“Out there?” He motions to the window where the whole of New York City lies in wait.
“Yes, out of the building.”
His bravado collapses and he hugs his chest as a protective measure. I don’t want to rush his recovery, but I can’t have him using my apartment as a hideout indefinitely.
“Where would we go?”
To a restaurant,I would tell him, but I sense he wants to know exact details. Is it to mentally prepare himself or will he stress over the minutiae while I’m at work?
“I haven’t decided yet. But it will be quiet, intimate, and you’ll be with me and our security the entire time.”
“Safe,” he says, less a question and more an affirmation.
“Absolutely safe.”
“I’d like you to play with my ass,” he says again, clearly focused on the reward.
“Then we have a deal?”
“Yes, Sir. It’s a deal.”
“You look very handsome,”I tell him later that evening. He’s wearing a smartly cut suit in a charcoal gray color, one I recently purchased for him, for occasions such as this. He asked me to burn everything in his apartment, lest he be reminded of his old life, so I did.
“Rico helped me pick out the tie,” he says, touching it lightly. “It’s yours.”
“Yes, I recognize it. It matches your eyes.”
“That’s what Rico said too.”
“You have beautiful eyes. They remind me of the jade glassware my mother used to collect.”
His head dips, and he smiles shyly. “Thank you, Sir.”
“We’ll do some shopping online,” I tell him. He’s got an eye for fashion, or at least, he used to. He’s mostly been wearing loungewear around the penthouse or my large, cable knit sweaters that swallow his frame. “You can pick some things out for yourself. I’ll approve your purchases and offer my own input.” On his underwear in particular, I want cuts that show off his tight body and slender hips. I want the fabric to clutch his dick and balls with a firm grip and squeeze his ass like they were my own two hands.
“I can pay for it,” he offers.
“Nonsense. I take care of your material needs now. It’s one of the perks of being my submissive.”
“One of many,” he says coyly and licks his lips. Yes, I gave into his lust and masturbated him on the way to the restaurant, if only to settle his nerves. Then I shoved him to his knees and had him suck me off as fast as he could. I clocked him at four and a half minutes, which shows his practice is paying off. Even with the partition raised, my driver and bodyguard got an earful. And now I’ll need to have the car detailed.
“You’re glowing,” I tell him and it’s such a nice change from when he first came to live with me that I mentally congratulate myself on our progress.
“I feel pretty good,” he admits. “I don’t want to die.”
Not wanting to die isn’tquitewanting to live, but I believe we’re on the right trajectory. “I’m very proud of you, Gio. You’ve taken a lot of risks lately and you’ve been very brave in telling me what you need.”
“I’m trying,” he says. My praise has made him bashful, and he glances again at our surroundings, eyes flitting past my men at a table nearby as part of my security protocol. This is one of the few remaining Italian restaurants left in Little Italy that has survived gentrification and building code renovations. The same family who started it in the 1940’s still owns it, and the recipes are largely unchanged. It’s the closest I can get to the authentic cuisine of my homeland without crossing the ocean.
“It smells good in here.” He glances down at the menu and murmurs, “So many choices.”
“Would you like me to make some suggestions?”
“Yes, please.” He pushes the menu my way.
“The veal pairs nicely with a Cabernet, but it’s also good with a cherry Coke.”
“But you can have a drink,” he says. “Or several.” He’s not allowed recreational drugs or alcohol as part of his sobriety, and unless I’m entertaining, I try to support him by abstaining.
