Today I’m using a strong hemp rope, softer than jute and better for suspension than silk. Even still, the ties will likely leave mild abrasions and perhaps even bruises, the ghost of my pattern on his skin.
“I’m going to suspend you a little longer than we have before. You’ll have to tell me if you’d like to come down. No explanation needed.”
“Yes, Sir. Green.”
I weave a complex web of knots around his chest and pelvis, including anchor points at his sternum and waist so that when lifted, it will appear as if he’s being raptured. This position will test the limits of his flexibility and endurance. I remind him of this too.
“I’ve been looking forward to this scene since you showed me pictures,” he says.
“If you’re uncomfortable or the pressure in your head becomes too much…”
“I will tell you, Sir. I promise.”
I finish with the ties and affix a blindfold over his eyes so that he is better able to focus solely on the sensations of his body, then attach carabiners to the two support knots. Santino inspects my work and gives me the go-ahead to lift him. I do so slowly, checking in a few times. When I finally tie him off to the anchor, my breath catches at the beautiful sight before me. Giovanni is… a work of art. His lower ribs are at the height of the arc with his limbs hanging loose, spine curved beautifully, head tilted backward so that it’s only a little higher than his ankles. The blindfold prevents me from seeing his eyes, but his face appears relaxed as his chest steadily rises and falls. The rope cuts into his flesh, but only a little. I pinch his toes on both feet. “Feel this?”
“I feel you everywhere, Sir. Your rope is like a net holding me while Mother Ocean rocks me to sleep.”
He begins to drift, letting himself go, physically and mentally. I stay close so that I may monitor him while others observe my work. I point out various knots and ties and answer their questions as we are all learning from each other. Giovanni is mostly silent throughout, residing in that subliminal space he craves, where his demons are quiet and all is peaceful.
When the demonstration is over, and I’ve lowered and untied him, I remove the blindfold and begin rubbing out his muscles. He lies boneless on the mat, happy to be worshipped and appreciated in this way. “How was it?” I ask.
“Perfect,” he says with a blissful sigh. “I saw Master.”
I’m tempted to leave it there, as something private between him and my brother, but I’m curious to know, “How did he look?”
“He looked good. Healthy. Radiant.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“No, he was too far away, but I could feel him all around me. It was so golden and warm.” His hugs himself in a tight embrace, likely wishing those arms belonged to my brother. His smile fades and his brow furrows. “Do you believe me, Sir? That I saw him?”
I have sensed my brother’s presence countless times since his passing. Valentin is the gruff angel on my shoulder, telling me to be better. The shrewd businessman, whom I try to emulate with my own employees. He is the unparalleled Dominant who observes me even now, and his is the voice in the back of my mind reminding me to be careful with his precious treasure.
“Yes, Gio. I believe you.”
That evening Santinohosts a party in the courtyard with a deejay to play music and caterers and bartenders to serve food and drink. Giovanni stands by the fountain, adorned in a gold thong and a matching rope tied in a pretty bow around his neck. And my name written all over his skin.
Before the party, I found a gold Sharpie and drew it everywhere—Silvio—along his throat, across his pierced nipples, his collarbone and ribcage, up and down both legs and across his back. I signed my name on both ass cheeks and circled his hole for the “O.” Then I fucked him. Bent over a desk with his legs spread like a whore, it was vulgar and raw. I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was seeing my name on his skin. Or maybe it had something to do with our scene that afternoon. All I know is I needed to mark him inside and out. Gio insisted I not clean him afterward, said he wanted to wear me to the party.
Now he is talking to Andrea, the same sub as the night before, who wears a long emerald silk robe, tied with a sash in such a way so that one of their breasts is exposed. Many couples are dancing under the stars, eating, drinking, and partaking in more erotic pursuits. I observe the controlled chaos with a glass of wine, but my eye is inevitably drawn back to my cryptic lover.
“You’re brooding,” Santino says. Leandro is with him, and they join me where I stand apart from the crowd. I don’t bother trying to hide the source of my fascination.
“I am contemplating,” I tell them. “My thoughts are sometimes very deep.”
They chuckle, and Santino says, “I thought your scene today went very well.”
“Yes, it did. Gio was perfect, as always.”
“Your ropework has really advanced,” he says, and it is not only to flatter me.
“I did a lot of practicing while my brother was ill. It was a comforting distraction.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“So, why the long face?” Leandro asks.
“The first thing Gio said to me when we concluded our scene was that he saw my brother, while suspended.”
