7
Giovanni’s punishment is meant to serve as both a bit of introspection as well as something to stimulate his mind—an essay on pride, which is what he blames for his bad behavior and inability to voice his insecurities. The Aponte pride strikes again. Over the next few days, Giovanni composes a five-page essay (with annotations) relating his surfeit of pride to the myth of Arachne, as told by the poet Ovid.
Arachne was a weaver who acquired such skill in her art that she ventured to challenge Athena, goddess of war to a weaving competition. Athena wove a tapestry depicting the gods in their majesty and glory, while Arachne used her skill to show the gods in their scandal and amorous adventures. Enraged at the artistry of her rival’s work and offended by its subject matter, Athena shredded her tapestry to pieces, and in her despair and shame, Arachne hanged herself. But the goddess, out of pity for her human victim, loosened the rope, which then became a cobweb. Arachne herself was changed into a spider, which is now the name of the zoological class, Arachnida…
He then goes on to compare his own behavior to that of Arachne’s, by allowing his pride and insecurity to sabotage our brunch and make an enemy of my dear friend. That Giovanni now views Simeon as an enemy is an interesting tidbit and something I store away for later. That he likens himself to a hanged woman is a little more concerning, but I chalk it up to his broad use of metaphor.
“You are forgiven,” I tell him after he’s waited patiently for me to read through it. “But next time you’re going to write sentences because I believe you enjoyed this assignment a little too much.”
His smile is somewhat guilty as he drops to his knees before me and asks, “May this repentant boy pleasure you now, Sir.”
That was the other half of his punishment, denying him access to my body, which I’m sure bothered him more than anything else.
“You may,” I tell him because the unfortunate side effect of punishing a sub is that it is often punishment for me as well. When he’s finished with his duty, I wipe his mouth and ask, “What is our new rule?”
“Boys will voice their fears directly with their Sir rather than throwing tantrums or fits.”
I nod, pleased by his earnestness. “Now, I have something special planned for this evening as a reward for a successful first week of therapy.”
“Are you going to spank me?” he asks, bright-eyed and expectant. Spanking is his newest obsession, a discipline I’ve not yet granted due to his recent bad behavior.
“No, we’re going to the Met to view their new Medici exhibit.” He’s been studying the historic Florence family in depth and has been relating to me all their political intrigue and scandals. To me and Agnella, I should say. All in all, it reads rather like a soap opera.
“There will be a lot of people,” he says, worrying over his lower lip.
“We’re going after they close to the public, so it will be just the two of us, our security, and a couple of docents to make sure we don’t steal anything.” He sits back on his heels and stares at me with disbelief. “What is it?” I ask. Now would be a good time for him to demonstrate his understanding of our latest rule.
“That was a nice thing for you to do for me,” he says, a bit awestruck. He hasn’t yet grasped the amount of sway I have in this city. He didn’t grow up in NYC but in his grandfather’s New Jersey manor, so perhaps his view of the Aponte family’s influence is also somewhat skewed. It might also explain why I have such high expectations for him. With his grandfather’s legacy, he could have the whole of New York in the palm of his hand, but he chooses to stay within the confines of my penthouse. It’s what is best for his recovery right now, but surely it won’t last.
“I can be very nice. When you’re nice.”
“I want to be good for you,” he says.
“You are good, Giovanni, even when you behave badly. Now, let’s go pick out something for you to wear. You can start by modeling your new underwear.”
Giovanni looks absolutelysplendid in black, tailored pants and a light gray, button-down shirt with his collar open at the throat. How lovely he would look with something gold adorning his neck. A Figaro chain or even a collar.Too soon, I must caution myself. His hair is slicked back so that it curls just under his ears. He looks—he is—young and gorgeous, rich beyond belief. Clever and charming when he wants to be. He could have anything he wants,anyonehe wants, and yet…
My eyes wander to his rear-end. The aesthetician came by yesterday and waxed him. Oh, how he sweated and groaned the entire time, embarrassed to death by his near-constant erection. I offered to do the last bit myself, partly to torment him, and she left me alone with her supplies. After ripping the hair off his anus, I jerked him off roughly—no lube—and my boy ejaculated like a goddamned prize-winning stud. While he stares at the art, I admire the contours of his ass—tight and high and just enough to fill both my hands. Tonight, I’m rewarding myself. Generously.
“What do you think?” he asks, mistaking my lusty daydreams for absorption with the painting.
I’m going to ruin you.
“My father had a nose like that,” I tell him. “Long and pointed with a slight hook at the end.”
Giovanni says, “According to lore, the Medici owned a poison garden in Padua where they nursed a variety of plants that just so happened to also be ingredients for poison. Have you ever poisoned someone, Valentin?”
The moxie of my young man. “Poison is for cowards,” I say with a smile and he laughs. His fascination with the macabre aligns well with my own interrogation of the human psyche. Our humor is dark indeed. Anyone else might think us both deeply disturbed.
“Poison is a recurring theme in the Medici scandals,” Giovanni says. “Now this is a really unfortunate story. Upon his triumphant return to Florence, Pope Leo X had a boy painted in gold and paraded through the streets. The young man was meant to be a symbol of the new golden age of Medici rule, but shortly thereafter, he died of gold poisoning, which could only be interpreted as a herald of bleaker times to come.”
I shake my head at his cleverness. “I would like to see you painted in gold.”
“Paraded in front of your friends?”
“And ravished by my own hands.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” He rolls his eyes for effect.
