“I know it when you touch me,” he says softly. “No one has ever touched me the way you do. No one ever will.”
He is right about that.
19
Giovanni waits for me on his blue velvet pillow at the foot of my bed. His posture is flawless, knees spread and head bowed with both palms laid open on his lap like the perfect slave. I bathed him, dried him, and rubbed moisturizer onto his skin. I combed his hair and blew it dry. I fit his favorite plug inside him and caged his lovely cock. He wears it now as a demonstration of his humility and his boyhood. He will not be permitted to come tonight. That is his gift to me.
Simeon, Keller, Anders, and Johann file in after me and take their seats in the darkened corners of the room while I advance slowly to stand before Giovanni. I wanted my dearest friends to witness this special occasion and my slave consented. I start by touching his hair, then his cheek, drawing my thumb over his mouth so that his lips part, and he draws my digit inside. I love the plush wetness of his mouth, that silken heat. Each penetration reinforces that his body is mine to command and plunder.
“Look at me,schiavo.” His gaze lifts to take me in, his expression a reflection of my own pride and adoration. He wasn’t wrong that we feed each other, not only our deepest desires, but our fears and longings too. “Color?”
“Green, Master,” he says with a heady anticipation that has set his whole body alight.
“Then let us begin. Hands behind your back.”
I unbuckle my pants and take out my cock, stroking it a few times while Giovanni watches. Likely, he’s not the only one, but our guests are far removed from me at this point, as my attention is focused solely on him. “Apri la bocca.”
His red mouth opens—gaping like a wound—and I feed it to him slowly, inch by inch, until he’s taken me to the root. With my fingers nested in his hair, I let him sit with it for a moment, the fullness of my flesh and the absence of breath. I count in my head and when he’s had enough, I retreat so he may breathe deeply through his nose.
“You breathe only for me,” I remind him, and he nods with an expression of utter worship. “You exist only to pleasure me.” I repeat the phrases he relies on to keep him sane and stable, the language of a slave, of my belovedschiavo.“Your body is a temple for me to worship and defile as I see fit. What do you have to say to that?” I pull him off so that he may speak.
“Defile me, Master.”
Still clutching his silken hair in both hands, I return to the warm embrace of his mouth. I make use of him slowly, deliberately. He likes to feel me deep in his throat, appreciates the lingering soreness too, the sense of accomplishment of having taken my cock thoroughly and well.
“You are very good at this,” I murmur, my head listing as my hips punch forward into the clutch of his mouth. “Too good.” I hold him to me in an abrupt stop. Anything more and this will be over too soon. When I finally deign to release him, he falls back on his heels, gasping for breath and clutching his throat. A dizzy delirium lights up his face when he looks at me.
“Thank you, Master.”
He’s blindfoldedon the bed now. I’m going to torment him for a little while and then I’m going to fuck him, and I don’t want him to be self-conscious throughout. My hands slide up and down his beautifully shaped torso, along the hollow of his ribs which frame his abdominals in an artful way, down his narrow hips and to the inside of his muscular thighs which part reflexively to my touch. I admire his hairless pubis and the golden cage that keeps my slave boy humble. Giovanni squirms, not knowing where my hands might wander next. His arms are raised high above his head, fingers gripping the ring attached to the headboard. He’s been instructed not to let go, and he won’t.
“What shall I do to you first?” I ruminate aloud as if I hadn’t already planned it. The tools are laid out at my side, and I only need to uncover them. Our guests have moved their chairs closer to the bed, so their view of my tormented slave is unfettered.
“Whatever Master desires,” Giovanni says throatily.
“Lift your legs as far as you’re able.”
Giovanni raises his legs until his knees are practically to his ears. I’ve instituted morning yoga for him to help with his flexibility and to demonstrate his gratitude for every new day he’s been given. It has become an excellent way for him to reflect and offer me a bit of beauty upon waking.
I push the flat end of the butt plug to exert pressure on his prostate while Giovanni shivers and moans from the stimulation. I select the Wartenberg wheel first. Instead of just a single roll of spikes, it has several, all lined up like toy soldiers with their rifles raised. I lift Giovanni’s cock cage and drag the wheel over the sensitive folds of his balls, then under and back again, leaving a trail of pink points all over his scrotum so that it resembles tenderized pork. I repeat the process on his lower ass cheeks, sweeping away from his hole until there are hundreds of rouged spots, like a pointillist painting.
“What do you think of that sensation,schiavo?”
“Master wishes to mark me tonight.”
“My very own canvas,” I murmur before setting it aside and reaching for the clamps. I roll both his nipples between my fingers so that he might know what comes next. “Deep breaths,” I tell him as I attach one and then the other. His back arches beautifully, legs still raised high in the air. Splayed like a whore for the taking, he has contorted himself in so many ways for me, and I predict will spread himself in many more.
“I’m attaching these to your cage now.” The clamps connect by a single gold chain that forms a T across his chest. I tug on the cross, and he lifts again, trying to ease the pull on his nipples. Sweat gathers at his brow and between his pectorals. I can smell his arousal, a potent musk. “Display yourself for me,schiavo.”
“Yes, Master.” He lays back against the bedding and opens his knees wider in a pornographic pose. His parted red lips are abused already, as are his genitals. Keller, my photographer for the night, snaps a picture to help us commemorate.
“Now for the press,” I tell him. This is something he’s only ever seen used in photographs. Composed of two flat pieces of plexiglass, the purpose is to flatten his balls between them. On all four corners are screws that turn. I bought this instrument at a trade show because it could be used in conjunction with a cage, and I liked how it allowed me to see the tender flesh squeezed between its plates, to witness the effects of my labor.
“This is to remind you of your place,” I say as I tighten the screws. “That I am your Master, and you are my slave boy, like the royal eunuchs of old whose only function in life was to pleasure and serve their kings.”
Giovanni smiles at this, for it was his contribution to the program. He likes the idea of being wed to me in this way, a boy chosen for his sexual appeal and castrated to keep him chaste. Of course, this is only fantasy, as we both appreciate the function of his testicles.
“My body is your own place of refuge,” he says. “That is this slave’s sole purpose and reason.”
