“You deserve to be spoiled after enduring all the terrible things I do to you,” he says with a sly grin.
“Worth it.”
“And if you ever wanted something different…” Master begins.
“I don’t,” I assure him. “What we have is perfect.”
Master’s smile is tinged with a bit of melancholy. “Yes, I think so too.”
Bernini’s sculptures are by far my favorite, but Master favors the paintings by Caravaggio. He points to one in particular,Boy with a Basket of Fruit, and describes the eroticism inherent in the work, from the youth’s woozy expression and pink parted lips to where his shirt has artfully fallen away to reveal a bare muscular shoulder, one of Caravaggio’s trademarks. In the painting, the boy invites the viewer to sample from his luscious bounty of fruit, all of them ripened and sensuous, as if making an offering of himself.
“Was Caravaggio gay?” I ask. The painter certainly had a talent for capturing the male form.
Master tilts his head. “This young man with the beautiful curls is Minniti, a fellow painter and only sixteen years old at the time. He was Caravaggio’s companion for a while, and Caravaggio painted him extensively, but he also used young male prostitutes as his models. Draw your own conclusions.”
On our last day in Rome, we don’t leave our rooms at all. Master pops two blue pills and spends the whole day edging me with his cock, to the point that I worry he’ll make me incontinent and tell him so. Master assures me that’s what my exercises are for and continues his torment. Hours later when I’m a sweating, trembling mess and all I can say is “please” over and over again, he finally lets me come, and I’d swear my soul leaves my body.
An artist in his own right, Master offers me these rare glimpses of the divine.
But that wastwo days ago. And now we’re on the ferry to Master’s villa where I will meet his younger brother Silvio. With it being the start of summer, the weather is warm and the water is beautiful, but there’s something weighing on Master’s mind. I can see it in the set of his shoulders and the lines on his face, which cut deeper when he’s stressed. We’re not affectionate in public, but we stand very close to each other on the ferry’s upper deck and gaze at the rocky island ahead of us while Master tells me about he and Silvio’s business to pass the time.
It’s a somewhat commonplace trade amongst intrepid Italians, and unlike the Aponte family business, it’s completely legitimate. Because Greece never invested in processing plants for their olive oil, they export most of it in bulk to Italy where it is bottled and slapped with a label that says, “Made in Italy.” The markup is significant, and the only work that must be done is in marketing and distribution. In fact, most of the olive oil that claims to be Italian is more likely Greek. It should be criminal but it’s not. This is the gist of what Master tells me, as well as sharing with me some of the features of the property that I’m about to see.
“There’s a natural underground cave with hot springs that I’ve converted into a steam room. I think you’ll really enjoy it.”
“I’m sure I will,” I tell him because how could I not?
“There’s a pool, of course, and a private beach where you can swim in the ocean, every day if you want.”
“Master offers this slave every comfort imaginable,” I say to assure him because he’s never felt the need to sell me on a place before, especially one that looks and sounds like a literal paradise.
“My brother…” Master begins.
“Silvio?”
Master’s lips thin to a severe line. He seems to shake himself out of it, then says, somewhat ominously, “We’ll discuss it over dinner.”
Master knows I don’t like to think about the space between now and later, so I can only assume his hesitance means there is some news he wishes to share but finds our current surroundings less than ideal. Of course, this activates the demons who start chattering amongst themselves like conniving, backstabbing bitches, but I remind myself that we’ve had a wonderful trip, I’ve behaved very well, and why would Master take me to his private villa to meet his beloved brother only to give me bad news?
Master instructs the driver to load up the car with ours and Anthony’s luggage and deliver it to the estate, that we’ll go to dinner and walk home from there. The island is small—bikeable from one end to the other—but large enough for a bustling little village and thriving tourist economy, this also according to Master.
Once we’re seated at a candlelit table with a view of the Mediterranean and Anthony at the table next to us, Master orders us a variety of local fare, ranging from mussels in wine sauce to seared scallops and fried calamari. He drinks Fiano, a regional white wine, and watches me as I indulge in the cornucopia of food.
“Master?” I ask tentatively.
“I love you,” he says.
“I love you too.” Those words have never sounded terrifying before, and I know that I cannot tolerate this suspense any longer. I wipe my mouth and place the napkin on the table. I’ve eaten enough anyway. “This slave senses that his Master has something important to tell him but is hesitating. This slave would like to know what thoughts trouble his Master so.”
“New York is not safe for us right now.”
I nod. I figured that was the reason for our trip.
“I brought you here because I needed somewhere secure to put you and with someone I trust.”
“Silvio,” I say slowly.
“Silvio will watch over you while I wrap up business in New York.”
