“Green.”
Silvio has been watching our exchange in English without really comprehending. Now, as I go down to my knees on the floor in front of him, he glances at Master with a questioning look.
“Pompino,” Master says.Blowjob.
“Ah,” Silvio says, warming to the idea. In Italian he says, “Yes, princess, you are so pretty down there. Come a little closer now. Don’t be shy.” He makes a kissing noise like he’s calling a dog with his legs spread in an arrogant sprawl and one arm draped on the back of the bench. I should be irritated by it, but my body vibrates with arousal and need. My mouth waters for a thick cock to fill it, but shouldn’t it be Master’s dick that I crave, and only Master’s?
“Be a good host, Giovanni,” Master says. “Demonstrate the virtues your Master has taught you.”
It’s this idea that draws me forward, that through servicing Silvio, I might also be serving my Master. They are brothers after all, as well as business partners and friends. My mouth is Master’s gift to Silvio, a kind of homecoming, and my body is merely a conduit for their bond to be strengthened.
I begin with Silvio much as I would with Master, using only my lips and tongue to mouth and suckle his balls, only Silvio is much more enthusiastic and vocal with his praise. “Yes, right there, princess. Lick my big, hairy nuts. Get them nice and clean for me. Polish my dick too. What a pretty little cocksucker you are.”
Silvio smells different from Master, briny like the sea, but it’s not at all unpleasant, and though I wish that I might be more repulsed by it, I’m not. The scent of scrotum, sweat, and precum is familiar, a Pavlovian incentive that makes my own mouth salivate, and when his cock finally fills my mouth, I nearly forget to differentiate between the two brothers. My mind is singularly focused on my virtue, a boy on his knees servicing a man. It’s the man’s grunts and groans that guide me along with the throb and thrust of his flesh. The ache of my jaw and the steady abuse my tissues will withstand, for the man’s desire to use is the exact complement to my own desire to be used.
It’s only when Silvio’s cock starts pumping out his release that I remember myself, and I’m horrified to find that I’ve come too, an accident. His semen fills my mouth, coating my throat and tongue thickly, and I must come to terms with the fact that this isnotmy Master but practically a stranger, and even though Master is here watching, he won’t be for much longer and then what? This slave is more than a convenient mouth or hole to warm Silvio’s monster dick. I’m not hisprincessor hispretty cocksucker. I’m nothing at all to him.
I do something very disrespectful then, something that shames me to this day whenever I think about it. I stand, and with a mouthful of cum, I spit it in Silvio’s face.
Master doesn’t yellat me, doesn’t berate me or insult me, or even comment on it all that much. Master hasneverhit me, though I wish he would right then, an immediate punishment for such an egregious act of disrespect. Master does none of that, but he does cage my cock, and in the contemplative looks he gives me for the rest of the day, I know he’s disappointed in me.
Silvio only laughs boisterously and calls mecammelloor camel. Perhaps he thinks he’s come out the winner in this situation because he got his rocks off all the same, but I know all the ways in which I disrespected my Master when I disrespected his brother, and my demons know it too.
No wonder he wants to leave you.
Spoiled, selfish boy.
You’ll never be able to hold his attention, you’re just a dirty little faggot.
I don’t say much for the rest of the evening. When Master and Silvio both try to draw me out by asking questions about our travels, I give them only one-word answers. I tell Master I’m not feeling well and ask to go into my box. He doesn’t lock it, though I wish he would. Inside I bury my face in the mattress and relive all the times I’ve been disobedient towards my Master, which are many, like a highlight reel that only serves to multiply my shame. I drown in all the ways I’m unworthy. After all that my Master has given me, his training and praise, security and comfort. If I cannot be a virtuous slave for Master, then what good am I?
Hours later, trapped in fitful sleep, Master comes again to the doorway and says, “Come to bed, Giovanni.”
“This slave does not deserve to share his Master’s bed,” I mutter in a scratchy voice.
“Master wasn’t making a request.”
Even in this, I am insolent. I drag myself off the foam mattress and join Master in his bed.
“I pushed you too soon,” Master says softly as he kisses my forehead. His arms wrap around me, offering me the comfort I surely don’t deserve. “I’m sorry.”
“Please, don’t apologize,” I beg. I need to be reminded of my place. If Master gives me even an inch, the demons will take over. “This slave wasnotvirtuous. This slave needs to be punished.”
This is not some sort of melodramatic cry for attention; this is necessary to restore balance and order in the chaos of my mind.
Master nods and says, “We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”
9
I’m distracted the entire time while cooking breakfast, anxious about the discussion Master and I must have. It takes me three attempts to poach Master’s egg properly. I eat the screw-ups, something else he notices. Master uncages me before I swim laps because the metal chafes my skin and slows me down. Afterward, I strip and go over to him to replace it, but instead, he motions to the chair across from him.
“Sit, Giovanni. Let us talk as men.”
As men, not as slave and Master. I dread these conversations. Even though Master is careful, I have a lot of triggers that pop up unexpectedly when I’m forced to think about anything other than the present. But it’s probably somewhat necessary with the recent upheaval in our lives. Master begins as he usually does, “How are you feeling?”
“Ashamed.” Whenever I behave poorly, the aftereffects are like the residual stinging throb after a burn, a shame that lingers.
“Aside from yesterday.”
