“I want a boy who will challenge me, one who’s not afraid to tell me when I’m wrong. I want to earn my right to dominate you, not simply inherit it. And I like a good argument. It keeps things lively and fresh. What did you once call this treasured Italian pastime?”
“A national sport?”
“Yes. You are mouthy, and I like it. I want you to express yourself with me, all facets of your personality so that I may know you, not as your Master knew you, but as you are now.”
He nods and sucks in his lower lip. “There is a reason I don’t talk about my past, Sir.”
“Dimmi.”
“I didn’t like who I was, who they turned me into. Matthew was broken beyond repair. I wouldn’t have wanted you to know me then.”
“And now?” I ask, fiddling with the knots just to keep my hands occupied.
“It’s still a struggle. I’m still an addict. You talk about taking risks. The reason I’m so scared is because… I don’t trust myself a lot of the time, even with the smallest decisions. I like routines because they’re something I can rely on, tasks I can accomplish and feel good about myself without any risk of temptation. As my world expands, you must remain vigilant. I am my own worst enemy.”
I appreciate this glimpse he’s given me. He so rarely talks about his addiction or his past. “Thank you for trusting me with your fears, Giovanni. I will love your imperfections, too. That brings me to my third and final virtue, but first, are you ready to fly?”
“Yes, Sir.”
I guide him downward so that he’s lying flat on his back with his knees bent. His untethered arms lie gently across his chest as though sleeping peacefully. The position is like being cradled by the swing, and I’ve rigged three more harnesses to support his legs and his head when I suspend him. I hook a carabiner through the loop on his chest and fasten it securely. Then I gather up the rope, and with the aid of a pulley, slowly begin to lift him.
“How’s this?” I ask when he’s hovering half a meter above the mats.
“Good, Sir,” he says with a nervous laugh and reaches out both hands as if to balance himself.
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes, Sir, absolutely.”
I float him upward until he’s as high as my waist and tie off the rope to a cleat mounted to the concrete floor. I inspect my work closely, checking the knots that bear his weight and the tension in the rope. I fit his head in the dangling rope harness that resembles a woven plant holder and hook his legs behind the knee through similar supports. “Comfortable?”
“Extremely.” He stretches his limbs and settles into his bindings like a cat reposing in a patch of sun. “Did you know, Sir, that Japanese ropework began in feudal times as a way to torture prisoners of war and force their confessions?”
“I may have heard that somewhere. Have you been doing research on Sir’s kink, Giovanni?”
“Yes. It began during the months you were studying in Milano. I wanted to understand why you had to go away.”
“You missed me, sweetheart?”
“Tremendously. You know that.”
“What else did you learn? Enlighten me.”
“The technique was later used to display the accused publicly, differing ties according to their crimes, and it only evolved into an erotic art in the late 19th century.Kinbaku, as they call it in Japan, means ‘the beauty of tight binding.’”
“You look very beautiful bound in my rope. Any pain or numbness?”
“No, Sir.”
“Can you feel this?” I ask and tickle the bottom of his foot.
He yanks it back with a snort of laughter and warns, “Sir, don’t make me safeword.”
I draw one hand along his thigh and inspect the sway of his body, making sure the ties are secure without cutting off his circulation, that they will hold fast for our next athletic pursuit. I guide his hands to the rope that suspends him from the ceiling and curl his fingers around the strong fibers for him to grip, then run my hands along the webbing of his torso, hips, and groin, lingering where his skin is exposed, my very own masterpiece. I want to show him off to my friends in Milano. Many have not met my beloved boy, only heard stories.
“There is something else I learned,” Gio says in a dreamy sort of way.
“Dimmi tutto, piccolo mio.”Tell me everything, my little baby.
