“Thank you, Sirs, for blessing this slave with the seed of your loins.”
The men murmur their own words of gratitude and slowly file out until it’s just the three of us again. Sir shakes his head like he still can’t believe what just happened.
“How do I look?” I ask Master.
“Stunning, Giovanni. My most beautiful boy.”
The dungeon is decoratedlike the pleasure court of a Roman emperor with large, plush armchairs for the Doms to watch the demonstrations and pillows and cushions littered about for their subs and slaves to lounge in comfort. There are three main event areas—one for whippings, one for other impact play like spankings and torture, and the last one for ashibaridemonstration by our three rope Dominants with Sir among them.
Sir is binding a lovely young sub with dark hair and caramel colored skin—one of the female subs he worked with in Milan—in such an exquisite lacework of knots that this slave freely admits he is a tad-bit jealous. Sir will be busy for a couple of hours, for even while his sub is suspended, he must pay close attention to her needs, and then there is the aftercare he will provide to make sure her muscles and joints are properly massaged, and her blood is circulated. Sir won’t be fucking her, though, something he made sure I was aware of. I was relieved to hear it. If it were even a possibility, I might have to go into my box.
I admire Sir’s slow and steady hand as I refresh our guests’ drinks, including the participants who may need hydration after a scene. This allows me to mingle without the pressure of making prolonged conversation, which is what I prefer. When not serving, I perch on my pillow at Master’s side to observe the demonstrations. At the moment, a male sub is getting whipped by his female Dominant with such enthusiasm that my own back stings a little from the phantom thrill of it.
“Would you like me to find someone who will whip you?” Master asks, noticing the focus of my attention. His muscle control has diminished a bit in the past few months and while he trusts himself on some of the smaller implements, the bullwhip is a bit more exacting.
“No, Master, this slave is content to observe from afar.”
“Just so you know, I’ve asked Sir to make a variety of acquaintances this weekend so that you may have whatever you need to feel satisfied.”
Master is alluding to my most masochistic desires that will have to be sated by another when he no longer can. Sir likes spanking, but he doesn’t enjoy the kind of impact play I favor, so Master has set Sir on a mission to find someone who will dominate me as needed.
“This slave appreciates the care and attention his Master gives to him.”
“You deserve only the best. Does it bother you to see Sir tying up someone else?”
I glance again at the intricate knots webbing the sub’s torso and framing her breasts. Her arms are bound behind her back as well in a tight corset of rope. Sir’s work is admirable, but I’m not ready for that type of restraint just yet.
“Sir’s abilities surpass my limits,” I say to Master. “He says we will practice extensively in private to make sure I’m comfortable before demonstrating in public.”
“Sir has a plan,” Master says. “And he’s respecting your limits. And you, Giovanni, are learning patience.”
“Yes, Master. You have taught us well.”
The longer I sit with Master and gaze out at the beauty and talent that surrounds us, the more I start to reflect on our lives together. Epictetus’s teachings are forever present in my mind, especially when I need help in coping with the knowledge that my time with Master is limited. I think about the many ways in which Master has welcomed me into his home and into his life, sharing with me his closest desires and dedicating so much time to not only making me a betterschiavo, but a better person. For giving me stability and safety when I so desperately needed it, for saving my life. And if that wasn’t enough, Master even gave me his beloved brother to act as my Sir in his absence, then took the time to train us both on how we might manage as a family together and eventually, without him. What a selfless act on my Master’s part, to share me when he probably would have preferred to keep me to myself. To give me permission and encouragement to pursue a relationship with Sir even while it pained him to watch us grow closer, to glimpse a future that he might not be part of.
I am overcome with gratitude for all my Master has done for me over the years, even when I was a child seeking his validation and respect. Master traces my wet cheeks with a shaky finger and says, “What is it, Giovanni?”
“All of this,” I wave my hand at our surroundings, which includes far more than the party or the villa or even my magnificent Sir who is my passion and my joy. “You did all of this for me, Master.”
Master gazes down at me with a soft smile, my ferocious god who is also at times unbearably tender. “I told you,tesoro, you are my whole world. Everything I do is for you.”
At last, I believe him.
The final eventfor our guests is a brunch the next morning that will act as a send-off. Master asks me to play cello and I’ve been practicing a few of my best pieces for this occasion. Several of our friends, who now feel more like family, compliment my playing, and I thank them graciously with a bow of my head. When I’m fully warmed up and feeling my most masochistic, I play “Adagio in G minor,” thinking of my Master, always my Master, feeling both bitter that we were born so many years apart and grateful that he loves me despite our differences. And even with my immaturity and impulsiveness and mental health troubles, he found a way to make me his. In disciplining me, he taught me self-discipline and in controlling me, he taught me self-control, in loving me, he taught me self-love, and even our virtues, which Master believes in wholeheartedly, were more for me to realize my own worth and value.
My playing surely reflects this appreciation for all Master has given me, and soon everyone has paused their conversations to watch this slave crying over his instrument and his Master standing at his side, giving him the courage and confidence to endure.
The service I have given to my Master was self-serving all along, but this too is okay. For as long as I have my Master, I’ll make sure he knows the magnitude of my devotion, and every day until his last, he will know that he is cherished, appreciated, and loved.
That is this slave’s humble promise to his beloved Master.
22
Even though my birthday isn’t until months away, there is something that I want, and like always, Master indulges me. It’s an oil painting of the three of us that I have commissioned by an artist in Naples who stays with us at the villa for a week in order to complete it.
In the painting, Master sits in a stately armchair, wearing a tailored three-piece suit with sharp leather shoes and a smart vest. Silvio stands just behind him in his more casual nautical dress. I am kneeling on my pillow, nude, with my arms draped over Master’s lap and my legs bent artfully to hide my golden cage, but enough of it peeks out so that the discerning viewer might know.
Master is speechless when he first sees the finished painting and must sit down in the same armchair to process his feelings. I lay my head in his lap so that he can stroke my hair while he admires it. He thanks the artist profusely and gives him a large bonus before sending him on his way. He dismisses Sir shortly thereafter, wishing to hoard both the artwork and me to himself. He fucks me that evening in the direction of the painting so he can look at it while he breeds me, and the next morning, he demands that I service him in a similar fashion.
