“Thank you, Sir.”
“You ready to go?” he asks, probably sensing my nervousness.
“Yes, I’m ready now.”
The club is obviously not one that I’ve been to before, and the patrons are mostly Italian, which further removes me from flashbacks to NYC’s club scene. Some of the songs are American ones, and everyone sings along during the chorus, whether they know the English words or not. I like the communal vibe of this Italian nightclub; it’s almost like a sporting event with regard to its enthusiastic crowd participation. Sir orders himself a whiskey sour and a club soda for me. We sip our drinks on the balcony and stare at the mass of undulating bodies below.
“Does my brother take you dancing?” Sir asks, perhaps noticing my gaze.
“He’s brought me to his club in Chelsea, but not for dancing.”
“For fucking?” Sir asks and I nod.
“He is elderly so maybe his hips don’t move so good anymore.”
I frown at him. He knows this sort of talk bothers me.
“I’m kidding, Giovanni. Your Master is spry, I know. I’ve seen him fuck you enough times to realize this. Now, would you dance with me, pretty baby?” He holds out his hand like a gallant prince and I take it.
Once on the dance floor, sandwiched between a hundred other sweating, gyrating bodies, Sir presses close to me while I move my hips with the rhythm. Like relearning a primal song, the movements return to me, and I find myself reaching that meditative state I often get when I swim, only this one is shared with a living, breathing, throbbing man who now has my explicit permission to touch me whenever and however he likes. I relish the slide of sweat-slick skin and the possessive hands that yank me backward so that he might grind his thick dick against me. My arms lift to find his neck and his hair, which I run my fingers through in a hypnotic rhythm.
“Pompino, Giovanni,” he purrs in my ear, “Fammi un pompino,si?” Then he makes the kissing noise that makes me want to drop to my knees.
“Yes, Sir,” I murmur, wondering if he wants it right here. He grabs my hand and drags me away from the dance floor, through a back corridor and into a room that looks like it’s used for storage. With one hand braced against the door to keep anyone from entering, he tells me to take off my shirt. Once that’s done, he kisses me passionately—my mouth, my neck, my shoulders. He grabs my ass, yanking me toward him to mash our cocks together, then his hands are pushing me down to the floor. It’s so easy to do now, like second nature. I consume his cock, intent on bringing him to climax in the fastest, filthiest way possible, but after a minute or two, Sir yanks me up again. “Turn around,” he growls, then fumbles with my button and pulls down my pants, exposing my ass to him. I’m not wearing a plug and I haven’t been stretched in a while. Even though it’d hurt like hell, I’d probably let Sir fuck me here like this.
“No penetration,” he says. “Squeeze your legs together so I can fuck your thighs.” I clench my ass cheeks, making sure to offer him a snug channel for his cock as he spills a packet of lube onto his dick before shoving it between my legs. With his hands braced on either side of me and his hot breath on my neck, this feels a lot like fucking, not the way Master does it—as a testament to his domination—but a spontaneous animalistic fuck in a broom closet.
“Touch yourself.” Sir guides my hand to my own dick. We work like that, fast, clumsy, furiously trying to get off, me fucking into my hand while Sir strokes between my thighs. When he pulls back, I think maybe he’s already finished, but then he releases hot streams of cum across my back, almost like the lashes of a whip. I come soon after, painting the grimy wooden door with my spend.
“Stay right there,” Sir says, “but look at me.”
I turn my head slightly to find that Sir has his phone aimed at my debauched body, still with my ass hanging out and his cum streaked all over my back. I blink and the camera flash goes off. Sir shows me the picture, and it is every bit as slutty as I imagined.
“I’m sending this one to Valentin,” Sir says with a smug grin, and I don’t know whether to be pleased by it or upset. Will Master be aroused by his slave being used by his brother in a grimy nightclub closet or will he be disgusted? Is this Sir’s way of sharing my virtue of my humility, or is this his attempt to best his brother?
Before my mind starts to spiral with anxiety, I remind myself that it is not this slave’s job to worry about the motivations or maneuvers between men.
The next morning,Sir anchors off the coast of Procida, a smaller island to the east of Ischia. We swim in the crystalline water and eat lunch on the boat’s deck. Sir has the youthful ease of a man with a boat, and he is every bit the rich Italian playboy with a full head of hair and a surplus of cock.
“What are you thinking about, princess?” Sir asks without glancing my way. The afternoon heat has immobilized us, and I fear we will both melt in the sun and fuse with the magnificentEvelina.
I’d like to tell him I’m thinking about Master, but in this moment, I am thinking only about the colossus that snakes along Sir’s thigh and bunches in his tight bathing suit.
“You said you’d fuck me on your boat,” I say to him.
He chuckles, long and low. “I did not saythat,Giovanni. I asked if you’d ever been fucked on a boat, but I did not make any promises.” He pauses there, waiting to see if I’ll bite. When I don’t, he teases, “but if you want…”
I roll over to my other side so that I’m no longer facing him and pretend to want to sleep. I don’t do well with even the merest hint of rejection, and Sir has been cock teasing me for a while. He sidles up behind me and draws his fingers up and down my arm. “You only have to ask, pretty baby.”
“No,” I say stubbornly. This slave boy will not beg.
“No?” Sir asks, a word he so seldom hears from me that he doesn’t know what to make of it. “But I thought you were having sweet dreams about Sir’s cock inside of you. You remember last time, don’t you?
“How could I forget?” I say snottily. “I couldn’t walk for a week.”
Sir dips his head close to my ear and purrs, “Then it’s a good thing you like being on your knees.”
Points have been made. One of Sir’s hands is working its way lower now, dipping under my bathing suit so that his fingers skate along my crack, tickling and teasing me. “Is this hole as hungry as your cock-loving mouth?”
