Master waves me on, his blessing to proceed. Sometimes I like to think of Master’s cock as a bottle or a teat, and his cum as the milk that nourishes me. If only I could survive on his ejaculate alone.
After I’ve serviced him to completion for the second time this morning, Master pats the space between his legs and I join him there on the bench with his hairy thighs bracketing me on either side. There’s a bottle of massage oil in one of the cabinets and he drips some of it onto his palm, though a dry hand job would be fine too. He takes my cock in hand, and with an almost impersonal efficiency, strokes me rapidly while his other hand pinches and tugs at one nipple, fondling the jewelry and tugging on the hoop to cause a small spike of pain. The piercings were my birthday present last year and soon after, a series of cascading gold chains to connect them for when he presents me at parties. Never for scenes though, as that could be dangerous. Master once brushed me with a golden powder and made me stand still as a statue on a pedestal with my cock caged, wearing only my jewelry during one of his sex parties. All around us men were fucking like dogs, but Master’s attention was focused only on me.
Now, in my Master’s capable hands, I feel the familiar twitch in my cock and heat blooming in my groin, and just as I’m about to come, he bites down savagely on my shoulder, nearly breaking the skin and making it all that much sweeter. I cry out with such enthusiasm that security pops his head inside to make sure nothing is amiss. His assessing gaze flicks over us with a professional curiosity before resuming his post outside the door.
“You’re going to be the death of me, Giovanni,” Master says on a deep exhale, but he sounds happy.
3
Master has invited some of his business associates to join him at the penthouse tonight for drinks, and my sense is that this party has something to do with our conversation last weekend about the family business. Depending on how the demons are behaving, I can either attend this work function or not. But if I don’t attend, I must go in my box.
My box really isn’t so bad. It’s tall enough for me to stand, and there’s a foam mattress (no springs) if I want to rest and a few of my favorite books to read. There’s also a stainless-steel toilet and sink if I’m going to be in there for a while. It’s well-ventilated with its own climate control system and the walls are made of the same material as the terrace windows, so that Master can monitor me if he needs to. Mobsters don’t like to deal with institutions like hospitals and police—too many questions—and I don’t like going under suicide watch in a facility either (they tend to make my demons louder), so Master has found a way to accommodate me when I need a timeout.
How spoiled am I to have a tiny palace that was built just for me?
But the demons are quiet today, and other than my general apprehension around strangers, I’m well enough to entertain.
For now, I admire myself in Master’s mirrors like the doomed hunter Narcissus. I’m very vain, another of my mother’s sins, but Master has done very little to curb me of this habit of self-idolization. If anything, he encourages it with the many decorative pieces he’s given me, several of which I’m currently wearing. Even though this isn’t a BDSM or sex party, Master still likes me to present in a certain way. I’ve brushed my forearms with makeup and bronzer and covered my wrists where the scars are more noticeable with gold bangles. My nipple rings are attached to an assortment of gold chains that drape across my chest like a curtain or a veil. My cock is caged inside my tight leather pants and my plug is already in place. I line my eyes with black eyeliner and use a smudge stick to give it the smoky effect then dust my eyelids with a gold powder. The effect is very Cleopatra, intentional on my part as she is one of my idols. A pioneer of her times, Cleopatra created her very own vibrator using live bees trapped inside a phallic-shaped instrument. What an icon.
“Bellissimo,Giovanni,” Master says, admiring my reflection alongside me. He’s holding my favorite piece of jewelry, one that only he is permitted to take on and off. I wear it when Master entertains, and especially around others in the lifestyle, so they know I’m off-limits to them. “Are you ready for your collar now?”
“Yes, Master.”
I pull my hair to the side and bow my head. It’s very expensive, my collar. Like everything else, Master had it custom-made for me. Lightweight and made of gold, it’s about two inches in width and fits snugly around my neck. Its surface is smooth and unblemished, and the curve is tailored to the shape of my throat. It’s a remarkable piece of jewelry, but more importantly, it signifies that I am owned.
“Perfetto.” Master kisses the side of my cheek and reaches to my front to grip the cage underneath the leather and give it a proprietary tug. The noises he coaxes from my lips would shame me if I didn’t know how much he enjoyed my torment. “Are you going to be good for me tonight,schiavo?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Bene.I’m sure you will.”
Rico is in the kitchen already, supervising the catering staff, a team of people Master has worked with before. Anyone who wishes to step foot inside Master’s home must go through extensive screening, and even still, guests are patted down outside the door. Master takes no risks with his safety or my own.
“Looking fancy, Giovanni,” Rico says as he pops a piece of prosciutto into his mouth. I dip my head in acknowledgement. I’m not permitted to speak to anyone but Master during his business functions, which suits me just fine. The isolation is also somewhat necessary as I’m very good at getting the things I shouldn’t.
Rico samples more of the food and points out what I might like to try later if Master allows it. The only thing I’m permitted to drink during parties is water, juice, or club soda with lime, and the bartender knows this already. There are several fail safes in place to help me stay sober.
Soon after the caterers leave, the escorts arrive. Though there are some women high up in the family business, Master’s parties tend to be male-heavy, and he likes to arrange for pretty women (and some men) to entertain. With regard to Master’s sexual orientation, the family demands discretion, but what happens in Master’s penthouse stays in Master’s penthouse, and he has risen to such a position of power that many are willing to overlook his “proclivities.” There’s also the prevailing theory that so long as Master is in the dominating role, his masculinity remains intact. Not so different from the rules of antiquity or feudal Japan, when the height of manhood was in taking a boy under one’s wing and subjugating them to one’s sexual appetite—alongside mentorship, of course. This rationale is something I’ve heard his men discussing within earshot as they look me over and deliberate whether or not they’d fuck me and how. I suppose even for their proclaimed heterosexuality, I look feminine enough to pique their interest.
I think this sort of talk is stupid, but it’s not this slave’s job to educate Master’s grunts on gender theory. And if my looking fuckable earns Master their respect, then I can only see it as an advantage.
While Master gives instructions to his security detail, I let in the escorts. Those who’ve never been here before marvel at the apartment’s lavish furnishings and view of the Manhattan skyline, which is exquisite. Some of them marvel over me too.
“Aren’t you a pretty one,” a busty woman remarks, touching my long, black hair. Not being in the lifestyle, she likely doesn’t know the proper etiquette of no touching without permission. I could politely ask her not to, but I am content for the moment, and I predict Master will intervene before too long. As for the woman, her face is heavily made-up, which makes her look older, and her eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide. Pills, if I had to guess. A half dozen of the escorts are already blitzed—cocaine, ketamine, ecstasy, opioids… More will go to the bathroom during the party to powder their noses or shoot up, which means they have drugs on them, tucked away in their knock-off designer purses. With a whisper and a sleight-of-hand, I could be high within minutes.
Yes, yes, yes,the demons purr while rubbing their hands together.
“I love these,” the woman says as her burgundy-lacquered fingernail flicks over one of my nipple rings. She regards her companions who are also gazing at me with a mixture of awe and envy. “Maybe I should do this myself.”
“Please refrain from touching my young man,” Master says to the woman, suddenly at my side. He then turns to the crowd, placing himself between me and the escorts as his deep voice booms across the expansive room, “Ladies and gentlemen. Our guests will be arriving soon. Please get a drink and make yourselves comfortable.”
The woman winks at me and heads to the bar. Master squeezes my upper arm, refocusing my mind with his firm touch.
“Why don’t you play something for me,schiavo?” he says, only we both know it’s not a request.
Master likes it when I play for guests, not only because I am very good, but because so long as he can hear the music, he knows the devil’s hands are occupied. I sit at the piano and play one of my old standards, “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” fromThe Lion King. My grandfather never really cared what I played as long as I practiced, so I made him buy me all the scores for the Disney movies. Most of them I’ve memorized.
Of course, I jazz it up and add my own flair, a few glissandos across the keys, a building crescendo before the bridge. I’m only warming up right now. I’ll save the good stuff for later. Sometimes people will make requests, and if I know it, I’ll oblige them, but there’s too much activity in the main room, and those who’d been hanging near the piano now congregate around the suits who’ve just arrived. With everyone’s attention away from me, I slip into one of the Nocturnes I’ve been practicing, “No. 1 in B flat minor.” The fingering is not terribly difficult, a series of simple arpeggios, but it has an interesting series of layered rhythms, so that the notes sound as if they are tripping over one another in their haste to chase the melody.
