“I like your piercing,” I tell her, which takes the attention away from myself. Alessia goes on to tell me where she got it done and how it hurt like a bitch but that she likes the extra stimulation, especially when her Dom takes it into his mouth and sucks hard. “He can make me come all night long,” she says smugly.
We then drift into talking about other subjects, hair care products and hair removal—she has a Brazilian wax and is impressed by my commitment to be bare.
“Does your master fuck women?” she asks, probably noticing that even though I’m fit, I’m not the most masculine of slave boys. This feels safe enough to answer.
“No, only men.”
“How’s his cock?” She really has a one-track mind.
“This slave doesn’t comment on his Master’s endowments, only accepts the blessings he’s been bestowed.”
She laughs at that, bawdy but not unkind. “Well, aren’t you a good little boy?”
As the night wears on, I can tell Alessia is growing impatient for her Dom’s attention. I can sympathize. When your whole focus in life is narrowed to the sole purpose of pleasing one individual, it’s difficult to concentrate on anything else for very long, especially when we’re dressed up and displayed as we are, like lavish, fuckable pets, and even more so when the musk of man is so thick in the air. Their deep voices and hearty chuckles are like an aphrodisiac to this slave’s senses, and I have the urge myself to make sexual advances if it meant persuading my Master to come claim me.
I don’t though. Patience is this slave’s virtue.
Alessia goes back to massaging herself, her breasts this time, which are nice and round as half melons with pert brown nipples. I tell her about the erotic art of antiquity, specifically those sculptures depicting prostitutes. “They held their breasts like this,” I say and grip my own chest to show her. “That meant they were selling their wares.”
Alessia likes this and she goes back to modeling the pose, splayed out on the chaise like a true Babylonian whore. She has her Dom’s attention now. The men are taking a break or perhaps the game has concluded. Master pours his guests another drink while Alessia skates one hand along my thigh. A suggestion or an invitation. My cock is caged so there’s no real threat of arousal. Consenting subs often play with one another for the entertainment and pleasure of their Dominants, but she shouldn’t touch me without my Master’s permission.
“Does your slave fuck women?” Alessia’s Dom asks my own.
“My slave doesn’t fuck anyone, not even his own hand.”
That’s true. I haven’t touched myself in an erotic way for at least two years now. Orgasms must be earned through service and only according to Master’s wishes.
“Too bad,” the man muses. “I’d like to see them play. You could uncage him, let Alessia suck him off.”
“I don’t think so,” Master says. “And I’d appreciate it if your sub didn’t touch him either.” The Dominant motions to Alessia, and her hand lifts from my thigh almost immediately, which is a relief, not because I felt threatened but because I like knowing Master will protect me.
The men move closer to where we’re lounging and spread out on couches and recliners around the room. I can tell Master wants my attention by the way he’s watching me. His pheromones reach out to me like a panther’s claw, but I’m not permitted to leave the chaise without his permission. Master makes rules for me like this whenever he entertains, to keep me safe or to torment me, sometimes both. Alessia is behind me now and whispering suggestive things into my ear. Master’s expression is tight; he doesn’t like it.
“Giovanni,” he calls. I could simply walk over and bow before him, but I wish to demonstrate my subservience, so I climb off the chaise and crawl across the floor to him. The marble hurts my knees, but I can think of no better reason for the discomfort. Master sets aside hisfrizzanteand touches my face by way of greeting.
“You doing all right over there?” he asks. He knows how I am about strangers touching me.
“Alessia needs to be bred by her Sir,” I tell him. He chuckles, probably agreeing with me.
“What do you think of the party?”
I like it when Master hosts poker night because it reminds me of my grandfather’s den in New Jersey when he would do the same. The men were loud and boisterous, and I’d wander through refilling their drinks or bringing them a cold beer from the fridge and getting teased along the way. They’d ask me to look at my grandfather’s cards and whisper in their ears what he was holding. Of course, I never did.
“I was thinking about when you used to play cards with grandfather, and you’d let me sit on your lap and play a few rounds.”
Master smiles, remembering. “You loved the kings.”
That was true, I was a bit of a hoarder when it came to the kings. “I like strong, powerful men,” I tell him.
“I like beautiful boys,” he says. “One in particular. Will you sit on my lap now,tesoro?”
“Yes, Master,” I say, hardly able to contain my excitement. There is a certain thrill a slave experiences after hours of preparation and patience, to finally be claimed by their Master. And a sort of heady validation too—Master could be conversing with his longtime friends, but at this moment, he chooses me.
“Your grandfather was a good man,” he says contemplatively. He misses him, as do I.
“Yes, he was.”
“I wonder what he would have to say about this,” Master remarks, as he sometimes does, whenever he’s feeling guilty.
