Idowant to please him, and he’s right that Master is not here. Master left Sir in charge, and he would want me to be obedient. Sir’s rules are not the same. Sir wouldn’t even know how to operate a cock cage. He’d probably find it cruel and unusual, unable to fathom how such an apparatus would have ever been invented, much less how it might be seen as an effective punishment and even, at times, a comfort.
I reach down and tentatively touch myself. My cock bobs with interest, hard already from Sir’s teasing. I take hold of it and slowly slide my hand along the underside of my smooth shaft. It feels so foreign to me, like holding a stranger’s dick in my hand.
“Both hands,” Sir says, nodding to the one that clutches the bedsheet. I reach down to cup my balls. They’re like naked baby rats, blind and squirmy, but I do as Sir asks.
“Make yourself come, little boy,” Sir tells me. “Let me see if you can.”
I close my eyes, the only way I can manage this, and lean back against the pillows. Sir squirts cold lube onto my dick to make it easier. I stroke myself, slowly at first, then finding a rhythm. My balls feel shriveled and tight in the valley of my palm while my dick oozes a steady drip of fluid. I think about yesterday in the bath when Sir came down my throat while stroking my neck with his palm, as if to ensure his semen would find safe passage, and then when he was finished, made me open my mouth to prove I had swallowed it all, probing inside with his two thick fingers.
“Yes, princess, show me your pretty o-face.Signorewants to see it.”
My climax takes me by surprise. It’s fairly weak as far as orgasms go, but I come all the same, a drippy fountain spilling over my fingers and onto my navel. I open my eyes to see Sir staring intently at what I’ve done and the mess I’ve made. It feels wrong to me, selfish to do this for myself, but Sir isn’t upset. I go to lick what’s left on my fingers but Sir catches my hand, brings it to his own mouth, and laps it up instead. My fingers opens like flower petals so that he might collect every last bit.
“Boys drink cum, not men,” I tell him. I know this is only Master’s rule, but I feel that I must say it aloud, that if I don’t, I’m betraying my Master’s careful instruction.
“Am I not a man?” he asks, his thick eyebrows quirking.
“You are, Sir, but this slave feels selfish and unworthy because they took pleasure from Sir rather than giving it.” I feel so twitchy inside and wrong. “May I service you now? Please?” He can’t know the significance of the word “please,” that I only use it when I really, really want something. When I say “please,” Master usually gives in.
“Later, princess,” Sir says, flippantly. “Right now, I’m starving.”
I manageto make us breakfast, though I find myself constantly glancing over at Sir to see what he might attempt next. Master was very clear about the rules, with him and me both, and Sir had two weeks to observe and participate in our rituals. He knows my virtues and that the slave’s role is meant to serve, not be serviced. He is doing thisall wrong.
I sit down to eat with him, and Sir surveys the food. “I have some bad news,” he says, looking dour. I brace myself for the worst. “I don’t like poached eggs.”
Well, I nearly burst into tears at that, partly because I’m still feeling so fragile but also because I’ve been making his breakfast for two weeks now, assuming he would like the same things as Master, and he’s never said a word.
“Princess, don’t look so sad,” he says cheerfully. “You have to remember, I’m not an old man like my brother. I eat bacon and sausage and ham and fatty cheeses. It’s okay. I’ll teach you how to cook for a stallion.”
I nod and bite my lower lip to try and pull myself together. Sir gets up to go rummage around in the pantry and comes back with a jar of Nutella. He smears a thick dollop over his toast. “Here,” he says, holding it out to me. “Try it. It’s good.”
I do as Sir suggests and it is good, though not at all healthy. I’m rattled, but this too is okay. I can make different foods, and I caneatdifferent foods. The important thing is that Sir is happy.
After breakfast, I swim laps in the pool while Sir checks the news on his phone. We go into the steam room together, and I sink down to my knees almost immediately, anxious to rectify the imbalance between us. Sir strokes my cheek and asks me if I’m going to spit on him this time. I’m so embarrassed that I can’t look at him, but he only laughs and coaxes me forward with one large hand on my throat and the other in my hair.
Sir is gentle, far gentler than when I’m used by Master, and I worry that he is justnotgetting it. But then he emits a deep, rumbling groan and sits up to grip my head in both his hands. I relax my neck and let my jaw widen, drawing him in deeper with the suppleness of my throat. Where Master’s cock is a blade, Sir’s is a bludgeon—fat, weighty, bruising. Even when he’s not trying to be rough, his size means that he can’t help it, and this slave welcomes the pain and the impact. If only I could turn myself inside out and see what Sir’s cock has done to my throat. When Sir finally unleashes his orgasm, it’s like a dam breaking, and he floods my mouth with his viscous, briny sea. I gasp and choke, drowning in semen and think,yes, this will do.
This ishow we spend the next few days becoming reacquainted now that Master is not here. We go shopping in the town for the foods Sir likes, and he insists that I get something sweet for myself as well. I make his breakfast of nitrate-rich meats, buttery breads, and fatty cheeses, and prepare his espresso with steamed milk and sugar because black coffee is far too bitter for sweet Sir. I service him in the steam room, in the bath, in the bedroom, at the breakfast table, on my knees in the sand with the surf tickling my toes… wherever and whenever Sir demands.
One day, mid-blowjob, Sir remarks to Anthony on my unquenchable thirst for cock, and Anthony, stuttering, agrees. The thing I appreciate about Sir is that heisgreedy, and his cock is lusty, always nodding drunkenly in my direction. All I must do is give Sir the right look or arrange myself just so, and Sir’s lust is activated. He doesn’t even have to use words, he just makes that kissing noise or murmurs, “Fammi un pompino, principessa” in his deep, lilting voice, and this slave drops to his knees to oblige him. In this way, and mostly by accident, Siristraining me.
Now, we are on his boat,Evelina, named after his beloved mother. Sir is tinkering below deck with the engine, and I’m lounging nude under the deck awning with a book. Anthony is standing on the dock holding an umbrella over his head to block the sun.
After an hour or so, Sir climbs back up to the deck with a grease rag in his hands and sweat beaded up on his face, neck, and forearms. The chest hair poking out of his collar glistens from his exertion and his shirt is practically translucent where he’s sweated through it. His skin is a delicious, bronzed color that begs to be worshiped. I pour him a limoncello over ice from the bottle and offer it to him, bowing my head slightly as my Master would expect me to do when serving such a man. Sir sits with his back against the fiberglass deck, drink in hand, and surveys me. I’m expecting the kissy noise because it’s been at least two hours since his lastpompinobut instead he says, “What are you reading, princess?”
I’m readingDante’s Infernofor the fifth or sixth time, now in its original Italian text. I show him the book.
“This is very boring, no?”
I smile at his obvious distaste for reading and other scholarly pursuits.
“I find it interesting. Each Circle of Hell is designated for a certain type of sinner, which makes for a rather nice organization of humanity.” I am comforted to know there is plenty of room in Hell for bad people and fitting punishments for the scourge of the earth.
Sir says, “Which sin is mine?”
“Lust,” I tell him without even having to deliberate. “Second Circle.”
He smiles as if it’s a compliment. “Yes, sounds right. What do they do at the lust party?”
