“He’s making sure I take good care of you, princess.”
“You do, Sir. You really do.”
Later that eveningI knot a silk scarf around Gio’s neck, an expensive Gucci one that was a gift from his Master. Giovanni wanted to wear something special for this “date” with Leandro. I suspect it’s because it has the feel of a collar, a weight and significance Giovanni surely misses. He knows I will offer mine gladly once his period of grieving has passed. We are getting there, slowly but surely.
He looks so handsome with his golden hair brushed back and styled by my own hand, wearing a designer dress shirt and pleated slacks that hug his ass beautifully. The clothing probably cost Valentin a small fortune. I was raised in a comfortable lifestyle and have a significant inheritance thanks to my brother, but I suspect Giovanni’s wealth is greater still. Not only that, but he embodies the manners of the affluent so effortlessly that at times it feels like I am the one serving him, not that I’m complaining.
“Are you nervous?” I ask
“I am a little apprehensive, Sir,” he says and ducks his head in that shy way of his.
I first met Leandro in Milano where I spent several months learning ropework from my mentor and dear friend Santino. Leandro was in the BDSM community where I started as an interloper and soon became like family. He moved back to Napoli to help care for his ailing parents. His father has dementia, and his mother recently suffered a stroke. He and a sister share the responsibility of caring for them. We’ve kept in touch and often meet for dinner when I’m in town for work. He knows about the unique bond between the three of us, that Giovanni and I are both still grieving the loss of my brother, and that I’m looking for someone to help fill the void Valentin left behind. Now, I add another bit of information for Gio’s benefit, “Your Master saw Leandro’s talent with a whip during our bacchanalia, and he approved.”
Giovanni’s eyes widen at the mention of our demonstration day, which was akin to one of Dante’s circles of Hell, though all of it consensual. “I appreciate your telling me that, Sir. I do remember his skill as well. Very promising. But… what if he doesn’t like me?”
This is one of Giovanni’s main concerns whenever I suggest he make friends or meet new people. “What’s not to like? You are very charming, princess.”
“When I want to be. Do you remember the day we first met?”
How could I forget? Giovanni was stubborn and sulky. A rare beauty with a sharp tongue, I was attracted to him immediately. He gave me the best blowjob of my life, then spit my ejaculate in my face, earning the nickname,camel.He was distant in those first few days, watching and waiting for me to reveal myself one way or another. I readily admit that I seduced him. My goal at first was to best my older brother and prove to him that Giovanni was only after his money. But the boy confounded me at every turn. When Valentin left, he was so distraught, and I realized their bond went much deeper than provider and pampered prince. Gio was soft and so sweet with me, so earnest. I didn’t plan on becoming so attached. Then, like a flower whose beauty slowly reveals itself, I fell in love with every facet of Giovanni, chief among them, his fighting spirit.
“You were bratty,” I admit, “but also very pretty.”
“I was awful. I’m surprised you didn’t hold my head underwater.”
I shake my head at his exaggeration. “That was your Master’s kink. Besides, don’t you want to be charming for your Sir?”
“It’s not something I consciously turn on or off. It’s just…” He frowns, then nods with renewed determination. “I’ll do my best.”
“That’s all I ask. And after dinner, you and I will take a stroll by the university.” The Federico II University is within walking distance of my apartment and has one of the best Classical and Antiquities departments in Europe. I’m hoping I can pique his interest in enrolling.
“Why would we do that, Sir?” he asks, immediately suspicious.
“Because it is a beautiful Napoletano landmark, Giovanni, and I want you to see it.”
I get no further argument on that front. Instead, he pivots to, “Do you think you might do the talking for me with Leandro? Master always…” He trails off, glancing away.
“Go on. Tell me about your Master.”
“Master knew my limits already and negotiated our scenes. I get embarrassed, especially around strangers.”
“Let us hold off on that conversation for now. Tonight, we are simply having dinner and getting to know each other. How does that sound?”
“Good, Sir.” He’s quiet, but only for a moment. “Silvio?” he asks, tugging at my shirt sleeve and staring up at me as if something is wrong.
“Yes, my beautiful boy?”
“Do I look okay?”
“Magnifico.” I kiss my fingers to illustrate my point, then lean down to smooch his soft cheek. Giovanni smiles, slaying me with yet another of Eros’s arrows to the heart.
We stroll to the restaurant from my apartment, winding down a couple of cobblestone side streets to the quiet café. Leandro joins us soon after we’ve been seated, and we both rise to greet him. He’s a tall man, broad-shouldered with a commanding, quiet air, like my brother though closer to my age than his.
“Giovanni, so nice to see you again,” Leandro says and pats his back. Giovanni nods shyly and dips his head, and I give Leandro a hearty hug before we all take our seats. We order wine for the two of us and a flavored San Pellegrino for Gio. Leandro and I have a few glasses while we catch up on the goings-on of our mutual friends. Leandro admits that he hasn’t been out much since moving back home. He shares with us some of his trials in being a caretaker too, including an argument with his father just that afternoon about the proper method for reheating a loaf of bread.
Giovanni, who has been watching our conversation like a soccer match, pipes up to add, “Master would often want to argue with me over small things. And he didn’t want me to give in right away. If I did, he would get frustrated and think I was only placating him. I had to put up a fight and let him convince me that he was right.” Gio smiles fondly at the memory, and I touch his hand.
“Amor senza baruffa, fa la muffa,” I say, an Italian expression.Love without a quarrel, it makes mold.
