Who am I without my Master? Who can I be now with Sir?
Sir encourages me to explore myself through touch. Sir never wanted a slave but a submissive who is free and generous and giving of his body. Sir wants me to experience pleasure at his hand, and he wants to dominate me in scenes, but he doesn’t want to have complete control over my bodily expressions and daily routines as Master did. This is just as well, because I don’t think I could give myself over to Sir the way I did with Master. Maybe eventually but not right away.
This distinction helps me to adapt my servitude to Sir’s style. Sir is enthusiastic, spontaneous, and playful. He likes to tease and argue, and he likes a little fight. Sir will not want me to be as subservient, except perhaps in my willingness to blow him at the mere whisper ofpompino, principessa.With Sir, I must make more decisions about my daily life and chart for myself how to spend the days and weeks ahead. And so, I must go through another kind of metamorphosis, but I’m not afraid this time. I have always stood in the shadow of great men. I have been a beloved grandson, a belovedshiàvo, and I will be beloved to Sir too.
There are many ways to love and many ways to demonstrate my virtues. I remind myself of this when I worry my devotion to Sir is only a fraction of the devotion I gave to Master. Perhaps you’ve experienced this yourself. No two loves are the same after all.
Eventually,I return to my duties as the island troubadour. I introduce Evelina, who will be staying with us permanently now, to my church lady friends, and they remark on what a shame it is to have two handsome, eligible men on the island with no wives to care for us. Sir says in his typically charming way that there is only one woman in his life, his dear mother, the magnificent Evelina and kisses her cheek with a great smacking sound.
Evelina laughs and says to the ladies, “good luck finding a woman who can cook as good as his mother.”
The women all nod their heads in agreement.
As it turns out, I cannot cook as good as Evelina, but I do manage to make a pretty decent baked ziti, which is Sir’s favorite. I also insist on some lighter fare to help with our cholesterol levels and heart health.
Oh, and Anthony? Yes, he’s still around. He accompanies Evelina to her canasta games and shopping and church. After Master passed away, Anthony asked what was to become of him. I told him he was part of our family,obviously, and that he wasn’t going anywhere at all, even if he is a snitch.
Evelina has been installed in the west wing, which allows for Sir and me to occupy the east, and it is here where he teases me in the bedroom and torments me in his dungeon. His rope work has grown by leaps and bounds as he practiced his knot-tying extensively on mannequins as a way to cope with Master’s declining health. I didn’t know this until much later, so absorbed was I by my own grief.
We’re practicing today for a demonstration Sir will be giving next weekend in Milan. He’s invited me to join him for a holiday, and I’m ready now to explore the world with Sir.
I kneel in position on one of the gym mats, the same posture I adopted so many times for Master. Sir kneels behind me, couching me between his bent legs. He starts by moving my torso and shoulders in a slow, circular motion to warm me up and so that he can become acquainted with where I’m holding tension. He instructs me very softly to let go, and when I’m sufficiently relaxed, he begins.
My eyes are closed as his rope makes several circuits around my body. I’ve seen videos of us together like this, and there is a sort of physical poetry that takes place between a Rigger Dominant and their bunny or sub. Their movements take on a balletic give and take as the bunny begins to anticipate the Rigger’s movements and their sway. Sir and I have this synchronicity now as his ropes cross and recross my chest, back, and shoulders, reeling me in, in his slow, seductive way. By the time he finishes with my upper body, the only thing I’m able to move is my neck, forearms, and wrists. It’s comforting to be ensnared by Sir’s ropes, his silk hugging and holding me together. In our first sessions after Master’s passing, Sir would do only this and just let me sit for a while, embraced by his ropes.
When Sir finishes with my chest harness, I lie back on the gym mat and lift my knees so that he may restrain my legs. They are spread in a frog-like position much like I would present to Master with my genitals on display. Sir’s intent today and at his demonstration is to suspend me and eventually, when I am drifting and content, make use of my body. Both my mouth and my hole will be available to his passions. It’s a wonderful sensation, being fucked while flying.
“I’m going to lift you now, princess,” Sir whispers because I’ve begun drifting too soon. “Color?”
“Green, Sir,” I respond, already with that heady detachment.
Sir uses a pulley that’s bolted to the ceiling to lift me off the ground; it acts much like the ones that lift the sails on his boat. Being caught in Sir’s web is a delicious torment because I never know how long he will make me wait. He expertly secures the ropes to cleats anchored to the floor. I let my head drop forward so that I am in a fully relaxed position.
“Are you ready?” Sir asks.
“Yes, Sir,” I murmur.
I am patient, as always, at this point. Sometimes, it takes only minutes, sometimes it takes much longer. Sir is patient too. But eventually, the meditation becomes a kind of hallucination and my mind drifts, reminiscing on my time with Master.
And I see the moment, at first from far away and then slowly approaching until my spirit is absorbed by my body. I always come back to this place and Master does too, the place where we meet again and again. I’m on my pillow, head bowed in servitude, thighs spread, demonstrating the perfect posture of a virtuous slave. Master is above me, offering me his hand. His hand is steady, and it is strong. It is the hand that has spanked me, whipped me, slit a man’s throat for me. The hand that has nursed me back to health and caressed me with eternal devotion. This hand has fed me, bathed me, and probed my most intimate places—penetrated every part of my body and pierced my very soul. This hand has hurt me to heal me, and there is no other hand like it.
I worship this hand, this beautiful hand until very carefully and with great reverence, the hand cups my cheek. The rough pad of his thumb traces over my lips and tilts my chin upward. My eyes, which feel unworthy, lift to gaze upon my Master. He is fierce and beautiful with a healthy glow to his skin and a flush of vitality coloring his cheeks. He’s been gone for a little while, but he’s happy to see me now. He promised to always come back to me, and even in death, he’s kept his promise. The golden glow behind him is like that of a saint’s, God’s own holy light protecting him. He says to me in his deep, melodic voice, thick with emotion and threaded with love, “I’ve missed you,schiavo.”
Trembling and quaking, this humble slave cries tears of gratitude before his most fierce and beloved god. With a love and devotion that spans generations and lifetimes, I respond, “I’ve missed you, Master.”
The End
