“He promised me,” he says stubbornly. “Master said no matter where he goes, he’ll always come back to me.”
Is this what occurs during their late-night communions? Does Giovanni converse, or believe he is conversing, with my dead brother? More important, should I encourage this delusion or deny it? I don’t know the answer, so for now, I do neither.
“You said you couldn’t smell him on his clothes?” I ask and he shakes his head sadly. “What about your letters? Can you find him there?”
He hugs himself tightly, dimpling the flesh of his upper arms. “Those are only memories. I need to know he’s here with me. I need his hands on me, his arms around me holding me so tight. I need him to silence the voices.”
Pain. That’s what he needs, the adrenaline rush and the release.
“How about I tie you up, princess? You think that might help?”
He nods, looking hopeful. “It might.”
Even in Valentin’s absence,Giovanni has maintained the playroom. The leather whips and floggers are freshly oiled, the furniture is dusted, and my ropes are neatly looped and hung on my section of the wall. The chore is done lovingly, an expression of Giovanni’s devotion to his Master’s teachings and to our lifestyle. My eyes trail over the various implements, remembering some of our more adventurous exploits. It saddens me to be here without Valentin. Of all the places in his home, this was where he truly came alive.
Giovanni, already nude, kneels on a gym mat in the posture ofdisplayand slyly watches me survey the space. I try not to be intimidated by the many whips and canes mounted on the walls, most of which have been sanctified with Giovanni’s own sweat and blood. High impact was his and Valentin’s preferred type of play, and it became so intense at times that I had to step away. I understand the thrill of it and the release, but it’s not something I crave, nor is it something I can administer. Even the abrasions left on his skin by my rope are sometimes distressing to me.
We’ve had the discussion about limits and boundaries earlier this morning, a refresher of sorts. Giovanni’s are largely unchanged, as are mine. In the places where Valentin stood, there is now a noticeable gap, and it serves as a reminder of all I cannot give him.
“My beautiful boy,” I say, by way of greeting as I lay my hand atop his head.
“Sir,” he responds, leaning into the touch like an affectionate pet.
“Go select your rope.”
He stands and walks over to the wall where there are several to choose from. The red silk is for intricate ties and looks lovely against Gio’s skin, a stunning contrast for when I want to photograph him. The natural jute is rougher with less give, for when he wants to feel the friction and the burn. The thick black silk was our first rope, and it became a close companion of mine during my brother’s final weeks, when I’d practice my old standards on a mannequin just to keep my mind from spiraling. There is also a white cotton rope that reminds me of a bridal gown when Giovanni wears it, and a few others I’ve yet to use. Over the years Valentin helped me discover and explore many hidden facets of my identity, including most recently, my love of bondage and rope kink. I am grateful to him for that—gratitude.His lessons are forever present in my mind.
Giovanni peruses his options, and it is the thick, black rope he selects from the wall and presents to me with a humble bow. It’s as if he knows we must begin where we last left off, by working through our shared grief.
“Something simple but secure,” I tell him. “A diamond chest harness, tight so that you feel comforted and safe. Kneel, sweetheart.”
He gracefully lowers himself to the mat and opens his arms, bending them at his elbows to touch his own shoulders. This is a tie we’ve done many times before, so he knows what to expect. I double up the rope and wrap it around his chest so that it lies just underneath his pectorals, snug without pinching his skin. Using a slipknot in the back, I loop the rope over one shoulder and hook it under the rope in the front, creating a harness with an open knot at the center of his sternum. Once the structure is there, I wrap it again across the top of his chest on either side, securing the rope so that it creates a diamond-shaped gap between his pierced nipples. Careful to avoid his jewelry, I continue to weave, circling and knotting his torso until his chest is a web of diamonds and his back a series of knots.
The pleasure is both sensual and psychological, the feel of the rope in my hands, using my favorite medium to restrain a beautiful body in an artful way. With Giovanni especially, I have a deep desire to secure him in one place and command him to stay, lest he slip away from me like one of his mythical nymphs.
“Rest now.” I gently guide him downward until his forehead is pressed against the mat with his arms loose at his sides, like Child’s Pose in yoga. When he’s relaxed and breathing evenly, I cup the back of his neck and whisper, “How’s that?”
“Perfect, Sir. Thank you.”
“This rope is an extension of my dominance,” I say, admiring the way the black silk ornaments his body. I glide my coarse hands over his glistening skin. “These fibers are my hands caressing you and holding you tight. Breathe deep now. Can you feel me, Giovanni?”
He shivers in his bindings and whispers, “Yes, Sir, I can.”
“Do you know how much I care for you, as my submissive and my lover?”
“Yes, Sir. I am grateful for your mastery of rope and your dominance. I need…” His voice hitches. “I need these reminders even more now since Master went away.”
Went away.
“I am happy to serve you, princess.”
He rests there, peacefully, caught in my silken web, as I stroke along his back. I am not so arrogant as to believe this alone will satisfy him, but it is something.
“I’d liketo make some renovations to the dungeon,” I say to Giovanni a couple of days later. I am massaging his limbs on the playroom bed, an elevated vinyl mat covered in a tightly fitted sheet. Our rope session earlier today was long and strenuous, requiring Giovanni to kneel with his spine straight and his hands clasped at the small of his back for an extended period of time. Now, I have the pleasure of rubbing out his muscles with a lightly scented oil made by my very own company while he reclines on the bed, sipping on a bottle of fruit juice through a bendy straw.
“I’m listening,” Giovanni says, staring at me intently while I rub his calf, then his ankle, working my way down to his very ticklish foot.
“I’d like to install anchors in the ceiling and floors so that I can add some permanent rigging.”
