“Rigging?” A slow smile spreads across his face. “Sir wishes to snare me like a rabbit and dangle me from one foot?”
I chuckle at his teasing. “You would look very beautiful, suspended by my rope, like a bird in flight. Does that interest you, princess?”
He draws one hand down the center of his navel, stopping just short of his groin and says, “I would like to be wrapped in one of your silken cocoons. Do you think I might emerge as something new?”
“You are already as beautiful as a butterfly,caro. But I may need to move some things around. I won’t get rid of any of your Master’s belongings. I know they are precious to you.”
He nods, looking relieved. “I appreciate that, Sir.”
A few days later, we are in the dungeon again. Giovanni has taken to repairing my old nets as something to occupy his time, a meditative sort of discipline. He sits in the center of the mats with a large cast net blanketing his lap while I take measurements for the hardware I will need to purchase for my renovation.
“Do you know the Biblical parable of Drawing in the Net?” Gio asks as his fingers pluck at the nylon with the same dexterity with which he plays his instruments. He’s still not returned to his music, but I am hopeful he will eventually.
“No, princess, I am not the best at remembering things. My mind is more like a sieve than a sponge.”
“I find that hard to believe, Sir. You remember the many intricate knots required to rig your sails and your subs.”
“Muscle memory,” I say and flex one arm for his viewing pleasure.
He shakes his head primly at my flirtations. “In any case, the Bible compares the Kingdom of Heaven to a dragnet that is cast into the sea. It gathers fish of every kind and draws them onto the shore. The good are gathered into containers and the bad are cast away; so will it be at the end of times. The angels will come forth and separate the righteous from the wicked, and the latter will be cast into a furnace of fire to a great weeping and gnashing of teeth.”
He delivers the story in his sweet, lilting voice as though it were a child’s nursery tale and not a herald of eternal damnation. I recall him speaking of his beloved Dante and the many circles of Hell, and of his desire to be whipped by horned devils for all of eternity.
“What prompts you to ruminate on such dreadful tales?” I ask.
He laughs and shakes his head. “I have simply become preoccupied with your nets, Sir. That is all. No need to worry over the state of your soul, if you are feeling guilty about something.” He glances up and smiles coyly.
“I worry overyoursoul, Giovanni. You are the wicked one here, tempting your Sir to commit all manner of carnal sins.” He laughs at this too, but I know how he struggles with his own demons, who are more real to him than most. “Do you believe you will go to Heaven, princess?”
He frowns and blinks, then says to me with complete certainty, “No, Sir, I will not go to Heaven. I will go to Master.”
When he thinksI am not paying attention, I catch Giovanni caressing Valentin’s instruments—his bullwhip, the leather strop, and an implement called a devil’s tongue, in particular. Those were Gio’s favorites, the ones he’d beg Valentin to use on him as a reward for good behavior and sometimes, as Gio once told me, to satisfy his demons.
“Do they still get loud?” I ask him on one such occasion. “The voices?”
“Yes,” Giovanni admits.
“What do you do?”
“I remind myself of all the work Master has done to stabilize me, the work you continue to do, and that if I give into their wicked temptations, then I am desecrating my Master’s love and devotion. Sometimes though…” He rubs his fingers over his inner arm where there are freshly raised scars from recent cuts. “Sometimes, I can’t help it.”
I come over to where he stands and lift the strop from its hook. I take the leather belt between my hands and caress its fine texture, drawing the implement through the valley of my palm, then snapping it with a loud thwack. Giovanni flinches, and his eyes widen with desire.
“You know I cannot give you this, not in the way you want it,” I say with regret. He nods and glances away as if I’ve caught him misbehaving. I guide his chin back to me. “But I know someone who can.”
He makes a little noise at the back of his throat, strangled and needful.
“Would you like me to arrange it?” I ask.
“I don’t know, Sir. That is an interesting proposition to consider. I suppose I’d have to think about it.”
I nod. “Take your time.”
We arein the playroom again, and I’ve just anchored several heavy-duty pad eyes and bolts to the exposed wooden beam running along the ceiling. When we held demonstrations here last spring, I brought in a couple of A-frame bondage racks that resembled playground swings, but their uses are limited. This permanent rigging will allow me to raise Giovanni to any height I desire, and with the flight blocks I plan to install, the ride will be much smoother for him too. I’ve blended my knowledge of suspension bondage with sailing to customize my own rigging so that lifting and lowering Giovanni will be as easy as trimming the sails on my boat.
“Do you know the story of Hephaestus’s net,” Giovanni asks while watching me work. He is fulfilling the role of apprentice, handing me tools and various hardware when I ask for them, keeping me hydrated and entertained. He’s excellent at taking orders and as I’ve told him before, he is my sexiest first mate.
“I do not know this story, but I’d love for you to tell me.”
