“Think about the business,” I say, “and think about what it would mean for me to run it, to even be in a position of authority within the ranks.” Master knows what it takes to be a wiseguy, the amount of mental fortitude a person must have to make life-or-death decisions and hunt down rats within the organization, to exact retribution and maintain the respect of the other families. He still comes home sometimes with dried blood caked in his fingernails and splatters of it on his clothing. There’s a reason most mob families have a dry cleaners on the payroll. “Do you think me capable?” I ask. “And more importantly, would you want that for me?”
Master sighs, and I don’t know if it’s his disappointment in me or that he must face the truth that I’ll never be able to fill my grandfather’s shoes. His legacy died with Matthew Aponte III.
“He didn’t raise you for the life,” Master finally admits.
When I reflect on my upbringing—the tutors, the lessons on etiquette, the lack of technology and instead, a focus on academic debate and witty repertoire, learning to play musical instruments and how to entertain guests at parties… My grandfather must have seen something in me early on, or rather, a lack thereof. He knew that I was too soft or too mentally unstable or too meek. He taught me to be polite and charming, and he rewarded me with lavish gifts and attention. What does a wiseguy need to know about seventeenth-century art or the works of Homer and Shakespeare?Nada.My grandfather raised me to be an attractive accessory on the arm of a powerful man, and I suspect one man in particular.
“Do you remember the first time I played ‘Adagio in G minor’ for you on the cello?” I ask my Master. My grandfather brought in a cello quartet to accompany me for the performance, which was hosted at his manor for a very select few of his friends with my Master among them. I wore a tuxedo for the event, and the reception afterward was catered with a full bar.
“Of course, I do,” Master says, his tragic brown eyes growing misty. “I cried it was so beautiful.”
I nod in remembrance. I’d cried too because I was proud and also exhilarated that I could summon the tears of a man as strong and ruthless as Valentin Fortuna.
“Why do you think Grandfather wanted me to learn that piece?” I ask. Master shakes his head but surely, he must know. “Why did he insist I learn Italian,yourmother tongue, when he himself barely knew it?” Master sighs and closes his eyes as if he’s in pain, but I need him to understand that our fates are forever intertwined, that my happiness—my survival—is dependent on him. “On his deathbed, my grandfather didn’t talk to me about the family business,” I tell him. “He said to me, ‘You don’t have to worry, Mattie. Valentin will take care of you. Whatever you need, you only have to ask him, and he will provide it.’” Master nods, the knob in his throat more prominent. I’m hurting him, and I don’t care. “What did he tell you?” I ask even though I know the answer already.
“He told me to take care of you,” he admits.
Master was never, not once, inappropriate with me. Prior to me living with him, we were only ever friends, and even when I first came here, he was reluctant to initiate a sexual relationship with me. But it was what I needed, to be disciplined and dominated in every way imaginable.
“My grandfather didn’t raise me to be a wiseguy, Valentin,” I say, using his first name to remind him that whether my grandfather intended it or not, this is the life I’ve chosen. “Are you grateful for the gift your don has given you?”
Master glares at me with a love so fierce that it alarms me. “I am grateful, Giovanni.”
After breakfast is cleared away,I take a shot of an herbal tincture that activates my bowels. Once I’ve evacuated and cleaned myself, Master milks me by stimulating my prostate with his fingers until I orgasm. Sometimes he uses a vibrator. Other times, when he wants to “play doctor,” he puts my feet in stirrups and uses a speculum to pry me open while wearing a latex glove. If I’ve been bad or disrespectful, I have to wear the cage during my milking, so that it’s hardly pleasurable at all. But today, we’re in bed and Master takes his time, making me sweat and groan and clutch at the sheets with my fingertips. He collects my cum with a champagne flute and makes sure that I drink every last drop. One of Master’s rules is that slave boys swallow their own ejaculate and that of the men they serve. It’s how I demonstrate my humility, and it reminds me that even in my selfish pursuit of pleasure, I am subservient to him.
After my milking we go for a swim in the building’s indoor pool. Master uses the lane next to mine and goes at about half my pace. He’s not so insecure that he would ask me to go slower. He celebrates my athleticism and boasts about it to friends, perhaps because he’s also seen me at my worst.
It’s early still, and the pool is mostly empty. Whether they know who my Master is or whether they only suspect, people tend to keep their distance. I once made the mistake of swimming too soon after a high-impact scene, and a woman spotted my bruises. The next time I saw her, she gave me a pamphlet for a domestic abuse hotline. I thanked her for her concern and threw it away after she’d gone. I don’t bother trying to explain our relationship to outsiders. Master’s friends in the lifestyle understand, and as for his business associates and the people he employs, they don’t say a word about it.
After my swim, Master and I go into a private sauna to unwind. Our security waits outside the door. Master carries a pistol with him at all times, and though I’m trained on how to use it, I’m not allowed to carry or even touch his without permission. For now, it lays underneath a towel next to him, pointed away from us but loaded all the same. I’ve asked him to fuck me with it in the past, but he refuses. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he thinks it wouldn’t be good for my mental health. He’s probably right.
The mood between us is still tense from the morning. The swim and my milking helped extinguish some of my nervous energy, but the sense of uncertainty remains. Master is not grounded in the present but contemplating the future, presumablyourfuture. What I want is to be hisschiavoeternally, but the slave cannot determine the will of his Master.
“You have that look, Giovanni,” Master says, his shrewd eyes roving over my nakedness. I removed my wet bathing suit and now lie on my back on a towel across from him.
“What look is that, Master?” I ask, rolling onto my side to face him. My coyness sneaks out sometimes, unbidden.
“Like you need to be caged.”
As I’ve said before, my libido is strong and I’m very willful. Despite all of Master’s meticulous training, my grandfather’s blood still courses through me, which I attribute to some of my pride and arrogance. Master cages my cock to humble me.
“I’ve been good,” I remind him. He may not have liked the turn our conversation took this morning, but I was honest, and he cannot punish me for that.
“Hmmm,” he says noncommittally, but he’s right that the balance between us needs adjustment, so I go down to my knees on the cedar-plank floor and bow before him until my nose touches the ground. I’m willing to make myself small in my attempts to appease him.
“May I worship you, Master?” I ask in my most subservient tone.
He repositions himself on the wooden bench with his legs spread wide and adjusts his sweaty balls so that they lay fat and proud beneath this ample cock, such a delicious, hearty treat. “You may.”
I begin with the insole of one foot, massaging and lifting it to kiss it gently. When I finish with his foot, my deft hands work their way up Master’s calf, rubbing lightly and stroking as my mouth follows the path my fingers have blazed. When I reach the inside of his knee, I repeat the ritual on the other side. I used to rub my grandfather’s feet for him after a grueling work week, and I find this experience somewhat similar but far more pleasurable. Perhaps my grandfather had an inkling even back then as to my true purpose.
By the time I reach Master’s thighs, his posture is completely relaxed, his legs open wide, and his shoulders slumped back against the wall of the sauna. His eyes are partway closed as he gazes down on me, always watching. He trusts me now, but I was very bad in the beginning, so it fills me with a deep sense of accomplishment to know that he allows me to worship him when he’s so defenseless.
“Would Master like to make use of his slave’s mouth?” I lick my lips and let my mouth fall open. Master appreciates our set routines, but he also enjoys being seduced.
“You seem a little too smug about it,schiavo.”
“This slave only wishes to please his Master.”
