I choose my favorite pieces and model them for Master. He either approves of them or not, but all the ones I want, I get. I receive a few looks from the shop attendants at my cock cage, which stretches the fabric of my tight Versace briefs, but this is really the only way to make sure my pants will lay well over my groin when I’m wearing it.
In the whirlwind of decadent meals and expensive gifts and fucking on every surface of the lavish suite, the highlight of our stay in Milan is when Master invites a couple of his Dominant friends over to play poker. Master has maintained his ties to the old country and visits regularly. In addition to running the Aponte family business, he’s part owner of his brother’s venture and has a few cousins and distant relatives scattered around Italy.
On the night of the poker party, one of the men brings along a submissive of their own who Master invites to sit next to me. I’m wearing my gold accoutrement and draped across an elegant chaise like Hadrian’s beloved Antinous. The seat is big enough for two, and I wouldn’t mind the company. Master gives me permission to speak with Alessia, a female sub, probably because he wants me to practice my Italian.
Alessia is in her mid-thirties and attractive in the way that most Italian women are, with raven hair and a rich Mediterranean complexion. Even with her natural beauty, she wears long, fake eyelashes with rouged cheeks and a painted beauty mark near her mouth that reminds me of depictions of French prostitutes in the late Renaissance, when the aristocratic trends of the high court trickled down into the brothels and whorehouses and the women made themselves up to be attractive to rich men. The gloss around Alessia’s lips is messy and smeared, as though her Dominant made use of her mouth in the car ride over, or perhaps in the hallway outside our suite.
Some Dominants like their subs to look used and whorish as a testament to their virility. Some will paint their faces with their cum and have them wear it as a badge of honor. I can see the appeal. I, myself, have fantasized about the Japanese practice ofbukkake, which is when several men ejaculate on one person’s face until their skin is milk white. But Master says he alone can mark me, so it remains only a fantasy for now.
Alessia greets me briefly before settling back on the chaise and opening her legs to display her sex. Her clit is pierced, and she manipulates it between her manicured fingers, stealing glances at her Dom to see if she has his attention.
He looks over at her once or twice, probably considers claiming her, but ultimately goes back to playing cards. Master also pays attention to my reaction, probably not wanting me to get any ideas (as if I were so easily influenced!) but this sort of blatant eroticism feels cheap to me. And a little desperate. Because of Master’s background and his current position of power, and because we’re the same sex, he’d never want me to be so obvious. In public we are discreet and even in private, any overt displays of sexuality are on his terms.
“What’s your name, handsome,” she asks when it seems her Dominant will not leave the company of men.
“Giovanni,” I tell her, though I’d be happy to be known only as my Master’sschiavo.
“You look like a good little boy, all dolled up for daddy’s poker party.”
I don’t know what she means to imply, other than a general sense of superiority, and since it’s not a question, there’s no real need to respond. She continues with, “Your master looks pretty old, baby boy. Can he still get it up for you or does he have to bring in a stud?”
I don’t discuss our private life with anyone but Rebekah, and I will not discuss it with her. I know some subs like to compare notes about their Dominants’ particular talents or brag about the sizes of their dicks or if it’s a Mistress, the female equivalent, but I feel disrespectful doing so. It is not this slave’s job to rate their Master’s performance, only to accept what they are given and be grateful.
“I bet he does.” She nods knowingly. “I bet he likes to watch you get fucked by a few big, strapping bulls, all taking their turns doing doggy style on that sweet little ass of yours.”
I’m doing my best to translate, but the Italian equivalent to “doggy style,” is actuallya pecorinaor “sheep style.” Italy is a bucolic country.
