“You know why. Did you know them?”
“Some of them. A couple were my friends.”
“I figured.”
“How so?”
“The way you retreated from society altogether. You didn’t want to call anyone or reach out. You wanted to erase your entire identity.”
I roll onto my stomach and bury my face in the pillow. Master kisses my shoulder and traces the muscles on my back, slowly bringing me back to life just as he did back then. He had to put in so much effort just to persuade me to want to live another day.
“I’m sorry if this knowledge is a burden to you,” he says. “I held onto it for a long time, but I thought you should know that they did pay for it in the end, with a pound of flesh. Well, a few ounces at least.”
He has the decency not to smile at that. Revenge and sex are Master’s specialties, the former of which has served him well in his career. He is at times a murderous bastard, and though I sometimes conveniently forget, I should have known he wouldn’t let it go. “You shouldn’t have done that,” I tell him, but the words are somewhat empty. Try as I might to have compassion for those men, it is a hollow endeavor, like how I felt after I killed Salvatore Tagliarini, a nagging impression that I should feel guiltier.
“I was merciful,” he says. “I wanted to do much worse.”
“We are both going to Hell,” I tell him, and he chuckles. Fucking laughs about it.
“By the time you get there, I’ll have everyone under my command,” he says. “We’ll throw a party the day you arrive.”
Weirdly enough, the thought comforts me. We drift into another contemplative silence where I concentrate on simply breathing and Master says, “You are so beautiful.” I turn to watch his eyes pore over me while his hand traces the curve of my ass and lower. “Do you know that I have never loved anyone the way I love you?”
I am secure in my Master’s love for me because he demonstrates it every day, but he doesn’t wax poetic very often. “What way is that”
“In all ways, Giovanni. I loved you as a boy, softly. I loved you when I found you… as your avenger. I loved you when you were a young man trying to find your way. I’ve loved you as myschiavo...” He quiets then and his eyes are misty with emotion. “I think I am most sad that we don’t have more time, that I might not see you age…”
I grab his hand and squeeze, then bring his fingers to my lips. The thought of having to go on without him is too much to bear.
“You said you’d always come back to me,” I remind him. “So, will you?”
He nods solemnly, promising me something he couldn’t possibly know. “I will.”
It’s enough for now.
“I’d like to be disciplined,”I tell him over breakfast the next day. Sir is here too, but I’m speaking only to my Master. “I need it to restore balance. It has to be you.” My eyes skirt towards Sir and he nods, seeming to understand that for once, this isn’t about him.
“This evening,” Master says. “Does your Sir have permission to watch?”
“Only that,” I say.
I’m humming with anticipation for the rest of the day, and nervousness too. A lot of emotions have passed between Master and I these past couple weeks, and though Master is always controlled in our scenes, I do wonder if some of that passion might bleed out. Master meets me in the dungeon at our appointed time. Sir enters but doesn’t greet me. Instead, he takes a seat at the far side of the room.
I offer my ritual worship and Master inspects me. I’m proud to report that I haven’t cut myself, though the desire to do so has been strong. Master praises me for that too.
“The cross with your back to me,” Master says in a succinct command. I climb onto the short platform and press my cheek against the padded vinyl headrest. Master takes the bullwhip out of a drawer, inspects the handle and the length of braided leather, which sends a shiver of arousal directly to my dick. The bullwhip is not something Master uses often, but when he does…
Master grabs the leather collar and kidney belt as well. He hooks the collar around my neck and the belt around my waist, attaching a leather thong between my legs to protect my cock and balls just in case he misses his mark.
“Color?” Master says.
“Green.”
“Keep your forehead pressed to the cross.”
Master warms me up with the flogger first, a steady rain of heat over my back and buttocks until I’m slick with sweat and just a little bit achy. He asks for my pain level and I tell him dutifully, “Three.”
“I’m changing instruments,” he says, and even though I know what’s coming, I still jump at the first crack of the whip and the resulting burn that blooms across my upper back. I hear Sir somewhere behind us make a noise of alarm, which Master silences immediately.
